First Luive Poem by Robert Anderson

It's just three weeks sin Carel fair,
This sixteenth o' September;
There the furst loff of a sweetheart I gat,
Sae that day I'll remember.
This luive meks yen stupid--ever sin seyne
I's thinkin and thinkin o' Wully:
I dung owre the knop, and scawder'd my fit,
And cut aw my thoum wi' the gully.

O, how he danc'd! and, O how he talk'd!
For my life I cannot forget him;
He wad hev a kiss--I gev him a slap--
But if he were here I'd let him.
Says he, `Mally Maudlin, my heart is thine!'
And he brong sec a seegh, I believ'd him:
Thought I, Wully Wintrep, thou's welcome to mine,
But my head I hung down to deceive him.

Twee yards o' reed ribbon to wear for his seake,
Forby ledder mittens he bought me;
But when we were thinkin o' nought but luive,
My titty, deil bin! come and sought me:
The deuce tek aw clashes off she ran heame,
And e'en telt my tarn'd auld mudder;
There's sec a te--dui--but let them fratch on--
Miss him, I'll ne'er get see annudder!

Neist Sunday, God wullin! we promised to meet,
I'll get frae our tweesome a baitin;
But a lee mun patch up, be't rang or be't reet.
For Wully he sha'not stan waitin:
The days they seem lang, and lang are the neets,
And, waes me! this is but Monday!
I seegh, and I think, and I say to mysel,
O that to--morrow were Sunday!