"It's weel it's nae waur."
[Edward Polin, Paisley.—Here first printed.]
It's true, frien's, it's true,
An' I'm wae tae confess,
That our joy micht be mair,
An' our grief micht be less;
But we aye get a mouthfu',
Though we whiles kenna whar,
Sae, O! frien's, be thankfu'—
"It's weel it's nae waur."
We've a' dreet the girnin'
O' cauld gloomin' care,
Yet o' hope's mornin' sang
Ha'e we no had our share?
Though the cary be dark whiles,
There's aye some bit star,
Tae keep us reflectin'
"It's weel it's nae waur."
We've sicken'd in sorrow
At parting to-day,
But the meeting to-morrow
Can chase it away;
An' if some frien's ha'e wither'd
Sin' we were afar,
We ken whar their banes lie—
"It's weel it's nae waur."
Our ills ha'e been mony—
We've a' had our share,
An nae doubt we've whiles thocht
That nane could ha'e mair;
But yet there are thousan's
Mair wretched by far,
Then, O! frien's, be thankfu'—
"Its weel it's nae waur."
Scotland.
[Thomas Smibert.]
The hills of my country are mantled with snow,
Yet, oh! I but love them the more;
More noble they seem in the sun's setting glow,
Than all that the vales of the Southron can show,
When gay with the summer's whole store.
Tho' brighter the landscape, and blander the air,
In climes that look straight to the sun,
The dearest enjoyments of home are not there,
The chat and the laugh by the hearth's cheering glare,
When day and its labours are done.
And thus, like the snow-cover'd hills of their land,
Its sons may seem rugged and rude,
Yet gentler in heart is each man of the band,
More kindly in feeling, more open in hand,
Than all whom the tropics include.
"A good old Song."
[Edward Polin, Paisley.—Here first printed.]
I have wander'd afar 'neath stranger skies,
And have revell'd amid their flowers,
I have lived in the light of Italian eyes,
And dream'd in Italian bowers,
While the wond'rous strains of their sunny clime
Have been trill'd to enchant mine ears,
But, oh! how I longed for the song and the time
When my heart could respond with its tears.
Then sing me a song, a good old song,
Not the foreign, the learn'd, the grand,—
But a simple song, a good old song
Of my own dear father-land.
I have heard, with the great, and the proud, and the gay,
All, all they would have me adore,
Of that music divine that, enraptur'd, they say,
Can be equall'd on earth never more,
And it may be their numbers indeed are divine,
Though they move not my heart through mine ears,
But a ballad old of the dear "langsyne"
Can alone claim my tribute of tears.
Then sing me a song, &c.
I have come from a far and a foreign clime
To mine own loved haunts once more,
With a yearning for all of my childhood's time,
And the dear home-sounds of yore,
And here if there yet be love for me,
O! away with those stranger lays,
And now let my only welcome be
An old song of my boyhood days.
Then sing me a song, &c.
