Hout, Wully, lad! cock up thy head,
Nor fash thysel about her;
Nought comes o' nought, sae tek nae thought,
Tou's better far widout her.
Peer man! her fadder weel we ken,
He's but an ass--buird meaker;
But she's town--bred, and, silly gowk!
Thou'd gi'e thy teeth to teake her.

I've seen thee flyre and jwoke like mad,
At aw our country fellows;
But now thou seeghs and luiks like death,
Or yen gawn to the gallows;
Thou's sous'd owre head and ears i' luive--
Nay, nobbet luik at Cwoley!
He wags his tail, as if to say,
'Wey, what's the matter, Wully?'

There's lads but few in our town,
And lasses wanters plenty,
And he that fain wad wed a weyfe
May weale yen out o' twenty:--
There's Tamer Toppin, Aggy Sharp,
And clogger Wilkin' Tibby;
There's Greacy Gurvin, Matty Meer,
And Thingumbob' lal Debby:

Then there's Wully Guffy' dowter Nan
At thee aye keeks and glances,
For tou's the apple o' their een
At cairdin neets and dances;
My titty, tui, ae neet asleep,
Cried, 'Canny Wully Miller!'
I poud her hair, she blush'd rwose reed,
Sae gang thy ways een till her.

Tell mudder aw the news tou kens;
To fadder talk o'th' weather;
Then lilt tem up a sang or twea,
To please tem aw together;
She'll set thee out, then speak thy mind--
She'll suit thee till a shevin;
But town--bred deames to sec as we,
Are seldom worth the hevin.