Wi' pride avore my own blue geäte,
Where I can bid the steätely tree
Be cast, at langth, avore my knee;
An' clover red, an' deäzies feaïr,
An' gil'cups wi' their yollow gleäre,
Be all a-match'd avore my zight
By wheelèn buttervlees in flight,
The while the burnèn zun at noon
Do sheen upon my meäd in June.
An' there do zing the swingèn lark