No. IV.
O Dinna paint her charms to me,
I ken that she is fair;
I ken her lips might tempt the bee--
Her een with stars compare,
Such transient gifts I ne'er did prize,
My heart they couldna win;
I dinna scorn my Jeannie's eyes--
But has she ony tin?
The fairest cheek, alas! may fade
Beneath the touch of years;
The een where light and gladness play'd
May soon graw dim wi' tears.
I would love's fires should, to the last,
Still burn as they begin;
And beauty's reign too soon is past,
So--has she ony tin?
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