Classic Poem

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 Get,
With a' his Pith rapt at my Yet.
Surpriz'd, throw Sleep, I cry'd, Wha's that?
Quoth he, A poor young Wean a' wet;
Oh! haste ye apen, — fear nae Skaith,
Else soon this Storm will be my Death.

With his Complaint my Saul 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 beekt 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 ought 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 apiece, — his Bow he drew;
Fast throw my Breast his Arrow flew.
That done, 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.