3
An’s aff to the town for a ladin’ o’ nappy,
Wi’ fonth o’ gude meat,
To ser’ us to eat,
She wi’ fuddlin, an’ feastin’ we’ll a’ be fou happy.
Wee Patie Brydie’s to say the grace,
The body’s ay ready at dredgies an’ weddin's,
An’ flunkey M‘Fee, o’ the Skiverton place,
Is chosen to scuttle the pies an’ the puddin’s;
For there’ll be plenty
O’ ilka thing dainty,
Baith lang kail an’ haggies, an’ every thing fitting,
Wi’ luggies o’ beer,
Our wizzens to clear,
Sae the deil fill his kyte wha gangs clung frae the meeting.
Lowrie has caft Gibbie Cameron’s gun,
That his auld gutcher bore when he follow’d Prince Charley,
The barrel was rusted as black the grun,
But he’s taen’t to the smiddy an’s fettled it rarely:
Wi‘ wallets o’ pouther,
His masket he’ll shouther,
An’ ride at our head to the bride’s a’ paradin’
