HALLOW FAIR.
Tune-Fy let us a' to the Bridal.
There's fouth of braw Jockes and Jennies
Comes weel buskit into the fair,
With ribbons on their cockernonies,
And fouth of fine flour in their hair.
O Maggie she was sae weel busked,
That Willie was tied to his bride;
The pony was ne'er better whisked
With a cudgel that hung 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 liqour did ca',
There was Georgie that weel lo'ed his lassie,
He took the pint stoup in his arms,
And hugged it, and said, Troth they're saucy
That lo'es na a gude father's bairn.
There was Wattie, the muirland laddie,
Was mounted upon a grey cowte,
With 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,
With hair pouthered, hat, and a feather,
And housing at courpon and tee.
But Bruckie played boo to Bawsie,
And aff scoured the cowte like the win;
Poor Wattie he fell on the causey,
And brised a' the banes in his skin.
His pistols fell out of the hulsters,
And were a’ bedaubed with dirt:
The folk they came round him in clusters,
Some leugh, and cried, Lad, was ye hurt?
The cowte wad let naebody, steer him,
He was aye sae wanton and skeigh;
The packmens stands he o'erturned them,
And gart a' the fair stand abeigh.
With sneering behind and before him;
For sic is the mettle 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'ning,
And bughting time was drawing near;
The lasses had stenched their greening
With fouth of braw apples and beer.
There was Lillie, and Tibbie, and Sibbie,
And Ceicy on the spindle could spin,
Stood glowring at signs and glass winnocks,
But deil a lad bade them come in.
Gude guide's! saw ye ever the like o't?
See yonder's a bonny black swan;
It glowrs as it fain wad be at us,
What's yon that it hauds in its han'!
Awa, daft gowk, cries Wattie,
They're a' but a rickle of sticks;
See there is Bill, Jock, and auld Hauckie,
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 flower of the clachan,
In troth now I'se gie you mysel’.
But wha wad e'er thought it of him,
That e'er he had rippled the lint?
Sae proud was he of his Maggie,
Though she did baith scailie and squint.
FINIS.