The Worn Soldier
The Scots Magazine, LXX (March, 1808), p. 208
The Queensferry boatie rows light,
And light is the heart that it bears,
For it brings the worn soldier safe back to his home,
From many long toilsome years.
How sweet are his green native hills,
As they smile to the beams of the west,
But sweeter by far is the sunshine of hope
That gladdens the soldier's breast.
I can well mark the tears of his joy,
As the wave beaten pier he ascends,
For already in fancy, he enters his home,
'Midst the greetings of tender friends.
But fled are his visions of bliss,
All his transports but rose to deceive,
For he found the dear cottage a tenantless waste,
And his kindred all sunk to the grave.
Lend a sigh to the soldier's griefs,
For now he is helpless and poor,
And, forc'd to solicit a slender relief,
He wanders from door to door.
To him let your answers be mild,
And, O! to the suff'rer be kind,
For the look of indiff'rence, the frown of disdain,
Bear hard on a generous mind.