And there will be auld
Widow Martin,
That ca’s
hersel thritty and twa!
And thraw-gabbit Madge,
wha for certain
Was jilted
by Hab o’ the Shaw.
And Elspy the sewster
sae genty,
A pattern
of havens and sense.
Will straik on her mittens
sae dainty,
And crack
wi’ Mess John i’ the spence.
And Angus, the seer
o’ ferlies,
That sits
on the stane at his door,
And tells about bogles,
and mair lies
Than tongue
ever utter’d before.
And there will be Bauldy
the boaster
Sae ready
wi’ hands and wi’ tongue;
Proud Paty and silly
Sam Foster,
Wha quarrel
wi’ auld and wi’ young:
And Hugh the town-writer,
I’m thinking,
That trades
in his lawerly skill,
Will egg on the fighting
and drinking
To bring
after-grist to his mill;
And Maggy—na,
na! we’ll be civil,
And let
the wee bridie a-be;
A vilipend tongue is
the devil,
And ne’er
was encouraged by me.
Then fy, let us a’
to the wedding,
For they
will be lilting there
Frae mony a far-distant
ha’ding,
The fun
and the feasting to share.
For they will get sheep’s
head, and haggis,
And browst
o’ the barley-mow;
E’en he that comes
latest, and lag is,
May feast
upon dainties enow.
Veal florentines in
the o’en baken,
Weel plenish’d
wi’ raisins and fat;
Beef, mutton, and chuckies,
a’ taken
Het reeking
frae spit and frae pat:
And glasses (I trow
‘tis na’ said ill),
To drink
the young couple good luck,
Weel fill’d wi’
a braw beechen ladle
Frae punch-bowl
as big as Dumbuck.
And then will come dancing
and daffing,
And reelin’
and crossin’ o’ hans,
Till even auld Lucky
is laughing,
As back
by the aumry she stans.
Sic bobbing and flinging
and whirling,
While fiddlers
are making their din;
And pipers are droning
and skirling
As loud
as the roar o’ the lin.
Then fy, let us a’ to the
wedding,
For they will be lilting there,
For Jock’s to be married to Maggy,
The lass wi’ the gowden hair.
THE WEARY PUND O’ TOW
A young gudewife is in my
house
And thrifty means to be,
But aye she’s runnin’ to the
town
Some ferlie there to see.
The weary pund, the weary pund, the weary pund
o’ tow,
I soothly think, ere it be spun, I’ll
wear a lyart pow.
And when she sets her to her
wheel
To draw her threads wi’ care,
In comes the chapman wi’ his gear,
And she can spin nae mair.
The weary pund, etc.
And she, like ony merry may,
At fairs maun still be seen,
At kirkyard preachings near the tent,
At dances on the green.
The weary pund, etc.