Burns

While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' getting fou and unco happy
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps and styles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

Thank you Joan, I suppose we must look at the linguistic values. I think we should ask you to read this with your Scottish accent.