Lang Seyne Poem by Robert Anderson

The last new shun our Betty gat,
They pinch her feet, the deil may care!
What, she mud ha'e them leady leyke,
Tho' she hes cworns, for evermair:
Nae black gairn stockins will she wear,
They mun be wheyte, and cotton feyne!
This meks me think of other teymes,
The happy days o' auld lang seyne!

Our dowter, tui, a palace
A guid reed clwoak she cannot wear;
And stays, she says, spoil leady's sheps--
Oh! it wad mek a parson swear!
Nit ae han's turn o' wark she'll dui,
She'll nowther milk or sarrat sweyne--
The country's puzzen'd roun wi' preyde,
For lasses work'd reet hard lang seyne.

We've three guid rooms in our clay house,
Just big eneugh for sec as we;
They'd hev a parlour built wi' bricks,
I mud submit--what cud I dee?
The sattle neist was thrown aside,
It meeght ha'e sarra'd me and meyne;
My mudder thought it mens'd a house--
But we think shem o' auld lang seyne!

We us'd to ga to bed at dark,
And ruse agean at four or five;
The mworn's the only teyme for wark,
If fwok are hilthy, and wou'd thrive:
Now we git up,--nay, God kens when!
And nuin's owre suin for us to deyne;
I's hungry or the pot's hawf boil'd,
And wish for teymes leyke auld lang seyne.

Deuce tek the fuil--invented tea!
For tweyce a--day we that mun hev;
Then taxes git sae monstrous hee,
The deil a plack yen now can seave!
There's been nae luck throughout the lan,
Sin fwok mud leyke their betters sheyne;
French fashions mek us parfet fuils;
We're caff and san to auld lang seyne!