The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill With biography, illustrations, and music |
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MY HEART IS SAIR WI' HEAVY CARE. |
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 | The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill |  |
MY HEART IS SAIR WI' HEAVY CARE.
My heart is sair wi' heavy care,
To think on friendship's fickle smile;
It blinks a wee, wi' kindly e'e,
When world's thrift runs weel the while.
But let misfortune's tempests lower,
It soon turns cauld, it soon turns sour;
It looks sae high and scornfully,
It winna ken a poor man's door.
To think on friendship's fickle smile;
It blinks a wee, wi' kindly e'e,
When world's thrift runs weel the while.
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It soon turns cauld, it soon turns sour;
It looks sae high and scornfully,
It winna ken a poor man's door.
I ance had siller in my purse,
I dealt it out right frank and free,
And hoped, should fortune change her course,
That they would do the same for me:
But, weak in wit, I little thought
That friendship's smiles were sold and bought,
'Till ance I saw, like April snaw,
They waned awa' when I had nought.
I dealt it out right frank and free,
And hoped, should fortune change her course,
That they would do the same for me:
But, weak in wit, I little thought
That friendship's smiles were sold and bought,
'Till ance I saw, like April snaw,
They waned awa' when I had nought.
It 's no to see my threadbare coat,
It 's no to see my coggie toom,
It 's no to ware my hindmost groat,
That gars me fret, and gars me gloom:
But 'tis to see the scornful pride
That honest poortith aft maun bide
Frae selfish slaves, and sordid knaves,
Wha strut with fortune on their side.
It 's no to see my coggie toom,
It 's no to ware my hindmost groat,
That gars me fret, and gars me gloom:
But 'tis to see the scornful pride
That honest poortith aft maun bide
Frae selfish slaves, and sordid knaves,
Wha strut with fortune on their side.
But let it gang; what de'il care I!
With eident thrift I 'll toil for mair;
I 'll halve my mite with misery,
But fient a ane of them shall share:
With soul unbent I 'll stand the stour,
And while they 're fluttering past my door,
I 'll sing with glee, and let them see
An honest heart can ne'er be poor.
With eident thrift I 'll toil for mair;
I 'll halve my mite with misery,
But fient a ane of them shall share:
With soul unbent I 'll stand the stour,
And while they 're fluttering past my door,
I 'll sing with glee, and let them see
An honest heart can ne'er be poor.
| The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill | |