Classic Poem

AN ANACREONTIC ON LOVE

When a' the warld had clos'd their een,
Fatigu'd with labour, care, and din,
And quietly ilka weary wight
Enjoy'd the silence of the night;
Then Cupid, that ill-deedy geat,
With a' his pith rapt at my yeat.
Surpriz'd, throw sleep, I cry'd " Wha 's that? "
Quoth he " A poor young wean a' wat;
" Oh! haste ye apen, — fear nae skaith,
" Else soon this storm will be my death. "

With his complaint my soul grew wae,
For, as he said, I thought it sae:
I took a light, and fast did rin
To let the chittering infant in:
And he appear'd to be nae kow,
For a' his quiver, wings, and bow.
His bairnly smiles and looks gave joy,
He seem'd sae innocent a boy.
I led him ben but any pingle,
And beckt him brawly at my ingle;
Dighted his face, his handies thow'd,
Till his young cheeks like roses glow'd.
But soon as he grew warm and fain,
" Let 's try, " quoth he, " if that the rain
" Has wrang'd aught of my sporting-gear,
" And if my bow-string 's hale and fier. "
With that his arch'ry graith he put
In order, and made me his butt.
Mov'd back a-piece, his bow he drew,
Fast throw my breast his arrow flew.
That dune, as if he 'd found a nest,
He leugh, and with unsonsy jest,
Cry'd, " Nibour, I 'm right blyth in mind,
" That in good tift my bow I find:
" Did not my arrow flie right smart?
" Ye 'll find it sticking in your heart. "