I was a wild and wayward boy,

      My childhood scorned each childish toy;

      Retired from all, reserved and coy,

                                  To musing prone,

      I wooed my solitary joy,

                                  My Harp alone.

      My youth with bold ambition’s mood

      Despised the humble stream and wood

      Where my poor father’s cottage stood,

                                  To fame unknown; —

      What should my soaring views make good?

                                  My Harp alone!

      Love came with all his frantic fire,

      And wild romance of vain desire:

      The baron’s daughter heard my lire

                                  And praised the tone; —

      What could presumptious hope inspire?

                                  My Harp alone!

      At manhood’ s touch the bubble burst,

      And manhood’ s pride the vision curst,

      And all that had my folly nursed

                                  Love’s sway to own;

      Yet spared the spell that lulled me first,

                                  My Harp alone!

      Woe came with war, want with woe,

      And it was mine to undergo

      Each outrage of the rebel foe: —

                                  Can aught atone

      My fields lay waste, my cot laid low?

                                  My Harp alone!

      Ambition’s dreams I’ve seen depart,

      Have rued of penury the smart,

      Have felt of love the venomed dart,

                                  When hope has flown;

      Yet rests one solace to my heart, —

                                  My Harp alone!

      Then over mountain, moor and hill,

      My faithful Harp, I’ll bear thee still;

      And when this life of want and ill

                                  Is wellnigh gone,

      Thy strings mine elegy shall thrill,

                                  My Harp alone!93

      Through twilight shades of good and ill

      Ye now are panting up life’s hill,

      And more than common strength and skill

                                  Must ye display;

      If ye would give the better will

                                  Its lawful sway.

      Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear

      Intemperance with less harm, beware!

      But if the Poet’s wit ye share,

                                  Like him can speed

      The social hour – of tenfold care

                                  There will be need.

      For honest men delight will take

      To spare your failings for his sake,

      Will flatter you, – and fool and rake

                                  Your steps pursue;

      And of your Father’s name will make

                                  A snare for you.

      Let no mean hope your souls enslave;

      Be independent, generous, brave;

      Your Father such example gave,

                                  And such revere;

      But be admonished by his grave,

                                  And think, and fear!96