And is it you, and are you come?Sit down, sit down in bye;Get up and pierce the bowie, Kate,This night we'll drink it dry.
Bid in the neebors, young and auld,As fast as ye can ringe,And mak a tanal on the loan,O' a' the biggest binge.
Gie me your han', my winsome frear,Hech, sirs, I sadly trow--Foy, ripe the ribs frae lug to lug,And pack the chumla fu'.
Where has the glaikit Laithron flown?Fling on her rock an' wheel;To hae this night sae bleert a spunk,Gude spin her to the deil!
Come, tell's the ferlies ye have seen;Och, but you're croint an' wan,--But here comes Meg, the miller's wife,And that's auld aunty Anne.
Jock Aikin too, as douce as aye,He's now a muslin weaver;Poor lad! his bread has sairly fail't,And there's Rab Dock the shaver.
Come Saunders Clerk, what gars ye scog?Ye need tak no such fleetchings--His dochter Bess, a sonsy lass,Has dwin't since Anoch preachings.
Ye'll mind auld Watty Walkinshaw--And that's Tam Eccles' sin--This is an oe o'Effie Grant's,They ca' her Jean M'Lean.
Come ben, Will Ker--ye see he's grownA sturdy buirdly chiel;He married Bell M'Kay in hairst,And's doing unco weel.
Here's Mr Duff the elder, too,Sam Tod, and Mall Strathern--Hugh Nicholson a strapping lad,That ye left but a bairn.
And there's the Dominie, wi's blackGamashins o'er his shoone;His hoze are aye outo'er his breeks,His cookit hat's no dune.
Be wi' us a', the worthy saint!We'll seat him neest yoursell,--The very minister is come,Altho' the night be snell.
Ay, that's the gree, my canty Kate,To fetch blin' fiddler Tam;Cock up the bodie in the nook,And help about the dram.
The weest wean the Clachan ownsShall keep the night in fame,When he that was so far awa'Returned to bide at hame.
