My heart is sair wi' heavy care,|
To think on Friendship's fickle smile;
It blinks a wee, wi' kindly e'e,
When warld's thrift rins weel the while
But, let Misfortune's tempests low'r,
It soon turns cauld, it soon turns sour
It looks sae high and scornfully,
It winna ken a poor man's door.
2. I ance had siller in my purse,
3. It's no to see my thread-bare coat,|
It's no to see my coggie toom
It's no to wair my hindmost groat,
That gars me fret, and gars me gloom:
But 'tis to see the scornful pride
That honest Poortith aft maun bide
Frae selfish slaves, and sordid knaves,
Wha strut with Fortune on their side.
4. But let it gang, what de'il care I!
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