I DO confess thou art sae fair,
I was been oer 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 so thriftless o thy sweets,
Thy favours are the silly wind
That kisses ilka thing it meets.
See yonder rosebud, rich in dew,
Amang its native briers sae coy;
How sune it tines its scent and hue,
When pud and worn a common toy.
Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide,
Tho thou may gaily bloom awhile;
And sune thou shalt be thrown aside,
Like ony common weed and vile.
