AN ANACREONTIC ON LOVE

When a' the warld had clos'd their een,
Fatigu'd with labour, care, and din,
And quietly ilka weary wight
Enjoy'd the silence of the night;
Then Cupid, that ill-deedy geat,
With a' his pith rapt at my yeat.
Surpriz'd, throw sleep, I cry'd " Wha 's that? "
Quoth he " A poor young wean a' wat;
" Oh! haste ye apen, — fear nae skaith,
" Else soon this storm will be my death. "

With his complaint my soul grew wae,
For, as he said, I thought it sae:
I took a light, and fast did rin
To let the chittering infant in:
And he appear'd to be nae kow,
For a' his quiver, wings, and bow.
His bairnly smiles and looks gave joy,
He seem'd sae innocent a boy.
I led him ben but any pingle,
And beckt him brawly at my ingle;
Dighted his face, his handies thow'd,
Till his young cheeks like roses glow'd.
But soon as he grew warm and fain,
" Let 's try, " quoth he, " if that the rain
" Has wrang'd aught of my sporting-gear,
" And if my bow-string 's hale and fier. "
With that his arch'ry graith he put
In order, and made me his butt.
Mov'd back a-piece, his bow he drew,
Fast throw my breast his arrow flew.
That dune, as if he 'd found a nest,
He leugh, and with unsonsy jest,
Cry'd, " Nibour, I 'm right blyth in mind,
" That in good tift my bow I find:
" Did not my arrow flie right smart?
" Ye 'll find it sticking in your heart. "