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Poem	O POORTITH cauld, and restless love, Ye wrack my peace between ye; Yet poortith a’ I could forgive, An ’twere na for my Jeanie. Chorus.—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? The warld’s wealth, when I think on, It’s pride and a’ the lave o’t; O fie on silly coward man, That he should be the slave o’t! O why, &c. Her e’en, sae bonie blue, betray How she repays my passion; But prudence is her o’erword aye, She talks o’ rank and fashion. O why, &c. 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? O why, &c. 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, &c.
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