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 matn gae bot ony guyde,
For Habbie's deid.
Sa weill's he keipit his docorum,
And all the stotis of Quhip Meg Morums
He slew a man, and waes me for him,"
And bare the feid;
And zit the man wan hame befoire him,
And wasna deid.
Aye quhan he playit tie lassis leuch,
To sie him teithless, auld and touch,
He wan his pypis besyde Bar-clouch,
Without in dreid,
Quhilk efter wan him geir eneuch,
But now he's deid.
Aye quhan he playit the gaitlings gedderit,
And qahan he spak the carill bledderit,
On Sabbath-dayis his cape was fedderit,
A seimlie weid!
In the kirk yeard his meir stude todderit,
Quhar he lyis dead.
Alace! for him my heart is sair,
For of his springis I got a skair,
At everio play, race, feist and fair,
Bot gyle or greid,
We neid not leuk for pyping mair,
Sen Habbie's deid,
