Wunter gien wey til Ware

Hit's a braw Tysday the hinnereyn o the Wunter. Efter ainly twa mair day, the Ware'll stert offeecially, wi her flours in thair blume an aa, an mony beasties skailed aboot the yird, ilkane efter it's ain kinn, an ilka kinn wi its ain wey o daein things. The mirk an cauld o the Wunter s' be bainisht for a twa-three saisons, an the sin sall heave an leam i the lift, an ilka day growe stranger and sheen langer nor the day afore. Whyles, the wun micht bla cauld an we micht wull git a drap or a spate o weet, bit the flours'll be flourishin an the burds'll be whustlin.

Syne, in its ain time, the Ware wull growe intil the Simmer, an the yird sall be het, an the grun birselt in some airts. Een sae, the grun wull ken at it is braw, an it wull gie furth frute an tick. The lift wull be sae bew an bricth at ye wull be mirky tae luek on hit, an tae wauk ablow it.

Bit it is juist noo the Ware's tid tae stert, no the Simmer's, wha wull gie wey til the Hairst in its ain time.

Fur the noo, thou, we'll hae the Ware, wha we tholed the lang, keen Wunter fur. Aathing is guid i the Ware. Aathing is made noo an young aince agane, an thou aathing wull ane day dwine an dee, the leamin sin an the greene leifs is atweill braw.

Bit ye ken aa that, dae ye no? A'm juist scribin aboot it for tae impruive ma skeelies, gin A hae ony skeelies ava yit!

Whit am A daein wrang? Whit am A daein richt? Och, whit am A axin ye fur, ye'r no een hereawa!