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.