Poem by Robert Burns

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THOUGH fickle Fortune has deceiv’d me,-
  She promis’d fair and perform’d but ill;
Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav’d me,-
  Yet I bear a heart shall support me still.
I’ll act with prudence as far’s I’m able,
  But if success I must never find,
Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome,
  I’ll meet thee with an undaunted mind.

1. There’s News, Lasses
2. Scroggam
3. There’s a Youth in This City
4. Lines Written at Loudon Manse
5. To Alex Cunningham, Writer

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