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

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