(7)
Wee coilier 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 fu' 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 ill be plenty
O' ilka thing dainty,
Baith lang kail and haggice, an' every thing fitting,
Wi' luggles o' beer,
Our ⟨wizzens⟩ to clear;
Sae the foul ⟨ful⟩ his kite wha gaes clung frae the meeting.
Lowrie ha cof Gibbie Cameron's gun,
That his auld gutcher bore when he follow'd Prince Charley,
The barrel was rustet a black as the grun',
But he's talent to the middy anfs settl'd it rarely;
Wi' wallets o' pouther
His musket he shouther.
An ride at our head, to the bride's a' paradin';
At ilka farm-town
He'll fire them a roun',
Till the hale ⟨kintra⟩ ring wi' the Kebbuckstone Weddin'.
Jamie an' Johnnie maun ride the brouse,
For few like them can fit in the saddle;
An' Willy Cooreath the best o' bows,
