Ulysses

Neist time that yer menfowk are late winnin hame
Spare a thocht fur Penelope, sittin her lane
Fur twenty lang year, in byordnar ill teen
Rehearsin ae question ... "Jist far hiv ye been?"
He hummed, an he heyed.
Twis a wearisome ploy,
Ten years, he'd been fechtin fur Helen o Troy
Fur man, she wis bonnie, an fegs, she wis braw
Bit yon wisna the reason he'd hidden awa
A war's like the measles. It's terrible smitten
The wives hae the best o't, at hame, wi the knittin.
Atween weemin, an fechtin, an Gods on the loose
Wis't a winner he'd keepit sae lang frae the hoose?
An noo he wis back, wid she nae dashed-weel deave him!
He telt her his story — she widna believe him!

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