Luckless Jonathan Poem by Robert Anderson

O heale be thy heart! my peer merry auld cronie,
And never may trouble draw tears frae thy e'e;
It's reet, when he can, man sud rise abuin sorrow,
For pity's nit common to peer fwok like me:
When I think how we lap about mountain an' meedow,
Like larks in a mwornin, a young happy pair,
Then I luik at mysel, and I see but a shadow,
That's suffered sae mickle, it cannot beyde mair.


Tou minds, when I buried my honest auld fadder,
O how cud I ever get owre that sad day!-
His last words were, 'Jonathan, luik to thy mudder,
'And God 'll reward thee, nae mair cud he say.
My mudder she stuid, and she fain wad ha'e spoken
But tears wadn't let her-O man, it was hard!-
She tuik till her bed, and just thurteen weeks efter,
Was laid down ayont him in Aikton kurk-yard.


My friend, Jemmy Gunston, went owre seas to Inde,
For me, his auld comrade, a venture he'd tak;
I'd screap'd up a lock money-he gat it-but leately
Peer Jemmy was puzzen'd, they say, by a black:
'Twas nit for my money I fretted, but Jemmy,
I'll ne'er forget him, as lang as I've breath;
He said, 'Don't cry mudder! I'll mek you a leady!'
But sairy auld Tamer! 'twill e'en be her death.


To mek bad far war, then I courted lal Matty,
Her bonnie blue een, how they shot to my heart!
The neet niver com but I went owre to see her,
And when the clock struck we were sworry to part:
An aunt ayont Banton a canny house left her,
(What but health and contentment can money nit buy?)
Wi' laird Hodgson o' Burgh off she canter'd to Gretna,
The varra seame mworn we our fortune sud try.


'Twas nobbet last Cursmas I fain wad be murry,
Sae caw'd in Dick Toppin, Tom Clarke, and Jwohn Howe;
We sung, and we crack'd, but lal thowt ere neist mwornin,
That aw our heale onset wad be in a lowe;
They gat me poud out, and reet weel I remember,
I stamp'd, ay, like mad, when the sad seet I saw,
For that was the pleace my grandfadder was bworn in,
Forbye my twee uncles, my fadder and aw.


Now, widout owther fadder, or mudder, or sweetheart,
A friend, or a shelter to cover my head,
I mazle and wander, nor ken what I's dein,
And wad, (if I nobbet durst) wish I were dead.
O heale be thy heart! my peer auld cronie,
And niver may trouble draw tears frae thy e'e;
It's reet, when he can, man sud rise abuin sorrow;
For pity's nit common to peer fwok like me.

August 1, 1802.