A Song: I Poem by Thomas Browne

Ye loit'ring minutes faster flee,
Y' are all ower slow by hauf for me,
That wait impatient for the mornin';
To-morn's the lang, lang-wish'd-for fair,
I'll try to shine the fooremost there,
Misen in finest claes adornin',
To grace the day.

I'll put my best white stockings on,
An' pair o' new cauf-leather shoon,
My clane wash'd gown o' printed cotton;
Aboot my neck a muslin shawl,
A new silk handkerchee ower all,
Wi' sike a careless air I'll put on,
I'll shine this day.

My partner Ned, I know, thinks he,
He'll mak hiss en secure o' me,
He's often said he'd treat me rarely;
But I's think o' some other fun,
I'll aim for some rich farmer's son,
And cheat oor simple Neddy fairly,
Sae sly this day.

Why mud not I succeed as weel,
An' get a man full oot genteel,
As awd John Darby's daughter Nelly?
I think misen as good as she,
She can't mak cheese or spin like me,
That's mair 'an beauty, let me tell ye,
On onny day.

Then hey! for sports and puppy shows,
An' temptin' spice-stalls rang'd i' rows,
An' danglin' dolls by t' necks all hangin';
An' thousand other pratty seets,
An' lasses traul'd alang the streets,
Wi' lads to t' yal-hoose gangin'
To drink this day.

Let's leuk at t' winder, I can see 't,
It seems as tho' 't was growin' leet,
The cloods wi' early rays adornin';
Ye loit'ring minutes faster flee,
Y' are all ower slow be hauf for me,
At wait impatient for the mornin'
O' sike a day.