Classic Poem

I do confess thou art sae fair,
I wad been o'er the lugs in luve;
Had I na found, the slightest prayer
That lips could speak, thy heart could muve. —

I do confess thee sweet, but find,
Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets,
Thy favors are the silly wind
That kisseth ilka thing it meets. —

See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew,
Amang its native briers sae coy,
How sune it tines its scent and hue,
When pu'd and worn a common toy!

Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide;
Tho' thou may gayly bloom a while,
Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside,
Like ony common weed and vile. —