 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
217
DELUDED SWAIN, THE PLEASURE
I
Deluded swain, the pleasureThe fickle Fair can give thee
Is but a fairy treasure—
Thy hopes will soon deceive thee:
The billows on the ocean,
The breezes idly roaming,
The cloud's uncertain motion,
They are but types of Woman!
II
O, art thou not ashamèdTo doat upon a feature?
If Man thou would'st be namèd,
Despise the silly creature!
Go, find an honest fellow,
Good claret set before thee,
Hold on till thou art mellow,
And then to bed in glory!
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |