And braw Tibby Fowler, the
heiress,
Will perk at the
top o’ the ha’,
Encircled wi’ suitors,
whase care is
To catch up the
gloves when they fa’.
Repeat a’ her jokes
as they ’re cleckit,
And haver and
glower in her face,
When tocherless Mays are negleckit—
A crying and scandalous
case.
And Mysie, whase clavering
aunty
Wad match her
wi’ Jamie, the laird;
And learns the young fouk
to be vaunty,
But neither to
spin nor to caird.
And Andrew, whase granny is
yearning
To see him a clerical
blade,
Was sent to the college for
learning,
And cam’
back a coof, as he gaed.
And there will be auld Widow
Martin,
That ca’s
hersel’ thretty and twa!
And thrawn-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 in 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 lawyerly skill,
Will egg on the fighting and
drinking,
To bring after
grist to his mill.
And Maggie—na,
na! we ’ll be civil,
And let the wee
bridie abee;
A vilipend tongue it is evil,
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 lagis
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 reekin’
frae spit and frae pat.
And glasses (I trow ’tis
nae said ill)
To drink the young
couple gude 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’ han’s,
Till even auld Lucky is laughing,
As back by the
aumry she stan’s.
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 linn.
Then fy, let us a’ to
the wedding,
For they will
be lilting there;
For Jock ’s to be married
to Maggie,
The lass wi’
the gowden hair.