Classic Poem

Say , what a captious creature's man,
That's never near contented?
Let Fortune favour a' she can,
Yet still there's something wanted.
Whate'er we ha'e we soon despise,
Be't lasses, lair, or money;
While what we want we highly prize,
An' think it gude an' bonny —
While unpossess'd.

The beggar, free frae tax an' charge,
Sighs for a house an' haddin';
The cottar wants his yard made large,
An's o' a mailin bodin'.
There's jobber John, the donsie man,
Wha's daughter's nearly ready,
Thinks by her shine o' pauky e'en,
She'll catch some landed body,
Or priest, some day.

The farmer e'es the stately ha',
Forgets his stocks an' barns;
The lairdy langs for titles braw,
For ribbons an' for starns:
The Knight a seat — the Lord his Grace;
The Duke envies the crown;
The King the happy Shepherd's place —
An' thus the wish gaes roun',
Frae side to side.

See Sawney, in his youthfu' days,
Whan first he sigh'd for Sarah;
He walks, he gaunts, he groans, he prays,
He pines wi' love an' sorrow;
Whan harvest days turn'd dreigh an' warm,
'Twas then they first fell gracious;
He mawed her rig wi' manfu' arm,
Till like a brose his face was,
Wi' sweat that day.

To pick the prickles frae her haun',
To him now's near Elysium;
To plait her locks, or bear her cann,
Can never fail to please him;
She was nane o' the scornfu' pack,
Ay bent on feuds or fleein';
But stopt ae night, and took a crack,
An' sav'd the lad frae diein'
An unco death.

For her he shook the hasky strae,
An' kav'd the corn fu' neatly,
An' bore her beuk ilk Sabbath day,
To keep her sma' and featly.
O'er ev'ry stran' he took her han',
An prest it kin' an' slily;
Bore streekit claith aboon her face,
Altho' the day was drily,
To shield her form.

But wha can stap the wind to blaw,
Or keep the cock frae crawin',
Or haud ghaists frae the haunted ha',
Or me frae sleep at dawin'?
Or, wha can tether tide or time,
Or bind the frail affections;
Or stay the weakly waverin' min',
Wi' a' love's kind connexions,
An' tender ties?

Soon as the boasted trifle's gane,
That downa thole the namin',
She sighs, an' sabs, an' greets her lane,
An rues the rede o' gamin'.
Now she pursues, an' he forhoos —
The aftercome o't fears her;
An' whan they meet, nae kisses sweet,
Or hinnied words to cheer her,
Like ance a day.

Whare's now the rosy red an' white,
The matchless form an' gesture;
That breast for which his soul has sigh'd,
Or eyes that held him faster? —
The dimples, blushes, smiles, an' brows,
Thy outward charms composed;
An' ithers, hid frae lover's views,
But sweeter whan disclosed? —
So poets sing.

Hope beets the youthfu' lover's flame;
Enjoyment gars us falter;
The object still remains the same —
'Tis we ourselves do alter.
Let sage Experience point our views, —
It never can deceive us;
But Fancy, wi' her borrow'd hues,
Aft in the lurch will leave us,
Whan reason's shunn'd.