A DIALOGUE
Between Ald John M'clatchy,
and Young Willie Ha, about
the Marriage of his Daughter
Maggy M'clatchy.
To an Excellent New Tune.
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THE Meal was dear short shine,
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When they were Married together;
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Ann Maggy she was in her prime,
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When Willy made Courtship till her.
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Twa Pistols Charg'd be-guess,
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To give the Courtier a Shot,
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Ann sine came ben the Lass,
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Wee Swats drawn frae the Butt:
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He first spears at the Good-man,
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Ann sine at Jean her Mither,
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Gin ye'll gi'e us a bit Land,
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We'll Buckle our selves together.
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Old Man.
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My Daughter ye shall ha'e
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I'll gi'e ye her be the Hann,
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But wee my Wife I man quat
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Gin I quat we my Lann;
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But your Tocher shall be good,
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I'll ne'er gang nen the meek,
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The Lass bin in her Snood,
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And Cromy that kens the Stake;
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Wee an ald Bedding o' Clea's,
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Was left me by my Mither,
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They're geet-black o're wee fleas
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You may H-dle in them together.
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Young-Man.
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A Bargain it shall be,
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But ye man mend your Hann,
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Ann think on Modestie;
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Gin ye'll no' quat wee your Lann,
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We are but young ye ken,
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Ann now we're gaen together,
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A House is But and Ben,
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Ann Cromie she wants her Fadder;
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The Bairns are coming on,
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Ann they'll cry on there Mither,
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We ha'e neither Pot nor Pan,
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But four bair Legs together.
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Old Man.
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Thou shall ha'e Tocher aneugh,
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Ann that thou need not fear,
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Twa good stilts to the Pleugh,
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Ann thou thy self man stear;
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Thou'st ha'e twa good ald pocks,
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That was enst made of the Tweel,
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The teen to had the Groats,
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The tither to had the Meal:
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Wee an ald Kist made o' wans
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I'll give thee to thy Coffer,
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Wee eiken woddie bans,
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And that may had your Tocher.
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Young-Man.
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Consider now Good-man,
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I ha'e but barrow'd geer,
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The Beast that I Ride on,
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Is Sanny Wilson's Meer;
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But as soon as I gan heem,
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I'll take me to my Cutts,
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The Saddle is nean of my ain,
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Ann these are barraw'd Boots,
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The Clock is Geordie Wat's,
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That gars me look so Cruss,
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Fy fill us a Cog o'Swats
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We'll mak ne mare toomrouss.
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Old-Man.
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Thou art an onest Lad,
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For telling me so plain,
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I Married when little I had,
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Of Gear that was my ain;
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Good-sooth if it be se,
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The Bride she man come forth,
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Tho' a the gear she has,
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It is but little worth;
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A Briddle it shall be,
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Se spear at Jean her Mither,
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Content am I, quoth she,
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Fy gar the Lass come hither;
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The Bride lap in to the Bed,
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Ann the Bridgroom ged till her
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The Fidler crap in to the mids
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Ann they H-dled altogether.
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