Air—“The rosy brier.”
MY heart is sair wi heavy care,
Tae think on Frien'ship's fickle smile ;
It blinks a wee wi kindly e'e,
Whan warld's thrift rins weel the while;
But let Misfortune's tempests low'r,
It sune turns caul, it sune turns sour ;
It leuks sae hie and scornfully,
It winna ken a puir man's door.
I ance had siller in my purse,
I dealt it out richt frank and free,
And hoped, shoud Fortune change her course,
That they woud dae the same for me :
But, weak in wit, I little thocht
That Frien'ship's smiles were sold and bocht,
Till ance I saw, like April snaw,
They waned awa when I had nocht.
It's no tae see my threadbare coat,
It's no tae see my coggie toom,
It's no tae ware my hinmost groat,
That gars me fret an gars me gloom;
But tis tae see the scornfu pride
That honest poortith aft maun bide
Frae selfish slaves, and sordid knaves,
Wha strut with fortune on their side.
But let it gang ; wha deil care I !
Wi eident thrift I'll toil for mair ;
I'll hauf my mite wi misery,
But fient a ane o them shall share
Wi soul unbent I'll stan the stour,
And while they're flutt'ring past my door,
I'll sing wi glee, and let them see
An honest heart can ne'er be poor.
[Semple 129]