Maggie's Tocher

The meal was dear short syne,

We buckled us a' thegither;

And Maggie was in her prime,

When Willie made courtship till her.

Twa pistols charg'd by guess,

To gi'e the courting shot;

And syne came ben the lass,

Wi' swats drawn frae the butt.

He first speir'd at the gudeman,

And syne at Giles the mither,

An' ye wad gie's a bit land,

We'd buckle us e'en thegither.

My dochter ye shall ha'e,

I'll g'ie you her by the hand;

But I'll part wi' my wife, by my fae,

Or I part wi' my land.

Your tocher it s'all be good,

There's nane s'all ha'e its maik,

The lass bound in her snood,

And Crummie wha kens her stake:

Wi' an auld bedding o' claes,

Was left me by my mither,

They're jet black o'er wi' flaes,

Ye may cuddle in them thegither.

Ye speak right weel, gudeman,

But ye maun mend your hand,

And think o' modesty,

Gin ye'll no quit your land.

We are but young, ye ken,

And now we're gaun thegither,

A house is but and ben,

And Crummie will want her fother.

The bairns are coming on,

And they'll cry, their mither!

We've neither pat nor pan,

But four bare legs thegither.

Your tocher's be good enough,

For that ye needna fear,

Twa good stilts to the pleugh,

And ye yoursel' maun steer:

Ye s'all ha'e twa guid pocks

That anes were o' the tweel,

The tane to haud the groats,

The tither to haud the meal:

Wi' an auld kist made o' wands,

And that s'all be your coffer,

Wi' aiken woody bands,

And that may haud your tocher.

Consider weel, gudeman,

We ha'e but barrow'd gear,

The horse that I ride on

Is Sandy Wilson's mare;

The saddle's nane o' my ain,

And thae's but borrow'd boots,

And whan that I gae hame,

I maun tak' to my coots;

The cloak is Geordy Watt's,

That gars me look sae crouse;

Come, fill us a cogue o' swats,

We'll mak' nae mair toom roose.

I like you weel, young lad,

For telling me sae plain,

I married whan little I had

O' gear that was my ain.

But sin' that things are sae,

The bride she maun come forth,

Tho' a' the gear she'll ha'e

'Twill be but little worth.

A bargain it maun be,

Fye cry on Giles the mither;

Content am I, quo' she,

E'en gar the hizzie come hither.

The bride she gaed to her bed,

The bridegroom he came till her,

The fiddler crap in at the fit,

And they cuddl'd it a' thegither.