A Lang Promise, by Jackie Kaye

Whether the weather be dreich or fair, my luve,

if guid times greet us, or we hae tae face the worst,

ahint and afore whit will happen tae us:

blind in the present, eyes open to the furore,

unkempt or perjink, suddenly puir or poorly,

peely-wally or in fine fettle, beld or frosty,

calm as a ghoul or in a feery-farry,

in dork December or in springy spring weather,

doon by the Barrows, on the Champs-Elysees,

at midnicht, first licht, whether the mune

be roond or crescent, and yer o’ soond mind

or absent, I’ll tak your trusty haun

and lead you over the haw – hame, ma darlin.

I’ll carry ma lantern, and daur defend ye agin ony foe;

and whilst there is breath in me, I’ll blaw it intae ye.

Fir ye are ma true luve, the bonnie face I see;

nichts I fall intae slumber, it’s ye swimming up

in all yer guidness and blitheness, yer passion.

You’ll be mine, noo, an’ till the end o’ time,

ma bonnie lassie, I’ll tak the full guid o’ ye’ 

and gie it back, and gie it back tae ye:

a furst kiss, a lang promise, time’s gowden ring.