Lallan' joes—Hielan' joes—Meg ance had wale;
Fo'k wi' the siller, and chiefs wi' the tail!
The yaud left the bum to drink out o' Meg's pail—
The sheltie braw kent "the Maclane."
Awa' owre the muir they cam' stottin' an' stoicherin'!
Tramper an' traveller, a' beakin' an' broicherin'!
Cadgers an' cuddy-creels, oigherin'!—hoigherin'!
"The lanlowpers!"—quo Maggy Maclane.
Cowtes were to fother:—Meg owre the bum flang!
Nowte were to tether:—Meg through the wood rang!
The widow she kenn'd-na to bless or to bann!
Sic waste o' gude wooers to hain!
Yet, aye at the souter, Meg grumph'd her! an' grumph'd her!
The loot-shouther'd wabster, she humph'd her! and humph'd her!
The lamiter tailor, she stump'd her! an' stump'd her!
Her minnie might groo or grane!
The tailor he likit cockleekie broo;
An' doon he cam' wi' a beck an' a boo:—
Quo' Meg,—"We'se sune tak' the cleckon aff you;"—
An' plump! i' the burn he's gane!
The widow's cheek redden'd; her heart it play'd thud! aye;
Her garters she cuist roon' his neck like a wuddie!
She linkit him oot; but wi' wringin' his duddies,
Her weed-ring it's burst in twain!
Wowf was the widow—to haud nor to bing!
The tailor he's aff, an' he's coft a new ring!
Th' deil squeeze his craig's no wordy the string!—
He's waddet auld Widow Maclane!
Auld?—an' a bride! Na, ye'd pitied the tea-pat!
O saut were the skadyens! but balm's in Glenlivat!
The haggis was bockin' oot bluters o' bree-fat,
An' hoteh'd to the piper its lane!—
Doon the bumside, i' the lown o' the glen,
Meg reists her bird-lane, i' a but-an-a-ben:
Steal doon when ye dow,—i' the dearth, gentlemen,—
Ye'se be awmous to Maggy Maclane!
Lane bauks the virgin—nae white pows now keekin
Through key-hole an' cranny; nae cash blade stan's sleekin'
His nicherin' naigie, his gaudamons seekin'!
Alack for the days that are gane!
Lame's fa'n the souter!—some steek i' his thie!
The cooper's clean gyte, wi' a hoopin' coughee!
The smith's got sae blin'—wi' a spunk i' his e'e!—
He's tyned glint o' Maggy Maclane!
Meg brake the kirk pew-door—Auld Beukie leuk'd near-na her!
She dunkled her pattie—Young Sneckie ne'er speir'd for her!
But the warst's when the wee mouse leuks oot, wi' a tear to her,
Frae the meal-kist o' Maggy Maclane!
