O Fortune, they hae room to grumble! Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle, Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble, 'Twad been nae plea; But he was gleg as ony wumble, That's owre the sea!
Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear; 'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear, In flinders flee: He was her Laureat mony a year, That's owre the sea!
He saw Misfortune's cauld nor-west Lang mustering up a bitter blast; A jillet brak his heart at last, Ill may she be! So, took a berth afore the mast, An' owre the sea.
To tremble under Fortune's cummock, On a scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, Wi' his proud, independent stomach, Could ill agree; So, row't his hurdies in a hammock, An' owre the sea.
He ne'er was gien to great misguidin, Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in; Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding; He dealt it free: The Muse was a' that he took pride in, That's owre the sea.
Jamaica bodies, use him weel, An' hap him in cozie biel: Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel, An' fou o' glee: He wad na wrang'd the vera deil, That's owre the sea.
Farewell, my rhyme-composing billie! Your native soil was right ill-willie; But may ye flourish like a lily, Now bonilie! I'll toast you in my hindmost gillie, Tho' owre the sea!
From thee, Eliza, I must go, And from my native shore; The cruel fates between us throw A boundless ocean's roar: But boundless oceans, roaring wide, Between my love and me, They never, never can divide My heart and soul from thee.
Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, The maid that I adore! A boding voice is in mine ear, We part to meet no more! But the latest throb that leaves my heart, While Death stands victor by,-- That throb, Eliza, is thy part, And thine that latest sigh!
Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, Let him draw near; And owre this grassy heap sing dool, And drap a tear.
Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, That weekly this area throng, O, pass not by! But, with a frater-feeling strong, Here, heave a sigh.
Is there a man, whose judgment clear Can others teach the course to steer, Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, Wild as the wave, Here pause--and, thro' the starting tear, Survey this grave.