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- Walter Scott
What next to do I mused awhile, Still hoping to succeed; I pitch'd on books for company, And gravely tried to read: I bought and borrow'd everywhere, And studied night and day, Nor miss'd what dean or doctor wrote. That happen'd in my way: Philosophy I now esteem'd The ornament of youth, And carefully through many a page I hunted after truth. A thousand various schemes I tried, And yet was pleased with none; I threw them by, and tuned my pipe To John o' Badenyon. And now, ye youngsters everywhere, That wish to make a show, Take heed in time, nor fondly hope For happiness below; What you may fancy pleasure here, Is but an empty name, And girls, and friends, and books, and so, You 'll find them all the same.
Then be advised, and warning take From such a man as me; I 'm neither Pope nor Cardinal, Nor one of high degree; You 'll meet displeasure everywhere; Then do as I have done, E'en tune your pipe and please yourselves With John o' Badenyon. Were I but able to rehearse My Ewie's praise in proper verse, I 'd sound it forth as loud and fierce As ever piper's drone could blaw; The Ewie wi' the crookit horn, Wha had kent her might hae sworn Sic a Ewe was never born, Hereabout nor far awa'; Sic a Ewe was never born, Hereabout nor far awa'.
I never needed tar nor keil To mark her upo' hip or heel, Her crookit horn did as weel To ken her by amo' them a';. Yet last ouk, for a' my keeping, Wha can speak it without greeting? But thus, poor thing, to lose her life, Aneath a bleedy villain's knife, I 'm really fleyt that our guidwife Will never win aboon 't ava: O! We never laid a scheme to be wealthy, By means that were cunning or stealthy; But we always had the bliss— And what further could we wiss?
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What though we cannot boast of our guineas? Then why should people brag of prosperity? Then why should old age so much wound us? It has long been my fate to be thought in the wrong, And my fate it continues to be; The wise and the wealthy still make it their song, And the clerk and the cottar agree. Says the free-thinking Sophist, "The times are refined In sense to a wondrous degree; Your old-fashion'd faith does but fetter the mind, And it 's wrong not to seek to be free.
Says the Man of the World, "Your dull stoic life Is surely deserving of blame? You have children to care for, as well as a wife, And it 's wrong not to lay up for them. Says the new-made Divine, "Your old modes we reject, Nor give ourselves trouble about them: It is manners and dress that procure us respect, And it 's wrong to look for it without them.
Says the Clown, when I tell him to do what he ought, "Sir, whatever your character be, To obey you in this I will never be brought, And it 's wrong to be meddling with me. Thus all judge of me by their taste or their wit, And I 'm censured by old and by young, Who in one point agree, though in others they split, That in something I 'm still in the wrong. But let them say on to the end of the song, It shall make no impression on me: If to differ from such be to be in the wrong, In the wrong I hope always to be.
There lives a lassie i' the braes, And Lizzy Liberty they ca' her, When she has on her Sunday's claes, Ye never saw a lady brawer; So a' the lads are wooing at her, Courting her, but canna get her; Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there 's ow'r mony wooing at her! Her mither ware a tabbit mutch, Her father was an honest dyker, She 's a black-eyed wanton witch, Ye winna shaw me mony like her: So a' the lads are wooing at her, Courting her, but canna get her; Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her!
A kindly lass she is, I 'm seer, Has fowth o' sense and smeddum in her, And nae a swankie far nor near, But tries wi' a' his might to win her: They 're wooing at her, fain would hae her, Courting her, but canna get her; Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there 's ow'r mony wooing at her! For kindly though she be, nae doubt, She manna thole the marriage tether, But likes to rove and rink about, Like Highland cowt amo' the heather: Yet a' the lads are wooing at her, Courting her, but canna get her; Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.
It 's seven year, and some guid mair, Syn Dutch Mynheer made courtship till her, A merchant bluff and fu' o' care, Wi' chuffy cheeks, and bags o' siller; [Pg 26] So Dutch Mynheer was wooing at her, Courting her, but cudna get her; Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her. Neist to him came Baltic John, Stept up the brae, and leukit at her, Syne wear his wa', wi' heavy moan, And in a month or twa forgat her: Baltic John was wooing at her, Courting her, but cudna get her; Filthy elf, she 's nae herself, wi' sae mony wooing at her.
Syne after him cam' Yankie Doodle, Frae hyne ayont the muckle water; Though Yankie 's nae yet worth a boddle, Wi' might and main he would be at her: Yankie Doodle 's wooing at her, Courting her, but canna get her; Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her. Now Monkey French is in a roar, And swears that nane but he sall hae her, Though he sud wade through bluid and gore, It 's nae the king sall keep him frae her: So Monkey French is wooing at her, Courting her, but canna get her; Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her.
For France, nor yet her Flanders' frien', Need na think that she 'll come to them; They 've casten aff wi' a' their kin, And grace and guid have flown frae them; They 're wooing at her, fain wad hae her, Courting her, but canna get her; Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her. A stately chiel they ca' John Bull Is unco thrang and glaikit wi' her; And gin he cud get a' his wull, There 's nane can say what he wad gi'e her: Johnny Bull is wooing at her, Courting her, but canna get her; Filthy Ted, she 'll never wed, as lang 's sae mony 's wooing at her.
Even Irish Teague, ayont Belfast, Wadna care to speir about her; And swears, till he sall breathe his last, He 'll never happy be without her: Irish Teague is wooing at her, Courting her, but canna get her; Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her. But Donald Scot 's the happy lad, Though a' the lave sud try to rate him; Whan he steps up the brae sae glad, She disna ken maist whare to set him: [Pg 28] Donald Scot is wooing at her, Courting her, will maybe get her; Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.
Now, Donald, tak' a frien's advice— I ken fu' weel ye fain wad hae her; As ye are happy, sae be wise, And ha'd ye wi' a smackie frae her: Ye 're wooing at her, fain wad hae her, Courting her, will maybe get her; Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there 's ow'r mony wooing at her. Ye 're weel, and wat'sna, lad, they 're sayin', Wi' getting leave to dwall aside her; And gin ye had her a' your ain, Ye might na find it mows to guide her: Ye 're wooing at her, fain wad hae her, Courting her, will maybe get her; Cunning quean, she 's ne'er be mine, as lang 's sae mony 's wooing at her.
How happy a life does the Parson possess, Who would be no greater, nor fears to be less; Who depends on his book and his gown for support, And derives no preferment from conclave or court! Without glebe or manse settled on him by law, No stipend to sue for, nor vic'rage to draw; In discharge of his office he holds him content, With a croft and a garden, for which he pays rent.
With a neat little cottage and furniture plain, And a spare room to welcome a friend now and then; With a good-humour'd wife in his fortune to share, And ease him at all times of family care. With a few of the Fathers, the oldest and best, And some modern extracts pick'd out from the rest; With a Bible in Latin, and Hebrew, and Greek, To afford him instruction each day of the week.
What children he has, if any are given, He thankfully trusts to the kindness of Heaven; To religion and virtue he trains them while young, And with such a provision he does them no wrong. With labour below, and with help from above, He cares for his flock, and is bless'd with their love: Though his living, perhaps, in the main may be scant, He is sure, while they have, that he 'll ne'er be in want. With no worldly projects nor hurries perplex'd, He sits in his closet and studies his text; And while he converses with Moses or Paul, He envies not bishop, nor dean in his stall.
Not proud to the poor, nor a slave to the great, Neither factious in church, nor pragmatic in state, He keeps himself quiet within his own sphere, And finds work sufficient in preaching and prayer. In what little dealings he 's forced to transact, He determines with plainness and candour to act; And the great point on which his ambition is set, Is to leave at the last neither riches nor debt.
Thus calmly he steps through the valley of life, Unencumber'd with wealth, and a stranger to strife; On the bustlings around him unmoved he can look, And at home always pleased with his wife and his book. And when, in old age, he drops into the grave, This humble remembrance he wishes to have: "By good men respected, by the evil oft tried, Contented he lived, and lamented he died! When fops and fools together prate, O'er punch or tea, of this or that, What silly poor unmeaning chat Does all their talk engross!
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A nobler theme employs my lays, And thus my honest voice I raise In well-deserved strains to praise The worthy Man of Ross. His lofty soul would it were mine! Scorns every selfish, low design, And ne'er was known to repine, At any earthly loss: But still contented, frank, and free, In every state, whate'er it be, Serene and staid we always see The worthy Man of Ross.
Let misers hug their worldly store, And gripe and pinch to make it more; Their gold and silver's shining ore He counts it all but dross: 'Tis better treasure he desires; A surer stock his passion fires, And mild benevolence inspires The worthy Man of Ross.
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When want assails the widow's cot, Or sickness strikes the poor man's hut, When blasting winds or foggy rot Augment the farmer's loss: The sufferer straight knows where to go, With all his wants and all his woe; For glad experience leads him to The worthy Man of Ross. May Heaven its choicest blessings send On such a man, and such a friend; And still may all that 's good attend The worthy Man of Ross. Now, if you ask about his name, And where he lives with such a fame, Indeed, I 'll say you are to blame, For truly, inter nos, 'Tis what belongs to you and me, And all of high or low degree, In every sphere to try to be The worthy Man of Ross.
When I began the world first, It was not as 'tis now; For all was plain and simple then, And friends were kind and true: Oh, the times, the weary, weary times!
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The times that I now see; I think the world 's all gone wrong, From what it used to be. There were not then high capering heads, Prick'd up from ear to ear; And cloaks and caps were rarities, For gentle folks to wear: Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! There 's not an upstart mushroom now, But what sets up for taste; And not a lass in all the land, But must be lady-dress'd: Oh, the times, the weary, weary times!
Our young men married then for love, So did our lasses too; And children loved their parents dear, As children ought to do: Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! For oh, the times are sadly changed— A heavy change indeed!
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For truth and friendship are no more, And honesty is fled: Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! There 's nothing now prevails but pride, Among both high and low; And strife, and greed, and vanity, Is all that 's minded now: Oh, the times, the weary, weary times!
When I look through the world wide, How times and fashions go, It draws the tears from both my eyes, And fills my heart with woe: Oh, the times, the weary, weary times! The times that I now see; I wish the world were at an end, For it will not mend for me!
Walter Scott
William Cameron, minister of Kirknewton, in the county of Edinburgh, was educated in Marischal College, Aberdeen, where he was a pupil of Dr Beattie, "who ever after entertained for him much esteem. Hugh Blair, D. He died in his manse, on the 17th of November , in the 60th year of his age, and the 26th year of his ministry. He was a considerable writer of verses, and his compositions are generally of a respectable order.
He was the author of a "Collection of Poems," printed at Edinburgh in , in a duodecimo volume; and in , along with the celebrated John Logan and Dr Morrison, minister of Canisbay, he contributed towards the formation of a collection of Paraphrases from Scripture, which, being approved of by the Ge[Pg 36]neral Assembly, are still used in public worship in the Church of Scotland.
A posthumous volume of verses by Mr Cameron, entitled "Poems on Several Occasions," was published by subscription in —8vo, pp. The following song, which was composed by Mr Cameron, on the restoration of the forfeited estates by Act of Parliament, in , is copied from Johnson's "Musical Museum.