The meal was dear short syne, 
We buckled us a' thegither;
And Maggie was in her prime, 
When Willie made courtship till her.
Twa pistols charg'd beguess, 
To gie the courting shot,
And syne came ben the lass, 
Wi' swats drawn frae the butt.
He first speer'd at the guidman, 
And syne at Giles, the mither,
An ye wad gi's a bit land, 
We'd buckle us e'en thegither.

Your tocher's be good enough, 
For that ye need na fear,
Twa good stilts to the pleugh, 
And ye yoursell maun steer:
Ye sall ha'e twa good pocks 
That ance were o' the tweel;
The t'ane to had the groats, 
The ither to had the meal;
Wi' an auld kist made o' wands, 
And that sall be your coffer,
Wi' aiken woody bands, 
And that may had your tocher.