He that winna when he may shanna when he wad.
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He's a proud fox that winna scrape his ain hole.
If it winna be a gude shoe we'll mak a bauchel o't.
He that cheats in daffin winna be honest in earnest.
I winna mak a toil o' a pleasure, quo' the man when he buried his wife and was asked to speed it up.
God keep ill gear out o' my hands; for if my hand ance get it, my heart winna part wi't, sae prayed the gude earl of eglinton.
He that winna be ruled by the rudder maun be ruled by the rock.
O Let Me in Thes Ae Night
His question
O Lassie, are ye sleepin yet,
Or are ye waukin, I wad wit?
For Love has bound me hand an' fit,
And I would fain be in, jo.
Chorus
O let me in this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
O let me in this ae night,
I'll no come back again, jo!
O hear'st thou not the wind an' weet?
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet;
Tak pity on my weary feet,
And shield me frae the rain, jo.
Chorus
O let me in, etc.
The bitter blast that round me blaws,
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's;
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause
Of a' my care and pine, jo.
Chorus 2x
O let me in, etc.
Her answer
O tell na me o' wind an' rain,
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain,
Gae back the gate ye cam again,
I winna let ye in, jo.
Chorus
I tell you now this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
And ance for a' this ae night,
I winna let ye in, jo.
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!
Chorus
I tell you now, etc.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Love is like a dizziness
O, love, love, love!
Love is like a dizziness;
It winna let a puir body
Gang about his biziness!
poem by James Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bide A Wee
'The puir auld folk at home, ye mind,
Are frail and failing sair;
And weel I ken they'd miss me, lad,
Gin I come hame nae mair.
The grist is out, the times are hard,
The kine are only three;
I canna leave the auld folk now.
We'd better bide a wee.
'I fear me sair they're failing baith;
For when I sit apart,
They talk o' Heaven so earnestly,
It well nigh breaks my heart.
So, laddie, dinna urge me now,
It surely winna be;
I canna leave the auld folk yet.
We'd better bide a wee.'
poem by Louisa May Alcott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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