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.