Deluded Swain, The Pleasure.

A poem by Robert Burns


Deluded swain, the pleasure
The fickle fair can give thee,
Is but a fairy treasure -
Thy hopes will soon deceive thee.


The billows on the ocean,
The breezes idly roaming,
The clouds uncertain motion -
They are but types of woman.


O! art thou not ashamed
To doat upon a feature?
If man thou wouldst be named,
Despise the silly creature.


Go find an honest fellow;
Good claret set before thee:
Hold on till thou art mellow,
And then to bed in glory.

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