 | The Poems of Robert Fergusson |  |
Hallow Fair.
There's fouth of braw Jockies and Jennys
Comes weel-busked into the fair,
With ribbons on their cockernonies,
And fouth o' fine flour on their hair.
Maggie she was sae well busked
That Willie was ty'd to his bride;
The pounie was ne'er better whisked
Wi' cudgel that hang frae his side
Sing farrel, &c.
Comes weel-busked into the fair,
With ribbons on their cockernonies,
And fouth o' fine flour on their hair.
Maggie she was sae well busked
That Willie was ty'd to his bride;
The pounie was ne'er better whisked
Wi' cudgel that hang frae his side
Sing farrel, &c.
But Maggie was wondrous jealous
To see Willie busked sae braw;
And Sawney he sat in the alehouse,
And hard at the liquor did caw.
There was Geordy that well lov'd his lassie,
He touk the pint-stoup in his arms,
And hugg'd it, and said, Trouth they're saucy
That loos nae a good father's bairn.
Sing farrel, &c.
To see Willie busked sae braw;
And Sawney he sat in the alehouse,
And hard at the liquor did caw.
There was Geordy that well lov'd his lassie,
He touk the pint-stoup in his arms,
And hugg'd it, and said, Trouth they're saucy
That loos nae a good father's bairn.
Sing farrel, &c.
94
There was Wattie the muirland laddie,
That rides on the bonny grey cout,
With sword by his side like a cadie,
To drive in the sheep and the knout.
His doublet sae weel it did fit him,
It scarcely came down to mid thigh,
With hair pouther'd, hatt and a feather,
And housing at courpon and tee.
Sing farrel, &c.
That rides on the bonny grey cout,
With sword by his side like a cadie,
To drive in the sheep and the knout.
His doublet sae weel it did fit him,
It scarcely came down to mid thigh,
With hair pouther'd, hatt and a feather,
And housing at courpon and tee.
Sing farrel, &c.
But bruckie play'd boo to bausie,
And aff scour'd the cout like the win':
Poor Wattie he fell in the causie,
And birs'd a' the bains in his skin,
His pistols fell out of the hulsters,
And were a' bedaubed with dirt;
The folks they came round him in clusters,
Some leugh, and cry'd, Lad, was you hurt?
Sing farrel, &c.
And aff scour'd the cout like the win':
Poor Wattie he fell in the causie,
And birs'd a' the bains in his skin,
His pistols fell out of the hulsters,
And were a' bedaubed with dirt;
The folks they came round him in clusters,
Some leugh, and cry'd, Lad, was you hurt?
Sing farrel, &c.
But cout wad let nae body steer him,
He was ay sae wanton and skeigh;
The packmans stands he o'erturn'd them,
And gard a' the Jocks stand a-beech;
Wi' sniring behind and before him,
For sic is the metal of brutes:
Poor Wattie, and wae's me for him,
Was fain to gang hame in his boots.
Sing farrel, &c.
He was ay sae wanton and skeigh;
The packmans stands he o'erturn'd them,
And gard a' the Jocks stand a-beech;
Wi' sniring behind and before him,
For sic is the metal of brutes:
Poor Wattie, and wae's me for him,
Was fain to gang hame in his boots.
Sing farrel, &c.
95
Now it was late in the ev'ning,
And boughting-time was drawing near:
The lassies had stench'd their greening
With fouth of braw apples and beer.
There was Lillie, and Tibbie, and Sibbie,
And Ceicy on the spinnell could spin,
Stood glowring at signs & glass winnocks,
But deil a ane bade them come in.
Sing farrel, &c.
And boughting-time was drawing near:
The lassies had stench'd their greening
With fouth of braw apples and beer.
There was Lillie, and Tibbie, and Sibbie,
And Ceicy on the spinnell could spin,
Stood glowring at signs & glass winnocks,
But deil a ane bade them come in.
Sing farrel, &c.
God guide's! saw you ever the like o' it?
See yonder's a bonny black swan;
It glowrs as 't wad fain be at us;
What's yon that it hads in its hand?
Awa, daft gouk, cries Wattie.
They're a' but a rickle of sticks;
See there is Bill, Jock, and auld Hackie,
And yonder's Mess John and auld Nick.
Sing farrel, &c.
See yonder's a bonny black swan;
It glowrs as 't wad fain be at us;
What's yon that it hads in its hand?
Awa, daft gouk, cries Wattie.
They're a' but a rickle of sticks;
See there is Bill, Jock, and auld Hackie,
And yonder's Mess John and auld Nick.
Sing farrel, &c.
Quoth Maggie, Come buy us our fairing:
And Wattie right sleely cou'd tell,
I think thou're the flower of the claughing,
In trouth now I'se gie you my sell,
But wha wou'd e'er thought it o' him,
That e'er he had rippled the lint?
Sae proud was he o' his Maggie,
Tho' she did baith scalie and squint.
Sing farrel, &c.
And Wattie right sleely cou'd tell,
I think thou're the flower of the claughing,
In trouth now I'se gie you my sell,
But wha wou'd e'er thought it o' him,
That e'er he had rippled the lint?
Sae proud was he o' his Maggie,
Tho' she did baith scalie and squint.
Sing farrel, &c.
| The Poems of Robert Fergusson | |