The Poetical Works of Robert Burns/My Father was a Farmer
MY FATHER WAS A FARMER.
TUNE—'THE WEAVER AND HIS SHUTTLE, O.'
My Father was a Farmer upon the Carrick border, OAnd carefully he bred me in decency and order, OHe bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er a farthing, OFor 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 broil, 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 still, I am as well as a monarch in a palace, OTho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice; OI make indeed my daily bread, but ne'er can make it farther; OBut as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.
When sometimes by my labour I earn a little money, O Some unforeseen 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.
All you who follow wealth and power, with unremitting ardour, O The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther; O Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, O.