Poems on several subjects | ||
33
SONG XI. The Leacher's Lament.
Ilk wanton wench and merry swain,
That likes to lilt and sing,
And walk about the pleasant plain
In time of heartsome spring,
If unto Venus ye're inclin'd,
Chuse places that's remote;
To none but one reveal thy mind,
Or else you are a sot.
That likes to lilt and sing,
And walk about the pleasant plain
In time of heartsome spring,
If unto Venus ye're inclin'd,
Chuse places that's remote;
To none but one reveal thy mind,
Or else you are a sot.
When I was in my youth, my lads,
I had nae cross nor care;
I laugh'd at feckless careless blades,
And courted ay the fair.
My love and I did often ly
Where pleasant flow'rs did grow;
We stood na' on't the game to try,
When it came in our row.
I had nae cross nor care;
I laugh'd at feckless careless blades,
And courted ay the fair.
My love and I did often ly
Where pleasant flow'rs did grow;
We stood na' on't the game to try,
When it came in our row.
At last I tauld my mind to twa,
Whilk bred me meikle strife;
When they at variance did fa',
It griev'd me to the life.
Ilk ane coost up another's wrang,
That scandaliz'd me so,
That gar'd me soon forget to gang
Where pleasant flow'rs did grow.
Whilk bred me meikle strife;
When they at variance did fa',
It griev'd me to the life.
Ilk ane coost up another's wrang,
That scandaliz'd me so,
That gar'd me soon forget to gang
Where pleasant flow'rs did grow.
But now my vitals are decay'd,
And runkled is my brow;
Small frights they make me soon afraid;
My reins are stiff, I trow.
The rashness of my youth, I find,
Adds twenty to my age:
The pleasant hours of Venus kind
Kills more than Mars in rage.
And runkled is my brow;
Small frights they make me soon afraid;
My reins are stiff, I trow.
The rashness of my youth, I find,
Adds twenty to my age:
The pleasant hours of Venus kind
Kills more than Mars in rage.
Poems on several subjects | ||