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By this time up got Jock, the bridegroom that was Jockey before he was married, but couldna get his breeks; and rampling, he cries, Settle ye, or I'll gar my uncle settle ye, and saften your heads wi' an auld supple.
Poor Rab Reid, the fiddler, took a sudden blast; some said he was maw turned wi' the fa', for he bock'd up a' the barley, and then gar'd the ale gae like a rainbow frae him, as brown as wort brose.
The hurly-burly being ended, and naething but fair words and shaking of hands, which was a sure sign of an agreement, they began to cow their cutted lugs, and wash their sairs, a' but Jockey's mither, who cried out, A black end to you and your wedding baith, for I hae gotten a hundred holes dung in my back wi' the round lieckle teeth.
Jockey answers, A e'en haud you wi' them then mither, ye will e'en be the better sair'd.
Up gets auld Rabby, and auld Sandy, the souter of Seggyhole, and put everything in order; they prapet up the bed
