Robert Burns,
O Let Me in Thes Ae Night
“ The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, That round the pathless wand'rer pours Is nocht to what poor she endures, That's trusted faithless man, jo. Chorus I tell you now, etc. The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead, Now trodden like the vilest weed— Let simple maid the lesson read The weird may be her ain, jo. Chorus I tell you now, etc. The bird that charm'd his summer day, Is now the cruel Fowler's prey; Let witless, trusting, Woman say How aft her fate's the same, jo! ”
