Anacreontic on Love, An
AN ANACREONTIC ON LOVE
When a' the warld had clos'd their een,
Fatigu'd with labour, care, and din,
And quietly ilka weary wight
Enjoy'd the silence of the night;
Then Cupid, that ill-deedy geat,
With a' his pith rapt at my yeat.
Surpriz'd, throw sleep, I cry'd " Wha 's that? "
Quoth he " A poor young wean a' wat;
" Oh! haste ye apen, — fear nae skaith,
" Else soon this storm will be my death. "
With his complaint my soul grew wae,
When a' the warld had clos'd their een,
Fatigu'd with labour, care, and din,
And quietly ilka weary wight
Enjoy'd the silence of the night;
Then Cupid, that ill-deedy geat,
With a' his pith rapt at my yeat.
Surpriz'd, throw sleep, I cry'd " Wha 's that? "
Quoth he " A poor young wean a' wat;
" Oh! haste ye apen, — fear nae skaith,
" Else soon this storm will be my death. "
With his complaint my soul grew wae,
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