The Auld Gudeman.
Laird.
I'll ha'e my coat o' gude snuff-brown,
My pouther'd wig to co'er my crown,
I'll deck me, Meg, and busk me fine,
I'm gaun to court a tocher'd quean.
Meg.
Your hosen, laird, are baith to darn,
Your best sark's bleachin', that's but harn,
Your coat's a' stour, your wig's to kame,
Troth laird, ye'd better bide at hame.
Laird.
Auld Punch will carry Jock, the lad,
I'll ride mysel' the lang-tail'd yad,
Wi' pistols at my saddle-tree,
Weel mounted, as a laird should be.
Meg.
There's peats to cast, the hay's to cuile,
The yad's run ow'r the muir a mile,
The saddle's stoun, auld Punch is lame,
'Deed, laird, ye'd better bide at hame,
Think, laird, a wee, and look about,
Your gear's a' thrivin' in and out,—
I'm wae to see you courting dule,—
Wha kens but this same quean's a fool?
Laird.
Ay, ay, your drift's no ill to tell,
Ye fain wad ha'e me, Meg, yoursel';
But, sure as Blutterbog's my name,
I'll court the lass, and bring her hame.