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In a ſick-houſe, damp and narrow, (Left behind, wi hundreds mair,) See Will neiſt, in pain and ſorrow, Waſting on a bed of care.

Wounds, and pain, and burning fever, Doctors cured wi healing art; Cured, alas! but never, never, Cooled the fever at his heart.

For, whan a' war found and ſleeping, Still and on, baith ear and late, Will in briny grief lay ſteeping, Mourning owre his hapleſs fate.

A' his golden proſpects vaniſhed, A his dreams of warlike fame, A’ his glittering phantoms baniſhed, Will could think of nought but hame.

Think of nought but rural quiet, Rural labour, rural ploys; Far frae carnage, bluid, and riot, War, and a' its murdering joys.

Back to Britain's fertile garden. Will's returned (exchanged for ſaes) Wi ae leg, and no a ſarden, Friend or credit, meat or claiſe.

Lang through country, burgh, and city, Crippling on a wooden leg, Gathering alms frae melting pity, See poor Gairlace forced to beg.