Ye in life’s brawest spring wi’ reason clear,
Wi’ eild our idle fancies a’ return,
And dim our dolefu’ days wi’ bairnly fear;
The mind’s ay cradled whan the grave is near

For weel she trows that fiends and fairies be
Sent frae the de’il to fleetch us to our ill;
That ky hae tint their milk wi’ evil eie,
And corn been scowder’d on the glowing kill.
O mock na this, my friends! but rather mourn,
The die is cast the day that we are born

The mind’s ay cradled whan the grave is near

from the E.P. Idle Fancies

see also:

Robert Fergusson