Page:Selection of songs, &c..pdf/5

 In his youth he was train'd baith to war and hard labour—

For his king an' his country lives Donald Monro.

But now whar the rich ample garden discloses,

It’s varied productions for use an‘ for show—

'Mang the shrubs, an’ the fruits, an’ the sweet smelling roses.

Wi’ his spade an’ his knife, labours Donald Monro,

He can delve, he can plant, he can graft, he can gather

The weeds frae the soil—he can till, he can sow :

He does all kinds of work, an’ braves all kinds of weather;

For nought comes amiss to bold Donald Monro.

When tired by the ills caus’d by Fortune and Folly,

Or cheer’d by the fruits from industry that flow,

Aye bear an’ forbear, an’ dismiss melancholy—

An’ be thankfu’ for guid things says Donald Monro.

Some lay up in store for an ill day a comeing;

An die ere the guid o' their labours they know—

But happen what will, he s nae votary o’ Mammon—

There's a hole in the purse worn by Donald Monro.

To err whyles a kennin’ is said to be human—

An’ constant experience proclaims it is so—

For the wisest o’ men, an’ least foolish o’ women—

Hae some wee bit fa’t, sae has Donald Monro.

He whyles tak’s a glass, wi’ a frien’ or acquaintance,

An’ he’s no’ easy rais’d whan he’s ance on the go.

An’ “its needless to tack o' reform or repentance,

While we yield to temptation’’ says Donald Monro

Frae the glebe an’ the garden, supplies, never failin’

Are drawn for the wants o’ the high an’ the low—

Let not greatness or pride ever lear at the callin’

O farmers, or men such as Donald Monro.