TO THE LADIES

With apologies to another (?) well-known poet for the plagiarism of the first verse.

There's naught but care on every han'

In every hour that passes O!

What signifies the life of man

An 'twerena for the lasses 'O

 

Sweet is the taste o' nectar rare

O' honey an' molasses O!

But nane o' them can e'er compare

For sweetness, wi the lasses O!

 

When we are sunk wi dull despair

In misery's morasses O!

Wha comforts us wi' tender care?

Nane but the self-same lasses O!

 

Some men may pine for mountain air

Olympus' or Parnassus' O!

But for mysel', I do declare

I'd rather ha'e the lasses O!

 

Were I a multi-millionaire

A Croessus or Onassis O!

My wardly gear I wad forswear

Gin I could ha'e the lasses O!

 

So, fellow-men, whae'er ye be

Stand up an' raise your glasses O!

An drink a toast alang wi' me

In tribute to the lasses O!

Emeritus Editor

All attenders at post AGM Ceilidhs know well the author and performer of such ditties.