Robert Anderson Poems

It's just three weeks sin Carel fair,
This sixteenth o' September;
There the furst loff of a sweetheart I gat,
...

The witch weyfe begg'd in our backseyde,
But went unsarra'd away i'th' pet;
Our Ester kurn'd at e'er she kurn'd,
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Our Ellek likes fat bacon weel,
And haver--bannock pleases Dick;
A cowd--lword meks lal Wully fain,
And cabbish aye turns Philip sick;
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Of aw the lads I see or ken,
There's yen I like abuin the rest;
He's neycer in his war day duds,
Than others donn'd in aw their best.
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Says our Squire, ``Hodge, tell me, young shepherd swain,
Wilt thou leave thy flock, thy cottage, and plain,
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To thee what praises can I give,
Thou great Creator, Lord of all,
Whose goodness 'tis that man shall live,
Whose will it is that man shall fall.
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Stop, gentle traveller, on this rude Seat,
Rest thee awhile; and ponder on mankind:
Turn nature's volume o'er, with prying eye,
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Reader, if rocks, woods, waters, lawns, and meads,
Or aught of nature's captivating dress,--
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O, lass! I've fearfu' news to tell!
What thinks te's come owre Jemmy?
The sowdgers hev e'en pick'd him up,
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Come, Tom, let us jingle the glasses, lad,
And bumper the dear witchin' lasses, lad;
What tho' we baith be puir,
We'll kick care behind the duir,
...