Classic Poem

I'm either gaun daft, or I'm donnert wi' drink,
My head is a' singin' — I'm deein', I think: —
Whene'er I see Mysie, I grane and I grue;
I may be ha'e fa'en in love! — What shall I do?

That guess is the right ane, as sure as a gun;
But frae the deep sea to the de'il I ha'e run.
There are cures for a fever, but nane for me now:
To a lassie I canna speak! — What shall I do?

Will I tell her I've plenty o' maut, meal, and milk —
A stockin' o' guineas — a gown-breed o' silk —
That my auld mither's plaid is as gude as when new —
An' the hale I will gi'e her? — O! what shall I do?

It's weel kent I ne'er had a gift o' the gab,
An' my thoughts now ha' gane, like a sair ravell'd wab:
If I try to speak saftly, I'll look unco blue,
An' stoiter an' stammer! — O! what shall I do!

What say ye? Gae praise her saft cheek an' blue een,
An' swear that their like on earth ne'er was seen,
An' daut her fu' kindly? — Na! I canna woo,
Sae needna be tryin'! — O! what shall I do?

Gae, gar the auld wives o' the clachan come ben —
Can nae skilly body gi'e cures for sic pain?
If I die, the fau't Mysie, will lie upon you —
The de'il tak' the womenkind! — What shall I do?