(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 favor, 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, the future hid; its good or ill untryed, 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 labor to sustain me, O
To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early, O
For one, he said, to labor 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 today, as well’s I may, regardless of tomorrow, O.
But cheerful still, I am as well, as a monarch in a palace, O
Tho’ fortune’s frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice, O
I make indeed, my daily bread, but ne’er can make it farther, O
But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.
When sometimes by my labor I earn a little money, O
Some unforseen misfortune comes generally upon me, O
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natur’d folly, O
But come what will, I’ve sworn it still, I’ll ne’er be melancholy, O.