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.