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Think on their wild deceitful ways,
Their painted cheeks, and bonny claes;
They’re like a stockin’ fu’ o’ flaes,
That will torment ye a’ your days,
Until the day ye die, man.
For the brawest lasses, aft, I see,
Turns out the greatest daw’s, man;
For when a man and bairns they get,
It’s rags in place o’ braws, man.
But whan a wife ye gang to seek,
Look for ane that’s mild and meek,
Wi’ modesty on ilka cheek,
And then ycur joys will be complete
Until the day ye die, man.
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SUCCESS TO THE LOOM.
Let the learn'd and unlearn'd still pursue their fond schemes,
And pursue the same end by quite different means;
We weavers can never know sorrow nor gloom,
While commerce is brisk, and we work on our loom.
The coxcomb thinks happiness center'd in self,
The Statesman in power, the miser in pelf
The heir when he sees his old sire in the tomb;
But the bliss of us weavers is fix'd in our loom.
