Classic Poem

O! SILLER , but thou cost'st us dear,
By ony ither kind o' gear:
Now, fient a ane thy price need speer,
But knaves or fools;
For few can e'er thy price come near —
By honest rules.

Thou gars Religion tine her haud;
Mak's her a slaw, saft-finger'd jade;
An' looses Folly, ravin' mad
Wi' pride and nonsense;
Mak's honest Honour sick an' sad,
An' smoors poor Conscience.

For thee we sell our finest feelin's —
Pity and Love, thae gentle yealin's;
E'en sacred Frien'ship gets her drillin's,
Tho' deep imprest;
An' feign her flame wi' bows and kneelin's,
For self-int'rest.

For thee we toil baith night and day,
Till bluid turns thin, and locks grow gray,
An' ither dools, in dark array,
Aroun' us muster;
An' crazy joints to climb life's brae —
A weary wister.

For thee I cross'd my youthfu' fancy,
Forsook my bloomin', smilin' Nancy,
An' pu'd a docken for a tansy,
An' curs'd my life
Wi' tap o' a' things maist unchancy —
A hav'rel wife!

My haill designs she's ay for baukin';
Whan I'm for peace, then she's for taukin';
Whan dull, she skirls like a maukin',
An' laughs, and girns:
Whan I'm for sleepin', she's for waukin',
An' peels my shins.

Then, gif she getnae a' her will,
She feigns her fits, flytes, and fa's ill;
To a' her nei'bours roun' does tell
How ill l'm till 'er;
An' ay the owre-word o' the knell,
Her waefu' siller!

Now, ev'ry comfort I maun tine, —
The joys o' wit, the joys o' wine,
The chimes o' music an' o' rhyme,
An' comrades dear,
An' thole her d — d eternal whine
About her gear.

Let never better be his weird,
Each social tie that could discard
For glancin' gowd, or dirty yird,
Or empty fame;
May canker'd Care tug at his beard,
An' sullen dame.

But L — d, gif ance her head were hidden,
I'se ne'er again be woman-ridden;
My former frien's shou'd a' be bidden,
In social ring;
The dool-string I shou'd soon get rid on,
An' dance an' sing!