THE VAIN GLORY O'T.
SONG XLII.
1
I murmur when I think on this weary world's pelf,
And the little wee share that I hae o't to myself;
And how the lass that wants it, is by the lads forgot;
May shame fall the gear, and the vain glory o't.
2
Each bird of pleasant note loved young Johnie at the plow,
When merry came his song o'er the green grassy knowe;
Sweet sinking in my bosom, ah! ne'er to be forgot;
May shame fall the gear, and the vain glory o't.
3
The summer leaf it came, and the summer breezes blew,
The young birds 'gan to chirm, and my lad began to wooe;
And I tint my heart, ere I kenn'd the sorrow o't;
May shame fall the gear, and the vain glory o't.
4
When the first sheaf of harvest was gather'd in the band,
My lad got a windfall of houses and land,
And forsook his sonsie lassie with the homely hoddin coat;
May shame fall the gear, and the vain glory o't.
5
An ewe-milking maiden, and mucker of the byre,
Got a pose of red gold, and rich satin attire;
My faithless lover wooed her, and coost the bridal knot;
May shame fall the gear, and the vain glory o't.
6
Lang, lang, I woeful sat in my shieling my lane,
A nourishing a poor broken heart of my ain;
For love in my e'e was a bitter bitter mote;
May shame fall the gear, and the vain glory o't.
7
But, a honey drap of pride pleased the pain of my e'e,
Then lightsomely I sang, like a bird on bloomy tree;
“Who leaves a lass for lack of gold, he is not worth a groat;
May shame fall the gear, and the vain glory o't.”
