I do confess thou art sae fair

I do confess thou art sae fair,

I wad been o'er the lugs in luve;

Had I na found, the slightest prayer

That lips could speak, thy heart could muve.

I do confess thee sweet, but find

Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets,

Thy favors are the silly wind

That kisseth ilka thing it meets.

See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew,

Amang its native briers sae coy,

How sune it tines its scent and hue,

When pu'd and worn a common toy!

Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide,

Tho' thou may gayly bloom a while,

Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside,

Like ony common weed and vile.