 | The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson |  |
113
THE IMPATIENT LASSIE.
Deuce tek the clock; click-clackin sae,
Ay in a body's ear;
It tells an tells the teyme is past,
When Jwohnny sud been here:
Deuce tek the wheel! 'twill nit rin roun—
Nae mair to neet I'll spin;
But count each minute wid a seegh,
Till Jwohnny he steals in.
Ay in a body's ear;
It tells an tells the teyme is past,
When Jwohnny sud been here:
Deuce tek the wheel! 'twill nit rin roun—
Nae mair to neet I'll spin;
But count each minute wid a seegh,
Till Jwohnny he steals in.
How neyce the spunky fire it burns,
For twee to sit beseyde!
An theer's the seat where Jwohnny sits,
An I forget to cheyde!
My fadder, tui, how sweet he snwores!
My mudder's fast asleep—
He promis'd oft, but, oh! I fear
His word he wunnet keep!
For twee to sit beseyde!
An theer's the seat where Jwohnny sits,
An I forget to cheyde!
My fadder, tui, how sweet he snwores!
My mudder's fast asleep—
He promis'd oft, but, oh! I fear
His word he wunnet keep!
114
What can it be keeps him frae me?
The ways are nit sae lang!
An sleet an snow are nought at aw,
If yen wer fain to gang!
Some udder lass, wi' bonnier feace,
Has catch'd his wicked ee,
An I'll be pointed at at kurk—
Nay! suiner let me dee!
The ways are nit sae lang!
An sleet an snow are nought at aw,
If yen wer fain to gang!
Some udder lass, wi' bonnier feace,
Has catch'd his wicked ee,
An I'll be pointed at at kurk—
Nay! suiner let me dee!
O durst we lasses nobbet gang,
An sweetheart them we leyke!
I'd run to thee, my Jwohnny, lad,
Nor stop at bog or deyke:
But custom's sec a silly thing—
Thur men mun hae their way,
An monnie a bonny lassie sit,
An wish frae day to day.
An sweetheart them we leyke!
I'd run to thee, my Jwohnny, lad,
Nor stop at bog or deyke:
But custom's sec a silly thing—
Thur men mun hae their way,
An monnie a bonny lassie sit,
An wish frae day to day.
I yence hed sweethearts monie a yen,
They'd weade thro' muck an mire;
An when our fwok wer deed asleep,
Com tremlin up to t' fire:
At Carel market lads wad stare,
An talk, an follow me;
Wi' feyne shwort keakes, ay frae the fair,
Baith pockets cramm'd wad be.
They'd weade thro' muck an mire;
An when our fwok wer deed asleep,
Com tremlin up to t' fire:
At Carel market lads wad stare,
An talk, an follow me;
Wi' feyne shwort keakes, ay frae the fair,
Baith pockets cramm'd wad be.
115
O dear! what changes women pruive,
In less than seebem year;
I walk the lonnins, owre the muir,
But deil a chap comes near!
An Jwohnny I nee mair can trust—
He's just like aw the lave;
I fin this sairy heart 'll brust!
I'll suin lig i' my grave!
In less than seebem year;
I walk the lonnins, owre the muir,
But deil a chap comes near!
An Jwohnny I nee mair can trust—
He's just like aw the lave;
I fin this sairy heart 'll brust!
I'll suin lig i' my grave!
But, whisht!—I hear my Jwohnny's fit—
Aye! that's his varra clog!
He steeks the faul yeat softly tui—
Oh! hang that cwoley dog!
Now hey for seeghs, an suggar words,
Wi' kisses nit a few—
This warl's a parfet paradeyse,
When lovers they pruive true!
Aye! that's his varra clog!
He steeks the faul yeat softly tui—
Oh! hang that cwoley dog!
Now hey for seeghs, an suggar words,
Wi' kisses nit a few—
This warl's a parfet paradeyse,
When lovers they pruive true!
July 31, 1802.
| The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson | |