The Little Taylor's Wedding/Тhе Little Taylor's Wedding
The Little Tailor's Wedding.
Penny weddings is fine hearty meetings,Of merry folks a' in a ring,To see them a' louping and sweating,Is surely a comical thing.And fy, let us a' to the Knocker.And see the braw wedding that's there,Lasses conveen'd without tocher,And some between hope and despair.This bride she had a bit bairn,And what the war was she o' that?The bridegroom he looked for tocher,She had na use mair but a pot;Neither a sheet nor a blanket,But a sidemantle wi' a lang hole.The tailor was fidging to get her,The lass na langer could thole;Crying, O! what will come o' me,And O! what will I do then,My mither has naething to gi'e me,And a tailor maun do for a man!I thought to get cobbler Willy,But he has turn'd fancy and nice,When ance he got plenty o'leather,He never came speiring my price;He measur'd my soles in the dark,What for a blind bargain was that,For him to turn up my ten taes,And leave me to lull what I got; Crying, O! what will come o' me,And, O! what will I do then,My mither has naething to gi'e me,And my maidenhead's out in a lend.Will Downie the weaver came to me,He wanted a lend of the same,But I said he should not have it,Till once he had made me his ain:Alas, that he has been thrice burnt,It's time now her buttocks to claw,She'll surely be war of the fourth,If she mind any fortune at a'.Now the tailor bobb'd round i' the ring,But, O! he was short in the shanks,And as he came kissing the maids,His mouth scarce came to their flanks,Some was right lowerdly looting,And so was lang Meg of the moss,She set up her bum to the wa',And stretch'd out her neck like a goose,Crying, O, what will come o' me,And, O, what will do then,If I bow so low to a tailor,For I'm sure I m no kist by a man.But the tailor let glaum at her pussy,And made her to squeak like a cat,And as she bow'd down to defend him,He kist her, she flaug and she flet;And O as he cracket and smacket,And hang by his paws at her neck,Till a' in the ring fell a-laughing:The fiddler the spring he did stick,Crying, O, what what will come o' meFor I can play up nae mair, 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, Crying, O, what will come o' me,Fy, for I'm like for to spew,Sic a byreful of maids beshit,And the midden is heepet up fu'.The beggars and bairns about,Likewise to the bunneuch were put,And sic a great day of dunging,The Knockerland never did get.The bride and her maidens sat greeting,And crying their credit was crackt,We'll neither get tailor nor sooter,Such a more in our marriage they'll mak,Crying, O what will come o' me,And O, what will we do now,Young lads will scunner to see us,Our tails they never will trow.