O sad and heavy, should I part,
     But for her sake, sae far awa;
     Unknowing what my way may thwart,
     My native land sae far awa.

     Thou that of a’ things Maker art,
     That formed this Fair sae far awa,
     Gie body strength, then I’ll ne’er start
     At this my way sae far awa.

     How true is love to pure desert! 
     Like mine for her sae far awa;
     And nocht can heal my bosom’s smart,
     While, oh, she is sae far awa!

     Nane other love, nane other dart,
     I feel but her’s sae far awa;
     But fairer never touch’d a heart
     Than her’s, the Fair, sae far awa.

1792

I do Confess Thou Art Sae Fair

     Alteration of an Old Poem.

     I Do confess thou art sae fair,
     I was been o’er the lugs in luve,
     Had I na found the slightest prayer
     That lips could speak thy heart could muve.

     I do confess thee sweet, but find
     Thou art so thriftless o’ thy sweets,
     Thy favours are the silly wind
     That kisses ilka thing it meets.

     See yonder rosebud, rich in dew,
     Amang its native briers sae coy;
     How sune it tines its scent and hue,
     When pu’d and worn a common toy.

     Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide,
     Tho’ thou may gaily bloom awhile;
     And sune thou shalt be thrown aside,
     Like ony common weed and vile.

Lines On Fergusson, The Poet

     Ill-fated genius!  Heaven-taught Fergusson! 
     What heart that feels and will not yield a tear,
     To think Life’s sun did set e’er well begun
     To shed its influence on thy bright career.

     O why should truest Worth and Genius pine
     Beneath the iron grasp of Want and Woe,
     While titled knaves and idiot—­Greatness shine
     In all the splendour Fortune can bestow?

The Weary Pund O’ Tow

     Chorus.—­The weary pund, the weary pund,
     The weary pund o’ tow;
     I think my wife will end her life,
     Before she spin her tow.

     I bought my wife a stane o’ lint,
     As gude as e’er did grow,
     And a’ that she has made o’ that
     Is ae puir pund o’ tow. 
     The weary pund, &c.

     There sat a bottle in a bole,
     Beyont the ingle low;
     And aye she took the tither souk,
     To drouk the stourie tow. 
     The weary pund, &c.

     Quoth I, For shame, ye dirty dame,
     Gae spin your tap o’ tow! 
     She took the rock, and wi’ a knock,
     She brak it o’er my pow. 
     The weary pund, &c.

     At last her feet—­I sang to see’t! 
     Gaed foremost o’er the knowe,
     And or I wad anither jad,
     I’ll wallop in a tow. 
     The weary pund, &c.