Robert Burns

* * *

I DO confess thou art sae fair,
  I wad been o’er the lugs in love;
Had I not found the slightest prayer
  That lips could speak thy heart could move.

I do confess thee sweet, but find
  Thou art sae thriftless o’ thy sweets,
Thy favours are the silly wind
  That kisses ilka thing it meets.

See yonder rose-bud rich in dew,
  Amang its native briers sae coy,
How soon it tines its scent and hue
  When pu’d and worn a common toy!

Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide,
  Tho’ thou may gaily bloom a while;
Yet soon thou shalt be thrown aside,
  Like ony common weed and vile.