Magie’s Tocher, pp.28-30.

[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

Leave a Reply