Kebbuckston wedding/The Kebbuckston Wedding

THE KEBBUCKSTON WEDDIN'

Auld Watty o’ Kebbuckston brae,
Wi’ lear an’ readin’ o’ beuks auld-farren,
What think ye! the body cam’ ower the day
An’ tauld us he’s gaun to be married to Mirren;
We a’ gat a biddin’
Te gang to the waddin'
Baith Johnie an’ Sawney, an’ Nelly an’ Nany,
An’ Tam o’ the knowes,
He swears au’ he vows,
At the dancin’ he’ll face to the bride wi’ his grannie.

A’ the lads hae trysted their jocs,
Slee Willie cam up and ca’d on Nelly,
Altho’ she was hecht to Geordie Bowse,
She’s gien him the gusk an’ she’s gaun wi’ Willie—
Wee collier Johnnie
Has yocket his ponney,

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’

At ilka farm town
He’ll fire them three roun,’
Till the hale kintra ring wi’ the Kebbukston Weddin’

Jamie and Johnnie maun ride the brouse,
For few like them can sit i’ the saddle,
An’ Willy Cobreath, ⟨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 a’ like to loup out o’ the body
An’ Neilie M'Nairn,
Though sair forfairn,
He vows that he’ll wallop twa sets wi’ the howdie.

Sauney M‘Nab, wi’ his tartan trews,
Has hecht to come down in the midst o’ the caper,
An’ gie us three wallops o' merry-shantrews
Wi’ the true highland-fling o’ Maccrimmon the piper;
Sic hippin’ an’ skippin’,
An’ springin’ an’ flingin’,
I's wad that there’s nane i’ the lallands can waff it!
Foth Willy maun fiddle and jirgum an’ diddle,
An' screed till the sweat fa’ in beads frae his haffet.

Then gie me your han,’ my trusty gude frien',
An’ gie 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’ Kebbuckttone flourlsh,
For Watty’s sae free,
Between you an’ me,
I’se warren’t he’s bidden the ha’f o’ the parish.