The Ulster-Scots Language Society, formed to promote the Ulster-Scots language, our own hamely tongue

The Lint Pullin'

(Taken from Random Rhymes frae Cullybackey by Adam Lynn [Belfast: printed by W & G Baird, 1911])

By writin' freens I mean nae herm
Tae Sammy or his weel stock'd ferm,
Bit that ye al' may see in print
The wye this year he pul'd his lint.

He gid aboot the maist o' Sunday,
An' trysted us tae go on Monday;
Some folk may say this wus nae richt,
Thin pray that he may git mair licht.
Ur go ye may an' tel' him strecht
If you wud like a stan'-up ficht;
I trust whutiver coorse ye tak'
May hae effect upon the pa'k.

Monday arrived, an' promised weel,
Fur al' turned oot as true as steel;
Some o' thir names I dinna ken,
Bit let me mention nine ur ten —
Rose an' Vilet, frae the city,
Mally's Jane, an' young Miss Kitty,
Peggy's nice, sweet, winsome Annie,
Peter's Hugh, an' spankin' Dannie,
Sassy Jamie, an' big Wully,
Wha wud like tae be the bully,
If want ye micht tae follow suit,
I'll try an' fin' the ithers oot.

Wae rash-ban's tied roon ivery waist
We started aff tae pul' wae taste,
Each kempt, an' pu'd wae al' thir micht,
Fur wha cud dae the maist, an' richt
Jokes wint the roons, an' hermless chat,
Which winded up in tit fur tat;
It taen an oor fur us tae swamp
Efter the boilt-milk an' new champ,
Which micht hae had a waur effect
Had we no' got "contraraect";
The ladies al' display'd much craft
By drinkin' somethin' kin' o' saft,

We wrocht like mad through cauls an' heats,
An' tied it in some thousand beets;
We left the fiel' bit there it lay
Tae be "dam'd" early on nixt day.

Efter anither sweet repast
The games an' sport wint thick an' fast,
We ran roon rings while we cud cra'l,
Till shades o' nicht commenc'd tae fal',
Thin tae the barn we did repair,
An' smak'd at "frimsy" in the chair,
Sandy fiddled, an' Erchy sang,
Though some guid folk may think it wrang;
We danc'd an' pranc'd till it grew clear,
Thin each yin watz'd hame wae his dear,
There — Billy Winkie has me fast,
An' go I maun wae him at last,
Wishin' Sammy, no him alane,
A guid big yield a pun a stane.

August, 1904.