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Poem by Robert Burns


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,
      Lifes dearest bands untwining?
    Or why sae sweet a flower as love
      Depend on Fortunes shining?

This warlds wealth when I think on,
  Its pride, and a the lave ot,-
O fie on silly coward man,
  That he should be the slave ot.

Her een sae bonnie blue betray
  How she repays my passion;
But prudence is her oerword 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 cotters fate!
  He woos his artless dearie;
The silly bogies, wealth and state,
  Can never make him eerie.

    O why should fate sic pleasure have
      Lifes dearest bands untwining?
    Or why sae sweet a flower as love
      Depend on Fortunes shining?



                      Robert Burns


Robert Burns's other poems:
  1. Scroggam
  2. The First Psalm
  3. Lines Written on a Bank-note
  4. Lines Written at Loudon Manse
  5. To Alex Cunningham, Writer


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