I.

O poortith cauld, and restless love, Ye wreck my peace between ye; Yet poortith a' I could forgive, An' twere na' for my Jeanie. 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, It's pride, and a' the lave o't-- Fie, fie on silly coward man, That he should be the slave o't!

Her een sae bonnie blue betray How she repays my passion; But prudence is her o'erword ay, She talks of 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?