a wooer like me maunna hope to e speed,

the wounds i must hide that will soon be my dead.

the day es to me, but delight brings me nane;

the night es to me, but my rest it is gane;

i wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,

and i sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

o had she but been of a lower degree,

i then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me!

o how past descriving had then been my bliss,

as now my distraction nae words can express.