Flory Loynachan

A Poem

O, it buitie be an ogly thing
That mougres thus ower me.
For I scrabed at mysel' yestreen,
And couldna bab an e'e.
My heart is a' to muilins minched.
Brye, smuirach, daps and gum,
I'm a poor cruichach, spalyin' scrae,
My horts hae struck me dumb.

Dear Flory Loynachan, if thou
Thro' Sanna's soun' wert toss'd,
And rouchled like a shougie-shoo
In a veshal with one mast;
Though the night was makan' for a roil,
Though rallaich were the sea,
Though scorlins warpled my thowl pins,
My shallop wad reach thee.

Thour't not a hochlan scleurach, dear,
As many trooshlach be;
Nor I a claty skybal thus
To sclaffer efter thee;
Yet haing the meishach, whare first
I felt love's mainglin' smart,
And haing the boosach dyvour too,
Who spong'd from me thine heart.

O! rhane a Yolus Cronie - quick - 
Across this rumpled brain!
Bring hickery-pickery - bring wallink,
Droshachs, to soothe my pain!
Fire water - fill a spoucher dull - 
These fryan stouns to stay!
For like a sporrow's scaldachan
I'm gosping night and day.

Were I the Laird o' Achnaglach,
Or Kilmashenachan fair,
Crockstaplemore, Kilwheepnach,
Feochaig or Ballochgair,
Did I inherit Tuyinreoch,
Drumgarve, or Ballochantee,
Creishlach, or Coeran - daing the bit
I'd fauchat them a' for thee!

O, the Clabbydhu, it loves the Trinch,
The Cruban the quay-neb,
While the Anachan and Brollachan,
They love the mussell-ebb.
The Muirachban the Dorling loves,
And the Gleshan, and Guildee,
They love to plouder through the Loch,
But Flory, I love thee!