[Tea-Table Miscellany Contents]
To its ain Tune.
–
THE meal was dear short syne,
We buckl’d us a’ the gither;
And Maggie was in her prime,
When Willie made courtship till her:
Twa pistals charg’d beguess,
To gie the courting shot;
And syne came ben the lass,
Wi’ swats drawn frae the butt.
He first speer’d at the guidman,
And syne at Giles the mither,
An ye wad gi’s a bit land,
Wee’d buckle us e’en the gither.
–
My daughter ye shall hae,
I’ll gi’ you her by the hand;
But I’ll part wi my wife by my fae,
Or I part wi’ my land.
Your Tocher it sall be good,
There’s nane sall hae its maik,
The lass bound in her snood,
And Crummie who kens her stake:
With an auld bedden o’ claiths,
Was left me by my mither,
They’re jet black o’er wi’ flaes,
Ye may cudle in them the gither.
–
Ye speak right well, guidman,
But ye maun mend your hand,
And think o’ modesty,
Gin ye’ll not quat your land:
We are but young, ye ken,
And now we’re gawn the gither.
Å house is butt and benn,
And Crummie will want her fother.
The bairns are coming on,
And they’ll cry, O their mither!
We have nouther pot nor pan,
But four bare legs the gither.
–
Your Tocher’s be good enough,
For that ye need na fear,
Twa good stilts to the pleugh,
And ye your sell maun steer:
Ye shall hae twa good pocks
That anes were o’ the tweel,
The t’ane to had the grots,
The ither to had the meal:
With ane auld kist made of wands,
And that sall be your coffer,
Wi’ aiken woody-bands,
And that may had your Tocher.
–
Consider well, Guidman,
We hae but borrow’d gear,
The horse that I ride on
Is Sandy Wilson’s mare:
The sadle’s nane of my ain,
An thae’s but borrowed boots,
And whan that I gae hame,
I maun tak to my coots:
The cloak is Geordy Watt’s,
That gars me look sae crouse;
Come fill us a cogue of swats,
We’ll make nae mair toom ruse.
–
I like you well, young lad,
Fortelling me sae plain,
I married when little I had
O’ Gear that was my ain.
But sin that things are sae,
The bride the maun come furth,
Tho’ a’ the gear she’ll ha’e,
It’ll be but little worth.
A bargain it maun be,
Fy cry on Giles the mither:
Content am I, quo’ she,
E’en gar the hissie come hither.
The bride she gade till her bed,
The bridegroom he came till her;
The fidler crap in at the fit,
An they cudl’d it a’ the gither.
– Old Songs.
