Hallow Fair

There's mony braw Jockies and Jennys
  Comes weel buskit into the fair,
With ribbons on their cockernonies,
  And fouth o' braw flour on their hair.
Maggie sae brawly was buskit,
  That Willie was tied to his bride;
The pownie was ne'er better whiskit
  Wi' a cudgel that hung by his side.
     Sing fal de ral, la de.

But Willie the muirland laddie,
   Was mounted upon a gray cout,
Wi' his sword by his side like a caddie,
   To ca' in the sheep and the nowt.
Sae nicely his doublets did fit him,
   They scarcely came down to mid-thie,
Wi' weel-powder'd, hair, hat, and feather,
   Wi' houzen, curple and tie.
     Sing fal de ral, la de.

But Maggie grew wondrous jealous
   To see Willie buskit sae braw;
And Wattie he sat i' the alehouse,
   And hard at the bicker did ca'.
Sae nicely as Maggie sat by him,
   He took the pint-stoup in his arms,
Quo' he, "I think they're right saucy,
   That lo'es nae good father's bairns."

But now it grew late in the e'ening,
   And buchting time was drawing near:
The lasses had stanch'd a' their greening
   Wi' fouth of braw apples and pears.
There's Tibbie, and Sibbie, and Lily,
   Wha weel on the spindle an spin,
Stood glow'ring at signs and glass winnocks,
   But fient a ane bade them come in.

Gosh guide's! did ye e'er see the like o't?
   See, yonder's a bonnie black swan;
It looks as it fain wad be at us;
   What's yon that it it hads in its han'?
"Awa', daft gowk!", quo' Wattie,
   "It's nane but a rickle of sticks;
See, there's the deil and Bell Hawkie,
   And yonder's Mess James and auld Nick.

But Bruckie play'd "Boo!" to Bawsie,
   And aff gaed the cowt like the win';
Puir Willie, he fell in the causey,
   And bruized a the banes in his skin.
His pistols fell out o' the hulsters,
   And were a' bedaubit wi' dirt;
The folks ran about him in clusters,
   Some leugh, and said, "Lad, are ye hurt?"

The cowt wad let naebody near him -
   He was aye sae wanton and skeigh;
The pedlar stan's he lap ower them,
   And gart a' the folk stan' abeigh;
Wi' a' sneering behin' and before him,
   For sic is the mettle o' brutes:
Puir Wattie, and wae's me for him,
   Was forced to gang hame in his boots.

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Copyright © 2001, Jack Campin