I the rhymer don't find it hard
To rhyme and write like the Ulster bard
And lay my verse on paper and card
Though it be not
Genuine in language sound, being marred
By being non-Scot.
The hamely tang in which they spake
Among each other when awake
Of which outsiders fun they make
And gibberish it they call
And its speakers for fools take
And make of them to look small.
No, my heads not wrecked
By trying to write in dialect
Though as a language it I respect
I, being creative
Use odd words and phrases to reflect
I am nae native!
As verse, some may think it may be
Ill planned and formed and simply shabby
And course like the talk and jokes of a cabbie
It may be. but
My verses small in standard Habbie
Are not mere smut.
Oh, no - tales of men they tell
Of deeds that were done where they did dwell
And legends, too and more as well
Of manys the caper
I each word in turn spell
To record on paper.
I, the writer, must confess
I think God me at birth did bless
- Though he did not anyone else less -
Giving me mind to rhyme
And verse in stanza forms I dress
To pass the time.