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The Cutting o' my Hair.

Frae royal Wull that wears the crown,
To Yarrow's lowliest shepherd-clown,
Time wears unchancy mortals doun;
I've mark'd it late and air.
The souplest knee at length will crack,
The lythest arm, the sturdiest back—
And little siller Samson lack
For cuttin' o' his hair.
Mysell for speed had not my marrow
Thro' Teviot, Ettrick, Tweed, and Yarrow;
Strang, straight, and swift like winged arrow
At market, tryst, or fair.
But now I'm turn'd a hirplin' carle,
My back it's ta'en the cobbler's swirl,
And deil a bodle I need birl
For cuttin' o' my hair.
On Boswell's green was nane like me;
My hough was firm, my foot was free;
The locks that cluster'd owre my bree
Cost many a hizzie sair.
The days are come I'm no sae crouse—
An ingle cheek—a cogie douce,
An' fash nae shears about the house
Wi' cuttin' o' my hair.
It was an awfu' head I trow,
It waur'd baith young and auld to cow,
An' burnin' red as heather-lowe,
Gar'd neeboors start and stare.
The mair ye cut the mair it grew,
An' aye the fiercer flamed its hue—
I in my time hae paid enew
For cuttin' o' my hair.
But now there's scarce eneuch to grip—
When last I brought it to the clip,
It gied the shaver's skill the slip
On haffets lank and bare.
Henceforth to this resolve I'll cling,
Whate'er its shape to let it hing,
And keep the cash for ither thing
Than cuttin' o' my hair.
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