The Book of Scottish Song/The want o' Siller

The want o' Siller.

[From Chambers's Journal, No. 178.—Air "Roy's Wife o' Aldivalloch."]

Come, ragged brethren o' the Nine,
Join ilka honest purseless callan;
The waes o' duddy doublets sing,
When gousty want keeks through the hallen.
It's true I've nae great heart to sing,
Fuistit in auld hair-mouldy garret;
But yet there's ease in dulfu' croon,
Though there be little in the wallet.
Oh the waefu' want o' siller,
Weary fa' the want o' siller;
It mak's nae what be in your pow,
Gin your pouch be bare o' siller.

It's waur nor a' the waes o' life,
And sair benumbs a body's noddle;
For worth nor wit, without the pelf.
Is never counted worth a bodle.
It's no your wit, its no your lear,
Though ye should on Pegasus gallop;
It mak's na, gin your breeks be bare,
And hinging a' in tatter-wallop.
Oh the waefu', &c.

When baugh wi' care and fell mishap,
And puirtith hands a body gaunting,
There's never ane to speir your ail,
Gif that the penny siller's wanting.
For now-a-days, there's nae sic things
As honest hearts o' Nature's lything;
There'll scarce a body look your way,
Gif that the siller binna kything.
Oh the waefu', &c.

Ye'll no get brose, nor breid, nor cheese,
Nor social drap to weet your wyzon:
What cares the polished man o' wealth,
Though wyzon, wame, and a' gae gyzant?
When lucky stars gi'e 's leave to sit,
Ower comfort's cozy cutchac beeking;
To set your very creepy stule,
Baith rich and puir will aft be seeking.
Oh the waefu', &c.

What, think ye, is't links hands and hearts?
It's nowther beauty, wit, nor carriage;
But, frae the cottage to the ha',
It's siller aye that mak's the marriage.
I've been in luve out ower the lugs,
Like money other chiel afore me;
But, 'cause my mailin was but sma',
The saucy limmers did abhor me.
Oh the waefu', &c.

Hale books I've wrote, baith prose and verse,
And mony a roosing dedication,
But nae ane owned the puir baugh chield,
Sae nocht for me but grim starvation.
And oh, but my ain shanks be sma',
My very nose as sharp's a filler;
Grim death will soon tak' me awa'—
Ohone, ohone, the want o siller!
Oh the waefu', &c.

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