LAIRD
I'll hae my coat o' gude snuff brown,
My pouther'd wig to cou'r my crown,
I'll deck me, Meg, and busk me fine,
I'm ga'n to court a tocher'd quean.
 
MEG
Your hosens, Laird, are baith to darn,
Your best sark's bleachin', (that's but harn),
Your coat's a' stour, your wig's to kame,
Troth, Laird, ye better bide at hame.
 
LAIRD
And Punch will carry Jock, the lad,
I'll ride mysel' the lang tail'd yad,
Wi' pistols at my saddle-tree,
Well mounted, as a Laird should be.
 
MEG
There's peats to cast, the hay's to cuile,
The yad's run owr the muir a mile,
The saddle's stoun, and Punch is lame;
'Deed, Laird, ye better bide at hame.
Think, Laird, a wee, and look about,
Your gear's a' thrivin', in and out --
I'm wae to see you courting dule,
Wha kens but this same quean's a fool.
 
LAIRD
Aye, ay, your drift's no ill to tell,
Ye fain wad hae me, Meg, yoursel';
But, sure as Blutterbog's my name,
I'll court the lass, and bring her hame.