This, and "Ythan's Banks," are two of the Author's earlie. Productions.
O, SANDY, man! what has come i' you
This lang time, that I never see you?
I'm growin' fear'd fell death has ta'en you;
Or some cauld adverse fortune seen you.
I charge ye, some account ye give in,
Whether ye are dead or livin':
If you be dead, whare you're dwallin';
If you're workin', what your callin'.
But, Sandy, lad, though I be funnin',
I ken you're neither dead nor dwinin';
You're livin' yet, an' to live, thinkin',
The cup o' happy love you're drinkin'.
Were I as blest wi' Peggy's charms,
As you wi' Mary in your arms,
Contentet I wud bear my lot;
Contentet wear my hamespun coat;
Contentet I wud work a' day;
Content at even tak rest or play.
But far anither state is mine,
In grief an' sorrow I maun pine;
My mind is rack't, I'm nearhan' crazy;
An' at a' kind o' wark grown lazy.
I see, if I maun bear this lang,
That downright daft I'm sure to gang!
I prance about, an' reel an' stammer,
Upon the grapes an' shovels hammer.
Cupid! ye blin', thoughtless devil!
'Tis fairly o' ye quite uncivil,
To rack my brains at sic a rate,
An' thus torment my foolish pate.
Stay! stay! I beg your pardon, Cupid,
"Tis I who am the fool, an' stupid;
I do not think your fabled godship
Cou'd gie me ony sic an odd slip,
As to mak' me quite so eerie,
As I am now about my dearie.
I doubt the faut is a' my ain;
My want o' thought has caused my pain;
Had I but used my sense aright,
I wud na hae been in this plight.
Philosophy I hae na nane;
About its rules I dinna ken;
But surely I hae some plain reason,
Gin I cou'd call it in season.
I'll try my best to work my cure;
I'll use my reason frae this hour.
I fairly see my passion's hopeless,
An' a' my claims but slight an' propless.
Then what need I my brains thus bother,
When, wanting her, I'll get some other?
There's surely in my native isle
Some ither maid will on me smile-
Some ither maid as fair as she,—
Fair! she is black as black can be!
She likes na me, I'll nae like her.
Ah! but I feel my bosom stir:
Something says, " Hold, ye speak too fast;
Ye love her, an' will to your last;
Witness these sighs that heave your breast;
Witness those dreams that break your rest."
I canna vera weel deny,
That when I think on her I sigh;
An' sometimes, when I'm in my sleep,
I of her beauties get a peep.
I needna say ought mair about it,
My love's too fix't to be out-rootet;
For when I mind upon my dear,
(As scarce I think on ither geer,)
My Reason yields-a sad disaster-
An' Love alone is left my master.
How vain and fleeting are all earthly hopes,
To man so pleasing for a little space!
Full oft they raise him to a giddy height,
Then fly and leave him ;-headlong straight he
falls
Into the yawning gulph of Disappointment!
The hand of Time from thence may let him free,
And on his eyes new shining prospects open,
Which with new zeal he ardently pursues;
Ere like some magic scene they from him vanish,
And he again is left deceived and smarting!
A moment's pleasure on us here may glisten,—
'Tis but a blink before the coming storm,
Which soon will sweep the flowers which Hope makes bloom,
And leaves the mind much like a cheerless desert!
Such is the case with me ;-almost despairing,
My heart is sunk with grief unknown before.
I do not say I never knew sad sorrow;
But such as this I never, never knew!
I feel as if this life and I were parting;
The sooner, sure, it were by far the better.
No! there is one for whom I wish to live,
Though for her sake I feel this dismal pining!
Hold; if she knew, she would at once relieve me.
One smile from her would banish care afar!
Alas! on me I fear she'll never smile:
Misfortune drives me, if I live, to leave her!
O, cruel Fortune! why e'er raise me up,
To dash me down from such an elevation!
Hadst thou before this bid me quit my native,
To roam where dreary winter ever howls,
Or wander through where torrid zone is burning,
I had the call with scarce remorse obey'd;
But since my eyes have seen the fairest creature
That nature ever moulded in this world;
Not only seen her, but her charming promise
Binds her my own, by all things dear and sacred;
How couldst thou, then, me so severely torture,
As leave no shift, but fly from her who's dearer
Than is my life, or any object earthly?
O, Heaven! haste to give my bosom rest!.
Bless me with her that loves me-but such bliss
Is far too great for me e'er to obtain;
'Tis sure presumption to seek such a gift.
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