I thought the dialect was interesting enough to warrant transcribing it. Note that this has one verse that Anni Fentiman omitted.

(See Malcolm's link above.)

GWORDIE GILL
Tune—"Andrew wi' his cutty gun."

Ov aw the lads I see or ken, theer's yen I leyke abuin the rest;
He's neycer in his war day claes, than others donn'd in aw their best.
A body's heart's a body's awn and they may gie't to whea they will;
Had I got ten, whoar I hae neane, I'd gie them aw to Gwordie Gill!

Whee was't that brak the landlword's garth, for me, when young we went to schuil?
Whee was't durst venture mid-thie deep, to bring mey clog out o' the puil?
And when frae horseback I was flung, an lang an lang I laid queyte ill,
Whee was't gowlt owre me day an neet, an wisht me weel?—'Twas Gwordie Gill.

Oft mountet on his lang-tail'd naig, wi' feyne new buits up till his tnee,
The laird's daft son leeghts i' the faul, an keaves as he wad wurry me;
Tho' fadder, mudder, uncle, aunt, to wed this maz'lin teaze me still,
I hear them tell of aw his gear, but oft steal out to Gwordie Gill.

The strae-hat meaker I' the town, she sens him letters monie a yen;
Sec brek-jaw words, an bits o' rheymes—she mun hae preyde, but sense hes neane!
Her letters, Gworge reads wid a laugh, an shews tem me, an rives them still—
Hed she nine teymes her weyte o' gowd, it cuddent aw buy Gwordie Gill.

From Carel, cousin Fanny com, an brong her whey-fenc'd lover down,
Wid sark-neck stuck abuin his lugs, a puir clipt-dinment frae the town;
He minct, an talkt, an skipt, an walked, but tir'd wheyle gangin up the hill,
And luikt just pale as onie corp, compar'd wi rwosy Gwordie Gill.

Mey Gworge's whussle weel I ken, lang ere we meet, the darkest neet,
And when he lilts, an sings Skewball; nee playhouse music's hawf sae sweet.
Owre earth ilk lass's heart's her awn, an she may gie't to whee she will;
Lang-seyne I'd yen, now I hae neane. 'Twas gien wi' joy to Gwordie Gill.