my father was a farmer

  tune—“the weaver and his shuttle, o.”

  my father was a farmer upon the carrick border, o,

  and carefully he bred me in decency and order, o;

  he bade me act a manly part, though i had ne'er a farthing, o;

  for without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, o.

  then out into the world my course i did determine, o;

  tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, o;

  my talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education, o:

  resolv'd was i at least to try to mend my situation, o.

  in many a way, and vain essay, i courted fortune's favour, o;

  some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour, o;

  sometimes by foes i was o'erpower'd, sometimes by friends forsaken, o;

  and when my hope was at the top, i still was worst mistaken, o.

  then sore harass'd and tir'd at last, with fortune's vain delusion, o,

  i dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, o;

  the past was bad, and the future hid, its good or ill untried, o;

  but the present hour was in my pow'r, and so i would enjoy it, o.

  no help, nor hope, nor view had i, nor person to befriend me, o;

  so i must toil, and sweat, and moil, and labour to sustain me, o;

  to plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early, o;

  for one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for fortune fairly, o.

  thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life i'm doom'd to wander, o,

  till down my weary bones i lay in everlasting slumber, o:

  no view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow, o;

  i live to-day as well's i may, regardless of to-morrow, o.

  but cheerful stil