Classic Poem

Catullus man, ye maunna gang sae gyte.
Scryve 't doun for tint, nou that ye see it's fled ye.
Umquhile the sun shone on ye, braw and whyte,
ye aye gaed eftir whaur the lassie led ye,—
‘I'll loena onie ither lass sae dear’.
Thon tyme ye'd monie a ploy to your delyte
that ye socht out,—the lassie wasna sweir.
Ay, ye had sunsheen yince, richt braw and whyte.
But nou she's sweir. Ye canna help it, sae
be thraward as weel. She flees, but dinna chase her.
Makna your life forfairn wi dule and wae,
wi tholesome sweirty ettle to outface her.

Guidbye, ma lass. Catullus nou is sweir.
He'll nae think lang, or speir again your will.
But sair ye'll greet, nou naebody'll speir
onie nicht for ye, limmer. Eerie and dull
your life's be nou. What lad'll come ye near?
Wha'll think ye bonnie? Wha'll ye cuddle nou?
Whas lass be caad? Wha kiss? Or pree whas mou?

Och, c'wa, Catullus, stievelie nou. Be sweir.