Poortith Cauld
Tippett, Michael
O poortith cauld, and restless love,
Ye wrack my peace between ye;
Yet poortith a' I could forgive
An 'twere na for my Jeanie.
Chorus:
O why should Fate sic pleasure have,
Life's dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love,
Depend on Fortune's shining?
This warld's wealth when I think on,
Its pride, and a' the lave o't;
My curse on silly coward man,
That he should be the slave o't.
Her een sae bonie blue betray,
How she repays my passion;
But Prudence is her o'erword ay,
She talks o' rank and fashion.
O wha can prudence think upon,
And sic a lassie by him:
O wha can prudence think upon,
And sae in love as I am?
How blest the wild-wood Indian's fate,
He wooes his simple Dearie:
The silly bogles, Wealth and State,
Did never make them eerie.