Robert Burns, 1793
O poortith cauld, and restless love,|
Ye wrack my peace between ye;
Yet poortith a' I could forgive,
An 'twere na for my Jeanie.
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?
2. The warld's wealth, when I think on,
3. 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.
4. O wha can prudence think upon,
5. How blest the simple cotter's fate!
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