Sough o' war

FAE FRANCE
29
An’ heelster-gowdie doon he cam’ an’ brak his
shackle-bane:
To hyste him up an’ on my back nott a’ my
pith an’ skeel,
For aye he bad’ me lat him lie, an’ cursed me
for a feel.
‘ Ging on an’ leave me here, ye gype, an’ mak’
yer feet yer freenV
‘ Na, na/ says I; ‘ye brocht me here, I’m
nae gyaun hame my leen.’
He’s httle boukit, ay an’ licht, an' I’m baith
stoot an’ swak,
Yet I was pechuT sair aneuch afore I got him
back.
They thocht him fairly throu’ at first, an’
threepit he was deid,
But it was naething but a dwaam, brocht on
by loss o’ bleed.
’Twas months afore he cower’d fae that, an’ he
was missed a lot,
For fan ye meet a hearty breet ye ’re sorry gin
he’s shot.
His mither sent a letter till’s, a great lang
blottit screed,
It wasna easy makin’t oot, her vreetin’s coorse
to read;