Auld Marget Poem by Robert Anderson

Auld Marget in the fauld she sits,
And spins, and sings, and smuiks by fits,
And cries as she had lost her wits--
`O this weary, weary warl!'

Yence Marget was as lish a lass
As e'er in summer trod the grass;
But fearfu' changes come to pass
In this weary, weary warl!

Then, at a murry--neet or fair,
Her beauty meade the young fwok stare;
Now wrinkled is that feace wi' care--
O this weary, weary warl!

Yence Marget she hed dowters twee,
And bonnier lasses cudna be;
But nowther kith nor kin has she--
O this weary, weary warl!

The eldest, wi' a soldier gay,
Ran frae her heame, ae luckless day,
And e'en lies buried far away--
O this weary, weary warl!

The youngest she did nought but whine
And for the lads wad fret and pine,
Till hurried off by a decline--
O this weary, weary warl!

Auld Andrew toild reet sair for bread--
Ae neet they fan him cauld, cauld dead,
Nae wonder that turn'd Marget's head--
O this weary, weary warl!

Peer Marget! oft I pity thee,
Wi' care--worn cheek and hollow e'e,
Bowed down by yage and poverty--
O this weary, weary warl!