that kisses ilka thing it meets.

see yonder rosebud, rich in dew,

amang its native briers sae coy;

how sune it tines its scent and hue,

when pu'd and worn a mon toy.

sic fate ere lang shall thee betide,

tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile;

and sune thou shalt be thrown aside,

like ony mon weed and vile.