Classic Poem

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
He 's the king o' gude fellows, and wale of auld men;
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,
And ae bonie lassie, his dawtie and mine.

She 's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
She 's sweet as the e'enin amang the new hay;
As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.

But oh, she 's an Heiress, auld Robin 's a laird;
And my daddie has nocht but a cot-house and yard:
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed;
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane:
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

O had she but been of a laigher degree,
I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me!
O, how past descriving had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction no words can express!