And Hugh the town-writer, I'm thinking, That trades in his lawerly skill, Will egg on the fighting and drinking To bring after-grist to his mill; And Maggy--na, na! we'll be civil, And let the wee bridie a-be; A vilipend tongue is the devil, And ne'er was encouraged by me. Then fy, let us a' to the wedding, For they will be lilting there Frae mony a far-distant ha'ding, The fun and the feasting to share. For they will get sheep's head, and haggis, And browst o' the barley-mow; E'en he that comes latest, and lag is, May feast upon dainties enow. Veal florentines in the o'en baken, Weel plenish'd wi' raisins and fat; Beef, mutton, and chuckies, a' taken Het reeking frae spit and frae pat: And glasses (I trow 'tis na' said ill), To drink the young couple good luck, Weel fill'd wi' a braw beechen ladle Frae punch-bowl as big as Dumbuck. And then will come dancing and daffing, And reelin' and crossin' o' hans, Till even auld Lucky is laughing, As back by the aumry she stans. Sic bobbing and flinging and whirling, While fiddlers are making their din; And pipers are droning and skirling As loud as the roar o' the lin. Then fy, let us a' to the wedding, For they will be lilting there, For Jock's to be married to Maggy, The lass wi' the gowden hair. THE WEARY PUND O' TOW A young gudewife is in my house And thrifty means to be, But aye she's runnin' to the town Some ferlie there to see. The weary pund, the weary pund, the weary pund o' tow, I soothly think, ere it be spun, I'll wear a lyart pow. And when she sets her to her wheel To draw her threads wi' care, In comes the chapman wi' his gear, And she can spin nae mair. The weary pund, etc. And she, like ony merry may, At fairs maun still be seen, At kirkyard preachings near the tent, At dances on the green. The weary pund, etc. Her dainty ear a fiddle charms, A bagpipe's her delight, But for the crooning o' her wheel She disna care a mite. The weary pund, etc. You spake, my Kate, of snaw-white webs, Made o' your linkum twine, But, ah! I fear our bonny burn Will ne'er lave web o' thine. The weary pund, etc. Nay, smile again, my winsome mate; Sic jeering means nae ill; Should I gae sarkless to my grave, I'll lo'e and bless thee still. The weary pund, etc. FROM 'DE MONTFORT': A TRAGEDY ACT V--SCENE III