Classic Poem

The maid has ta'en yon weary man
For gowd an' gear sae braw,
And her young lad 's forhoo't the lan'
Whar Love gets sic a fa'.

The walthy carl is saxty o'er
And she 's but through her teen—
A rose sae fair for sic a bow'r!
The like was never seen.

The lovely face, the winsome smile,
Gie her an angel look:
But, wow! the wee bit hert has guile
Wad gang wi' yon auld crook.

And yet, mayhap, the mind's untrained—
The rose is no yet blawn;
And Nature that 's sae dour ingrained
May yet demand her lawin'.

Oh then the hairy bee s'all rue
The day he ventured in;
Tho' honey-sweet it taste the mou'
There 's death for sic a sin!

While she—the lady rose sae fair;
Deep in her blushing breast
For other joys shall canker sair
And burn yet to be blest.