Роберт Андерсон (Robert Anderson)

Uncle Wully

`It's a comical warl this we live in,'
Says Calep, and Calep says reet;
For Matty, that's got aw the money,
Has e'en geane and wedded deyl'd Peat.
He's nobbet a heather--feac'd maz'lin,
And disn't ken whisky frae yell;
But her, weel brong up and a scholar,
Has just meade a fuil o' hersel!
De'il bin but she'd little to de,
To tek sec a hawflin as he,
That nowther kens A, B, nor C!--
Nay, what sec a pair can ne'er 'gree!

He ne'er hes a teale widout laitin,
And hardleys can grease his awn clogs;
He marry a decent man's dowter!
He's fitter to lig amang hogs!
At the clock for an hour he'll keep glymin,
But de'il e'er the time he can tell;
And my niece, for that ae word husband,
Has e'en geane and ruin'd hersel.
De'il bin, &c.

Her fadder, God keep him! my billy,
Ay, thought her the flow'r o' them aw;
And said on his deeth--bed, `O, Wully!
`Luik till her, man! when I lig low!'
I meade her beath reader and writer--
Nin bang'd her, the maister can tell;--
But, speyte o' beath larnin and manners,
She's e'en meade a guff of hersel.
De'il bin, &c.

When lasses get past aw advisin,
Our's then turns a piteous case;
A cwoat or sark yen may shep them,
But aw cannot gi'e them God's grace:
For me, I'll e'en deet my hands on her,
And this aw our neybors I'll tell;
She's meade a bad bed, let her lig on't,
And think how she's ruin'd hersel.
De'il bin but she'd little to de,
To tek seck a mazlin as he,
That nowther kens A, B, nor C!--
Nay, what sec a pair can ne'er 'gree! 

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