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Robert Burns (Роберт Бёрнс)


Poortith Cauld


O POORTITH cauld, and restless love,
  Ye wreck my peace between ye;
Yet poortith a’ I could forgive,
  An’ ‘twerena for my Jeanie.

    O why should fate sic pleasure have,
      Life’s dearest bands untwining?
    Or why sae sweet a flower as love
      Depend on Fortune’s shining?

This warld’s wealth when I think on,
  It’s pride, and a’ the lave o’t,-
O fie on silly coward man,
  That he should be the slave o’t.

Her een sae bonnie blue betray
  How she repays my passion;
But prudence is her o’erword aye,
  She talks of rank and fashion.

O wha can prudence think upon,
  And sic a lassie by him?
O wha can prudence think upon,
  And sae in love as I am?

How blest the simple cotter’s fate!
  He woos his artless dearie;
The silly bogies, wealth and state,
  Can never make him eerie.

    O why should fate sic pleasure have
      Life’s dearest bands untwining?
    Or why sae sweet a flower as love
      Depend on Fortune’s shining?



Robert Burns's other poems:
  1. Verses to a Young Lady, Miss Graham of Fintry, with a Present of Songs
  2. On Maria
  3. Epitaph on a Noisy Polemic
  4. O Steer Her Up
  5. Ah, Chloris


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