His Own Enemy
He
that
hes
gold
and
grit
riches
And
may
be
into
mirrynes,
And
dois
glaidnes
fra
him
expell
And
levis
into
wrechitnes,
He
wirkis
sorrow
to
himsell.
He
that
may
be
but
sturt
or
stryfe
And
leif
ane
lusty
plesand
lyfe,
And
syne
with
mariege
dois
him
mell
And
bindis
him
with
ane
wicket
wyfe,
He
wirkis
sorrow
to
himsell.
He
that
hes
for
his
awin
genyie
Ane
plesand
prop,
but
mank
or
menyie,
And
schuttis
syne
at
ane
uncow
schell,
And
is
forfairn
with
the
fleis
of
Spenyie,
He
wirkis
sorrow
to
himsell.
And
he
that
with
gud
lyfe
and
trewth,
But
varians
or
uder
slewth,
Dois
evirmair
with
ane
maister
dwell,
That
nevir
of
him
will
haif
no
rewth,
He
wirkis
sorrow
to
himsell.
Now
all
this
tyme
lat
us
be
mirry,
And
sett
nocht
by
this
warld
a
chirry.
Now
quhill
thair
is
gude
wyne
to
sell,
He
that
dois
on
dry
breid
wirry,
I
gif
him
to
the
Devill
of
Hell!
