Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/339

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THE SONGS OF BURNS.
269
Yet I wadna choose to let her refuse,Nor ha'e 't in her power to say na, man,For though I be poor, unnoticed, obscure,My stomach's as proud as them a', man.
Though I canna ride in weel-booted pride,And flee o'er the hills like a craw, man,I can haud up my head wi' the best o' the breed,Though fluttering ever so braw, man.
My coat and my vest, they are Scotch o' the best,O' pairs o' guid breeks I ha'e twa, man,And stockings and pumps to put on my stumps,And ne'er a wrang steek in them a', man.
My sarks they are few, but five o' them new,Twal' hundred, as white as the snaw, man,A ten-shilling's hat, a Holland cravat;There are no mony poets sae braw, man.
I never had frien's, weel stockit in means,To leave me a hundred or twa, man,Nae weel tochered aunts, to wait on their drants,And wish them in hell for it a', man.
I never was canny for hoarding o' money,Or claughtin't together at a', man,I've little to spend, and naething to lend,But deevil a shilling I awe, man.

THE WINTER IT IS PAST.

A FRAGMENT.

The winter it is past, and the simmer comes at last,And the small birds sing on every tree;Now every thing is glad, while I am very sad,Since my true love is parted from me.
The rose upon the brier by the waters running clear,May have charms for the linnet or the bee;Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest,But my true love is parted from me.
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