The glarry forth waits ower abain
Wat boags streetched braid alang the Maine.
Frae ether side their horses gaen
ae Caffle's shap;
Then Paddy tuk an Rabble taen
A canny drap.
'A wudn't mind a mare like that,'
Pat said. Qu' Rab, 'Ay so.'
The yin wat clie haps up the deed,
The dark lang hame o ether creed;
An then, quait-crakkin nighbers, they'd
Wak fort thegither,
Tae keep ootby or boo the heid,
A hope he's happy now,' says Pat;
An Rab alloos, 'A know.'
James Fenton 2009