Advice to the Lasses

Lasses, lookna sourly meek,

But laugh an' love in youth's gay morn:

If ance the bloom forsake your cheek,

Fareweel your heuks, the hairst is shorn.

The secret favour that you meet,

Or the favour ye return,

If vainly ye let ithers see't,

Fareweel your heuks, the hairst is shorn.

Wi' care the tender moments grip,

When your cautious lovers burn

But if you let that moment slip,

Fareweel your heuks, the hairst is shorn.

Be on your guard wi' Sir or Laird;

A' ties but that o' marriage spurn;

For if ye grant what he may want,

Fareweel your heuks, your hairst is shorn.

The lad that's wi' your siller ta'en,

Reject his vows wi' honest scorn;

For ance the glitterin' ore's his ain,

Fareweel your heuks, the hairst is shorn.

Widows rest you as ye are—

Nae lover now dare crook his horn;

But mak' him master o' your gear—

Fareweel your heuks, the hairst is shorn.

Lasses that nae lads ha'e got,

But live in garrets lane and lorn,

Let ilk be carefu' o' her cat—

Ne'er think o' heuks—your hairst is shorn.