Aeneid, Book Iii, 588-640

Neist mornin' at the skreek o' day The mist had newlins lifted; The sky, a whylock syne sae grey, To fleckit red had shifted: When suddenly our herts gaed thud To see a fremt chiel stalkin', Wi' timorous steps fae out the wud, As fleyed-like as a mawkin. Lod! sic a sicht, half hid in glaur, It made us a' feel wae, man; His hams were thin, his kyte was waur, It hung sae toom that day, man. His mattit beard was lang an' roch 's Gin it had ne'er been shorn; His kilt could barely fend his houghs Fae stobs, it was sae torn. A Greek was he, wha short afore At Troy was in the brulzie, An' tho' a halflin then, he bore A man's pairt in the tulzie. As soon's he spied our Trojan graith He nearhan' swarfed wi' fear; But maisterin' his dread o' skaith At last he ventured near. "I charge you by the stars," he cried, "And by the powers on high, To snatch me hence, nor lat me bide At Cyclops' hands to die. I'll no deny that I'm a Greek, Or that I was at Troy; Nor yet to hide the part, I'll seek, That I took in the ploy. Sae gin ye judge my fau't sae sair That grace ye daurna gie, Tear me to bits, fient haet I care, And sink me in the sea. I'll meet my death without a wird, If dealt by men like these," He said: syne flang him on the yirds An' glammoched at our knees, Wi' kindly mint we stilled his fear, Enquired his name an' clan, An' what fell bluffert blew him here Wi' sic a hertless flan. To set him further at his ease Anchises gae him 's han', An' heartened by our kindliness The chiel at last began: "My name is Achaemenides, An' Ithaca my land; An' some ooks syne I crossed the seas Wi' poor Ulysses' band. Oh, why left ever I my hame? I'd troubles there enew; My comrades left me, to their shame, When fae Cyclops they flew. Cyclops himsel', wha can describe? The stars are ells below him; Gude send we ne'er may hae to bide Within a parish o' him. His dungeon large, a hauddin' fit For sic an awsome gleed; There at his fae's dregies he'll sit And spairge aboot their bleed. Wi' horrid scouk he frowns on a' An' heedless o' their skraichs, He sweels their monyfaulds awa' Wi' wauchts fae gory quaichs. I saw him, sirs, as sure's I live, Ance as he lay at easedom, Twa buirdly chiels tak' in his neive, Syne careless fae him heeze them. They fell wi' sic a dreadfu' thud, Whaur stanes lay roun' in cairns; The causey ran wi' thickened blood Like stoorum made wi' harns. I watched him tak' their limbs an' cram Them ower his weel-raxed thrapple; The life scarce left the quivering ham That shivered in his grapple. But never was Ulysses slack To pay where he was awin', An' starkly did he gie him 't back, An' bravely cleared the lawin'. For while the hoven monster snored, An' rifted in his dreams, We first the great God's help implored An' blessing on our schemes; The kavils cuist: a feerious thrang Syne gaithered roond aboot, An' wi' a sturdy pointed stang We bored his ae e'e oot."