The Mariner, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is hoar, Is gone; and now the Wedding-Guest Turned from the bridegroom's door. He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn. _ANONYMOUS_ THE VICAR OF BRAY IN good King Charles's golden days, When loyalty no harm meant, A zealous High Churchman was I, And so I got preferment; To teach my flock I never miss'd, Kings were by God appointed; And damn'd are those who do resist, Or touch the Lord's anointed. And this is law, that I'll maintain, Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever King shall reign, I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir. When royal James obtained the crown, And Pop'ry came in fashion, The penal laws I hooted down, And read the Declaration; The Church of Rome I found would fit Full well my constitution; And had become a Jesuit, But' for the Revolution. When William was our King declared, To ease the nation's grievance, With this new wind about I steered, And swore to him allegiance; Old principles I did revoke, Set conscience at a distance; Passive obedience was a joke, A jest was non-resistance. When gracious Anne became our Queen, The Church of England's glory, Another face of things was seen, And I became a Tory; Occasional Conformists base, I damn'd their moderation, And thought the Church in danger was, By such prevarication. When George in pudding-time came o'er, And moderate men looked big, sir, I turned a cat-in-pan once more, And so became a Whig, sir; And thus preferment I procured, From our new faith's defender, And almost every day abjured The Pope and the Pretender. The illustrious house of Hanover, And Protestant succession, To these I do allegiance swear, While they can keep possession; For in my faith and loyalty I never more will falter, And George my lawful King shall be, Until the times do alter. And this is law, that I'll maintain, Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever King shall reign, I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir. _WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE_ THERE 'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE BUT are ye sure the news is true? And are ye sure he's weel? Is this a time to think o' wark? Ye jauds, fling by your wheel. There 's nae luck about the house, There 's nae luck at a', There's nae luck about the house, When our gudeman's awa'. Is this a time to think o' wark, When Colin 's at the door? Rax down my cloak--I'll to the key, And see him come ashore. Rise up and make a clean fireside, Put on the mickle pat; Gie little Kate her cotton goun, And Jock his Sunday's coat. And mak their shoon as black as slaes, Their stockins white as snaw; It's a' to pleasure our gudeman He likes to see them braw. There are twa hens into the crib, Hae fed this month and mair, Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare.