Poortith Cauld
O poortith cauld, and restless love,
Ye wreck my peace between ye;
Yet poortith a’ I could forgive,
An’ ’twerena for my Jeanie.
O why should fate sic pleasure have
Life’s dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on Fortune’s shining?
This warld’s wealth when I think on,
Its pride, and a’ the lave o’t,—
O fie on silly coward man,
That he should be the slave o’t.
Her een sae bonnie blue betray
How she repays my passion;
But prudence is her o’erword aye,
She talks of rank and fashion.
O wha can prudence think upon,
And sic a lassie by him?
O wha can prudence think upon,
And sae in love as I am?
How blest the simple cotter’s fate!
He woos his artless dearie;
The silly bogles, wealth and state,
Can never make him eerie.
O why should fate, etc.