Classic Poem

Written to an ancient Highland air.

Auld Watty of Kebbuckston brae,
With lear and reading of books auld farren,
What think ye! the body came owre the day,
And tauld us he's gaun to be married to Mirren.
We a' got a bidding,
To gang to the wedding,
Baith Johnnie and Sandy, and Nelly and Nanny;
And Tam of the Knowes,
He swears and he vows,
At the dancing he'll face to the bride with his graunie.

A' the lads hae trystet their joes,
Slee Willy came up and ca'd on Nelly,
Although she was hecht to Geordie Bowse,
She's gi'en him the gunk and she's gaun wi' Willy.
Wee collier Johnny
Has yocket his pony,
And's aff to the town for a lading of nappy,
Wi' fouth of good meat,
To serve us to eat,
Sae with fuddling and feasting we'll a' be fou' happy.

Wee Patie Brydie's to say the grace,
The body's aye ready at dredgies and weddings,
And flunkey M'Fee, of the Skiverton place,
Is chosen to settle the pies and the puddings.
For there'll be plenty
Of ilka thing dainty,
Baith lang kail and haggis, and every thing fitting,
With luggies of beer,
Our wizzens to clear,
Sae the de'il fill his kyte wha gaes clung frae the meeting.

Lowrie has cast 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 ta'en't to the smiddy and's fettl'd it rarely.
With wallets of pouther,
His musket he'll shouther,
And ride at our head, to the bride's a' parading.
At ilka farm town
He'll fire them three roun',
Till the hale kintra ring with the Kebbuckston wedding.

Jamie and Johnnie maun ride the brouse,
For few like them can sit in the saddle;
And Willy Cobreath, the best of bows,
Is trysted to jig in the barn with his fiddle.
With whisking and flisking,
And reeling and wheeling.
The young anes a' like to loup out of the body,
And Neilie M'Nairn,
Though sair forfairn,
He vows that he'll wallop twa sets with the howdie.

Sauny M'Nab, with his tartan trews,
Has hecht to come down in the midst of the caper,
And gi'e us three wallops of merry shantrews,
With the true Highland fling of Macrimmon the piper.
Sic hipping and skipping,
And springing and flinging,
I'se wad that there's nane in the Lallands can waff it!
Faith! Willie maun fiddle,
And jirgum and diddle,
And screed till the sweat fa' in beads frae his haffet.

Then gi'e me your hand, my trusty good frien',
And gi'e me your word, my worthy auld kimmer,
Ye'll baith come owre on Friday bedeen,
And join us in ranting and tooming the timmer.
With fouth of good liquor,
We'll haud at the bicker,
And lang may the mailing of Kebbuckston flourish,
For Watty's sae free,
Between you and me,
I'se warrant he's bidden the half of the parish.