Ane His Awn Enemy

He that has gold and grit richess, And may be into myrriness; And dois gladness fra him expell, And levis into wretchitness, He wirkis sorrow to himsell.

He that may be but sturt or stryse, And leif ane lusty plesand lyfe, And syne with mariege dois him mell; And binds him with ane wicket wyfe, He wirkis sorrow to himsell.

He that has for his awin genyie Ane plesand prop bot mauk or menyie, And shuttis syne at an uncow schell, And is forfairn wi the fleis of Spenyie, He wirkis sorrow to himsell.

And he that with gude lyfe and trewth But variance or uder slewth, Dois evir mair with ane maister dwell, That nevir of him will haif no rewth, He wirkis sorrow to himsell.

Now all this tyme let us be mirry, And set nocht by this world a chirry; Now quhyle thair is gude wyne to sell, He that dois on dry bread wirry I gif him to the devill of hell.