8
Tho' a' my friends, and ilka comrade ſweet,
At ance, had drapped cauld dead at my feet;
Or, tho' I'd heard the laſt day's dreadfu' ca',
Nae deeper horror on my heart cou'd fa':
I curs'd myſel', I curs'd my luckleſs fate,
And gret—and ſobbing cried—Kate! O Kate!
Frae that day forth—I never mair did weel,
But drank, and ran head foremoſt to the deel.
My ſiller vaniſh'd, far frae hame I pin'd;
But Kate, for ever ran acroſs my mind.
In her were a' my hopeſ,—theſe hopes were vain,
And now--- "I'll never ſee her like again.
"Twas this, Sir Preſident, that gart me ſtart,
Wi meikle grief and ſorrow at my heart,
To gie my vote, frae ſad experience, here,
That diſappointed love is war to bear
Ten thousand times than loſſ of warld's gear.
FINIS.
Paiſley, printed by J. Neilſon, Cumberland,
