Three excellent songs (1)/The Kebbuckstone wedding

THE
KEBBUCKSTONE WEDDING.

Auld Watty o'Kebbuckstone brae,
⁠Wi’ lear an’ readin’ o’ beuks auld-farren,
What think ye! the body cam’ owre the day,
⁠An’ tauld us he's gaun to be married to Mirren;
⁠We a’ gat a biddin
⁠To gang to the Weddin’,
Baith Johnnie and Sauncy, & Nelly & Nanny;
⁠An’ Tam o’ the knowes,
⁠He swears, an’ he vows,
At the dancin’ he'll face to the bride wi’ his graunie.
A’ the lads hae trystet their joes,
⁠Slee Willy cam’ up an’ ca’d on Nelly,
Altho’ she was hecht to Geordie Bowse,
⁠She’s gi’en him the gunk, an’ fhe’s gaun wi’ Willy.

⁠Wee coilier Johnnie
⁠Has yocket his pouney,
An's aff to the town for a ladin' o' nappy,
⁠Wi' fouth o' gude meat,
⁠To ser' us to eat,
Sae wi' fuddlin' an' feastin' we'll a' be fu' happy.

Wee Patie Brydie's to say the grace,
⁠The body's ay ready at dredgies an' weddin's,
An' flunkey M^cFee, o' the Skiverton Place,
Is chosen to scuttle the pies an' the puddin's;
⁠For there ill be plenty
⁠O' ilka thing dainty,
Baith lang kail and haggice, an' every thing fitting,
⁠Wi' luggles o' beer,
⁠Our ⟨wizzens⟩ to clear;
Sae the foul ⟨ful⟩ his kite wha gaes clung frae the meeting.

Lowrie ha cof Gibbie Cameron's gun,
⁠That his auld gutcher bore when he follow'd Prince Charley,
The barrel was rustet a black as the grun',
⁠But he's talent to the middy anfs settl'd it rarely;
⁠Wi' wallets o' pouther
⁠His musket he shouther.
An ride at our head, to the bride's a' paradin';
⁠At ilka farm-town
⁠He'll fire them a roun',
Till the hale ⟨kintra⟩ ring wi' the Kebbuckstone Weddin'.

Jamie an' Johnnie maun ride the brouse,
⁠For few like them can fit in the saddle;
An' Willy Cooreath the best o' bows,
⁠Is trysted to jig i' the barn wi' his fiddle;
⁠Wi' whiskin' an' fliskin',
⁠An' reelin' an' wheelin',
The young anes are a' like to loup out o' the body;
⁠An' Neillie M'Nairn,
⁠Tho' fair forfairn,
He vows that he'll wallop twa sets wi' the howdie.
Sauney M'Nab, wi' his tartan treuse,
⁠Has hecht to come down, in the midst o' the caper,
An gi'e us three wallops o' merry Shantrows,
⁠To the true Highland fling o' Macrimmon the piper:
⁠Sic hippin an' skippin',
⁠An springin' an flingin',
I'se wad that there's nane o' the Lallands can waff it!
⁠Feth! Willie maun fiddle,
⁠An' jirguan and diddle,
An' screed till the sweat fa' in beads f ae his haffet.

Then gi'e me your han', my trusty gude frien !
⁠An gi'e me your word my worthy auld kimmer
Ye'll baith come owre on Friday bedeen,
⁠An join us in rantin an toomin the timmer,
⁠Wi fouth o' gude liquor
⁠We'll haud at the bickar,
An lang may the mailin o Kebbuckstone flourish,
⁠For Watty's sae free.
⁠Between you an' me,
I'se warrant he's bidden the ha f o' the parish.

FINIS.