II. It's hardly in a body's power To keep, at times, frae being sour, To see how things are shar'd; How best o'chiels are whiles in want, But Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, We're fit to win our daily bread, III. To lie in kilns and barns at e'en When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin, Yet then content could make us blest; Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste Of truest happiness. The honest heart that's free frae a' Intended fraud or guile, However fortune kick the ba', Has ay some cause to smile: And mind still, you'll find still, Nae farther we can fa'. IV. What tho', like commoners of air, We wander out we know not where, Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, In days when daisies deck the ground, With honest joy our hearts will bound On braes when we please, then, Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't, V. It's no in titles nor in rank; It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, To purchase peace and rest; It's no in makin muckle mair; To make us truly blest; If happiness hae not her seat And centre in the breast, We may be wise, or rich, or great, Nae treasures, nor pleasures, That makes us right or wrang. VI. Think ye, that sic as you and I, Wha drudge and drive thro' wet an' dry, Wi' never-ceasing toil; Think ye, are we less blest than they, Baith careless and fearless Of either heaven or hell! Esteeming and deeming Its a' an idle tale! VII. Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce; Nor make our scanty pleasures less, By pining at our state; And, even should misfortunes come, They make us see the naked truth, The real guid and ill. Tho' losses, and crosses, Be lessons right severe, There's wit there, ye'll get there, VIII. But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts! (To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, And flatt'ry I detest), This life has joys for you and I; And joys that riches ne'er could buy : And joys the very best. There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, The lover an' the frien'; Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part, It warms me, it charms me, To mention but her name: It heats me, it beets me, And sets me a' on flame! IX. O, all ye pow'rs who rule above! Is not more fondly dear! Her dear idea brings relief Thy most peculiar care! X. All hail, ye tender feelings dear! Long since, this world's thorny ways Fate still has blest me with a friend, In every care and ill; And oft a more endearing band, A tie more tender still. |