Jenny’s Complaint Poem by Robert Anderson

O, lass! I've fearfu' news to tell!
What thinks te's come owre Jemmy?
The sowdgers hev e'en pick'd him up,
And sent him far, far, frae me:
To Carel he set off wi' wheat;
Them ill reed--cwoated fellows
Suin wil'd him in--then meade him drunk:
He'd better geane to th'gallows.

The varra seet o' his cockade
It set us aw a--crying;
For me, I fairly fainted tweyce,
Tou may think that was tryin:
My fadder wad ha'e paid the smart,
And show'd a gowden guinea,
But, lack--a--day! he'd kiss'd the buik,
And that 'll e'en kill Jenny.

When Nichol tells about the wars,
It's war than deeth to hear him;
I oft steal out, to hide my tears,
And cannot, cannot bear him;
For aye he jeybes, and cracks his jwokes,
And bids me nit forseake him;
A brigadier, or grandidier,
He says, they're sure to meake him.

If owre the stibble fields I gang,
I think I see him ploughin,
And ev'ry bit o' bread I eat,
It seems o' Jemmy's sowing:
He led the varra cwoals we burn,
And when the fire I's leetin,
To think the peats were in his hands,
It sets my heart a beatin.

What can I de? I nought can de,
But whinge and think about him:
For three lang years he follow'd me,
Now I mun live widout him?
Brek heart, at yence, and then it's owre!
Life's nought widout yen's dearie.
I'll suin lig in my cauld, cauld grave,
For, oh! of life I'm weary!