8
He was convoyer o' the bryde,
Wi' kittock (dirk] hingane at his syde,
About the Kirk he thocht a pryde,
The ring to lead,
Now we maun gae bet ony guyde,
For Habbie's deid.
Sa weill's be keipit his docorum,
And all the stotis of Quhip Meg Morum;
He slew a man, and waes me for him,
And bare the fuid;
And zit the man wan hame befoire him,
And wasna deid.
Aye quhan he playit the lassis leuch,
To sie him teithless, auld and teuch,
He wan his pypis besyde Bar-cleuch,
Without in dreid,
Quhilk efter wan him geir eneuch,
But now he's deid.
Aye quhan he playit the gaitlings gedderit,
And quhan he spak the carill bledderit,
On Sabbath-dayis his cape was fedderit,
A seimlie weid!
In the kirk yeard his meir stude tedderit,
Quhar be lyis dead.
A lace! for him my heart is sair,
For of his springis. I got a skair,
At everie play, race, feist and fair,
Bot gyle or greid,
We neid not leuk for pyping mair.
Sen Habbie's deid.
