Classic Poem

There ance was a dame wi' bonnie proud e'en,
 Weel kent by the haughs o' TWEED;
For “butter,” folk said, would na melt in her mou'
 Sae straitly she carried her heid.

But deep in her he'rt there was yet a kind place
 Whar LOVE cam' seekin' his sweet
Till she steekit the door wi' what she thocht sense
 And noo there is nocht but to greet:—

“ Ohon, Ohon! for the years gaen bye—
 For the bird in my lap that lay;
My raven black hair and the rose o' my lips
 Are gaen wi' my youth's fair day.

Gin time were again the door would be wide,
 And free should he enter in;
For to live and gang doon a-wantin' the flower—
 O that is the deidly sin! —

A thing like a husk that 's spent o' its seed —
 The gift o' my kind dune away:
Nae man at my hip—nae bairn at my knee—
 'T is winter wi' me an' dismay!”