The Hallow fair (3)/The hallow fair

THE HALLOW FAIR.

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There's fouth o' braw Jockies and Jennies,
Comes weel buskit into the fair,
Wi' ribbons on their cockernonies,
And fouth o' fine flour in their hair.
O Maggie was ne'er sae weel busked,
Syne Willie was tied to his bride;
The poney was ne'er better whisked,
Wi' a cudgel that hang frae his side.

But Maggie was wondrous jealous,
To see Willie busked sae braw:
And Sawney he sat in the ale-house,
And hard at the liquor did ca'.
There was Geordie, that weel-lo'ed his lassie,
He took the pint stoup in his arms,
And hugg'd it, and said, "Troth they're saucie
That lo'es na a gude father's bairn.

There was Wattie, the muirland laddie,
Was mounted upon a grey cowte,
Wi' sword by his side, like a caddie,
To drive in the sheep and the nowte.
His doublet sae weel it did fit him,
It scarcely came down to mid-thigh,
Wi' hair pouther'd, hat, and a feather,
And housing at courpon and tee.

But Bruckie play'd boo to Bawsie,
And aff scour'd the cowte like the win';
Poor Wattie he fell on the causeway,
And birs'd a' the banes in his skin.
His pistols fell out o' the bulsters,
And were a' bedaubed wi' dirt:
The folk they came round him in clusters,
Some leugh, and cri'd, lad, was you hurt?

The cowte wad let naebody steer him,
He was aye sae wanton and skeigh;
The packmen's stands he o'erturn'd them,
And gart a' the fair stand abeigh.
Wi' sneering behind and before him,
For sic is the metal of brutes,
Poor Wattie, and wae's me for him,
Was fain to gang hame in his boots.

Now it was late in the ev'ing,
And bughting time was drawing near,
The lassies had stenched their greening,
Wi' fouth o' braw apples and beer.
There was Lillie, and Tibbie, and Sibbie,
And Ceicie on the spindle could spin,
Stood glowring at signs and glass winnocks,
But de'il a lad bade them come in.

Gude guides! saw ye ever the like o't?
See yonder's a bonnie black swan;
It glowrs as it wad fain be at us;
What's yon tbat it hauds in its han'?
Awa, daft gowk, cries Wattie,
They're a' but a rickle o sticks;
See there is Bill, Jock, and Auld Hackie,
And yonder's Mess John and Auld Nick.

Quo' Maggie, come buy us our fairing,
To Wattie, wha sleely could tell,
I think thou'rt the flow'r o' the Clachan,
In troth, now I'se gie you mysel'!
But wha wad e'er thought it o' him,
That e'er had rippled the lint?
Sae proud was he o' his Maggie,
Though she did baith scailie and squint.