THE KEBBUCKSTON WEDDIN’. Written to an ancient
Highland Air. _____ AULD Watty o’ Kebbuckston 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 Sauney, an’
Nelly an’ 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’ she’s gaun wi’ Willy-- Wee collier 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 fou’ happy. Wee Patie Brydie’s to say the grace, The body’s ay ready at dredgies an’ weddin’s, An’ flunkey McFee,
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’ luggie o’ beer, Our wizzens to clear, Sae the deil fill his kyte wha
gaes 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 rustet as black
as the grun’,
But he’s taen’t to the smiddy an’s fettl’d it rarely, Wi’ wallets o’ pouther, His musket 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 Kebbuckston Weddin’. Jamie an’ 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 aces a’ like the loup
out o’ the body, An Neilie McNairn, Tho’ sair forfairn, He vows that he’ll
wallop twa sets wi’ the howdie. Sauney McNab, 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’ Macrimmon the piper; Sic hippin’ an’ skippin’, An’ springing’ an’ flingin’, I'se wad that there’s nane i’
the lallands can waff it! Feth! Willy maun fiddle,
An 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’ Kebbuckston
flourish, For Watty’s
sae free, Between you an’ me, I'se warren’t he’s bidden the
ha’f o’ the parish. |