To the Tune of, The Gallant Shoe-maker.
YOung Philander woo’d me lang,
But I was peevish, and forbad him,
I wadna tent his loving sang,
But now I wish, I wish I had him:
Ilk morning when I view my glass,
Then I perceive my beauty going;
And when the wrinkles seize the face,
Then we may bid adieu to wooing.
My beauty, anes so much admir’d,
I find it fading fast, and flying;
My cheeks, which coral like appear’d,
Grow pale, the broken blood decaying:
Ah! we may see our selves to be
Like summer fruit that is unshaken,
When ripe, they soon fall down and die,
And by corruption quickly taken.
Use then your time, ye virgins fair,
Employ your day before ‘tis evil;
Fifteen is a season rare,
But five and twenty is the devil.
Just when ripe, consent unto’t,
Hug nae mair your lanely pillow;
Women are like other fruit,
They lose their relish when too mellow.
If opportunity be lost,
You’ll find it hard to be regained;
Which now I may tell to my cost,
Tho’ but my sell nane can be blamed:
If then your fortune you respect,
Take the occasion when it offers;
Nor a true lover’s suit neglect,
Lest ye be scoff’d for being scoffers.
I, by his fond expressions, thought
That in his love he’d ne’er prove changing;
But now, alas! ‘tis turn’d to nought,
And, past my hope, he’s gane a ranging.
Dear maidens, then take my advice,
And let na coyness prove your ruin;
For if ye be o’er foolish nice,
Your suiters will give over wooing.
Then maidens auld you nam’d will be,
And in that fretfu’ rank be number’d,
As lang as life; and when ye die,
With leading apes be ever cumber’d:
A punishment, and hated brand,
With which nane of us are contented;
Then be not wise behind the hand,
That the mistake may be prevented.