Robert Burns

* * *

  	O Tibbie, I hae seen the day,
    		Ye would na been sae shy;
  	For laik o’ gear ye lightly me,
    		But, trowth, I care na by.

Yestreen I met you on the moor,
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure:
Ye geck at me because I’m poor,
  	But fient a hair care I.

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think,
Because ye hae the name o’ clink,
That ye can please me at a wink,
  	Whene’er ye like to try.

But sorrow tak him that’s sae mean,
Altho’ his pouch o’ coin were clean,
Wha follows ony saucy quean
  	That looks sae proud and high.

Altho’ a lad were e’er sae smart,
If that he want the yellow dirt,
Ye’ll cast your head anither airt,
  	And answer him fu’ dry.

But if he hae the name o’ gear,
Ye’ll fasten to him like a brie;
Tho’ hardly he, for sense or lear,
  	Be better than the kye.

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice,
Your daddy’s gear maks you sae nice;
The deil a ane wad spier your price,
  	Were ye as poor as I.

There lives a lass in yonder park,
I would na gie her in her sark,
For you wi’ a’ your thousand mark;
  	Ye need na look sae high.