Page:Little taylor's wedding.pdf/4

 We have ſuch a merry bridegroom, He's muſic enough I declare. And then they went into the dinner, It was a braw table indeed, The bride got a ram's rumple to pick, And tilt like a dog wi' her head: The bridegroom he ſat on a creepie, For he had no higher ſeat, And by him the prieſt of the pariſh, As chaplain for grace of the meat, And O, as they rugget and tugget, And ſwallow'd baith grit bita and bance, The fiddler got nane o' their kail, And happy was he for their pains. Will Miller was cook of the kettle, And he put a doſe in the kail, Which made a' their bellies to rumble, And ran to the midden for bail. The prieſt we ought not to mention, But the bunneuch began wi' Meſs John, Who ran to the midden for mercy, And leſt them to ſay grace alone: And O, ſuch a pumping and boeking, Like men going maſons to fer', With mortar well mix'd in their breeches, Enough for to poiſon the air. The men ran a' to the midden, And the women ran into the byre, And there made their cannons to rattle, As it had been a running fire. Will Miller the cook be took leg Down o'er the bank an' awa, And ſic a foul hurl at a wedding, He ſwore the like he ne'er ſaw,