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We have such a merry bridegroom,He's music enough I declare.And then they went into the dinner,It was a braw table indeed,The bride got a ram's rumple to pick,And tilt like a dog wi' her head:The bridegroom he sat on a creepie,For he had no higher seat,And by him the priest of the parish,As chaplain for grace of the meat,And O, as they rugget and tugget,And swallow'd baith grit bita and bance,The fiddler got nane o' their kail,And happy was he for their pains.Will Miller was cook of the kettle,And he put a dose in the kail,Which made a' their bellies to rumble,And ran to the midden for bail.The priest we ought not to mention,But the bunneuch began wi' Mess John,Who ran to the midden for mercy,And lest them to say grace alone:And O, such a pumping and boeking,Like men going masons to fer',With mortar well mix'd in their breeches,Enough for to poison the air.The men ran a' to the midden,And the women ran into the byre,And there made their cannons to rattle,As it had been a running fire.Will Miller the cook he took legDown o'er the bank an' awa,And sic a soul hurl at a wedding,He swore the like he ne'er saw,
