Wee, seekrit, cow'rin, tim'rous beardie,
O, what a panic's in thy goatee!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rinse an' shave thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!
I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's facial union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beardie, thou maun live!
A soupcatcher thicker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!
Thy wee lip housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to grow a new ane,
O' foggage ginger!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' limber!
Thou saw the face laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell-
Till crash! the cruel razor past
Out thro' thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' gel an' stubble,
Has cost me mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the wearer's slebby dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!
But, Beardie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' beard an 'men
Gang aft agley,
An'lea'e us nought but fear an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me
The shavin' only stifle thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.
On styles drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I grow an'ither beard! |
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