Ane his ain enemy

He that hes gold and grit riches

And may be into mirrynes,

And dois glaidnes fra him expell

And levis into wrechitnes,

He wirkis sorrow to himsell.

He that may be but sturt or stryfe

And leif ane lusty plesand lyfe,

And syne with mariege dois him mell

And bindis him with ane wicket wyfe,

He wirkis sorrow to himsell.

He that hes for his awin genyie

Ane plesand prop, but mank or menyie,

And schuttis syne at ane uncow schell,

And is forfairn with the fleis of Spenyie,

He wirkis sorrow to himsell.

And he that with gud lyfe and trewth,

But varians or uder slewth,

Dois evirmair with ane maister dwell,

That nevir of him will haif no rewth,

He wirkis sorrow to himsell.

Now all this tyme lat us be mirry,

And sett nocht by this warld a chirry.

Now quhill thair is gude wyne to sell,

He that dois on dry breid wirry,

I gif him to the Devill of Hell!