Sough o' war

FAE FRANCE
30
She speir’t could she dae ocht for me, sae I
sent back a line—
‘ Jist bid yer man, fan neist I’m up, ca’ canny
wi’ the fine.’
But noo to tell hoo I wan aff fae dreelin’, dubs,
an’ din,
An’ landit here wi’ nocht to dae but fite the
idle pin.
Ae foraneen my neiper chap cried—‘ Loshtie-
goshtie guide’s!
The foumarts maun be caul the day, they’ve
startit burnin’ wydes.’
The reek at first was like ye’ve seen, fan at the
fairmer’s biddin’,
Some frosty momin’ wi’ the graip, the baillie
turns the midden.
But it grew thick, an’ doon the win’ straucht
for oor lines it bore,
Till shortly we were pyoch’rin’ sair an’ fleyed
that we would smore ;
An’ as ye never ken wi’ cyaurds faur ye ’ll be
berried neist,
We fixed oor baignets, speel’t the trench, and
chairged them in a breist.