The Thuirsby Witch Poem by Robert Anderson

There's Harraby and Tarraby,
And Wigganby beseyde;
There's Oughterby and Souterby,
And bys beath far and weyde;--
Of strappin, sonsy, rwosy queens,
They aw may brag a few;
But Thuirsby for a bonny lass
Ban cap them aw I trow.

Her mudder sells a swope o' drink,
It is beath stout and brown,
And Etty is the hinny fowt
Of aw the country roun;
Frae east and west, beath rich and peer,
A--horse, a--fit, caw in--
For whee can pass sae rare a lass,
He's owther daft or blin.

Her een are leyke twee cursmass sleas,
But tweyce as breet and clear;
Nae rwose cud iver match her feace,
That yet grew on a breer;
At toun, kurk, market, dance or fair,
She meks their hearts aw stoun,
And conquers mair than Bonyprat,
Whene'er she keeks aroun.

Oft graith'd in aw their kurk--gawn gear,
Leyke nowble lwords at cwort,
Our lads slink in, and gaze and grin,
Nor heed their Sunday spwort;
If stranger leets, her een he meets,
And fins he can't tell how;
To touch the glass her hand has touch'd,
It sets him in a lowe.

Yence Thuirsby lads were--whea but we,
And cud ha'e bang'd the lave,
But now they hing their lugs, and luik
Leyke fwok stown frae the grave;
And what they ail in head or heart
Nae potticary knows--
The little glancin Thuirsby Witch,
She is the varra cause.

Of Black--eyed Susan, Mary Scott,
The lass o' Patie's Mill,
Of Barbara Allan, Sally Gray,
The Lass o' Richmond--hill,
Of Nancy Dawson, Molly Mog,
Though thousands sing wi' glee,
This village beauty, out and out,
She bangs them aw to see.