C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Fy, Let us A’ to the Wedding

By Joanna Baillie (1762–1851)

FY, let us a’ to the wedding,

For they will be lilting there;

For Jock’s to be married to Maggy,

The lass wi’ the gowden hair.

And there will be jibing and jeering,

And glancing of bonny dark een,

Loud laughing and smooth-gabbit speering

O’ questions baith pawky and keen.

And there will be Bessy the beauty,

Wha raises her cockup sae hie,

And giggles at preachings and duty,—

Guid grant that she gang na’ ajee!

And there will be auld Geordie Taunner,

Wha coft a young wife wi’ his gowd;

She’ll flaunt wi’ a silk gown upon her,

But wow! he looks dowie and cow’d.

And brown Tibbey Fouler the Heiress

Will perk at the tap o’ the ha’,

Encircled wi’ suitors, wha’s care is

To catch up her gloves when they fa’,—

Repeat a’ her jokes as they’re cleckit,

And haver and glower in her face,

When tocherless mays are negleckit,—

A crying and scandalous case.

And Mysie, wha’s clavering aunty

Wud match her wi’ Laurie the Laird,

And learns the young fule to be vaunty,

But neither to spin nor to caird.

And Andrew, wha’s granny is yearning

To see him a clerical blade,

Was sent to the college for learning,

And cam’ back a coof as he gaed.

And there will be auld Widow Martin,

That ca’s hersel thritty and twa!

And thraw-gabbit Madge, wha for certain

Was jilted by Hab o’ the Shaw.

And Elspy the sewster sae genty,

A pattern of havens and sense.

Will straik on her mittens sae dainty,

And crack wi’ Mess John i’ the spence.

And Angus, the seer o’ ferlies,

That sits on the stane at his door,

And tells about bogles, and mair lies

Than tongue ever utter’d before.

And there will be Bauldy the boaster

Sae ready wi’ hands and wi’ tongue;

Proud Paty and silly Sam Foster,

Wha quarrel wi’ auld and wi’ young:

And Hugh the town-writer, I’m thinking,

That trades in his lawerly skill,

Will egg on the fighting and drinking

To bring after-grist to his mill;

And Maggy—na, na! we’ll be civil,

And let the wee bridie a-be;

A vilipend tongue is the devil,

And ne’er was encouraged by me.

Then fy, let us a’ to the wedding,

For they will be lilting there

Frae mony a far-distant ha’ding,

The fun and the feasting to share.

For they will get sheep’s head, and haggis,

And browst o’ the barley-mow;

E’en he that comes latest, and lag is,

May feast upon dainties enow.

Veal florentines in the o’en baken,

Weel plenish’d wi’ raisins and fat;

Beef, mutton, and chuckies, a’ taken

Het reeking frae spit and frae pat:

And glasses (I trow ’tis na’ said ill),

To drink the young couple good luck,

Weel fill’d wi’ a braw beechen ladle

Frae punch-bowl as big as Dumbuck.

And then will come dancing and daffing,

And reelin’ and crossin’ o’ hans,

Till even auld Lucky is laughing,

As back by the aumry she stans.

Sic bobbing and flinging and whirling,

While fiddlers are making their din;

And pipers are droning and skirling

As loud as the roar o’ the lin.

Then fy, let us a’ to the wedding,

For they will be lilting there,

For Jock’s to be married to Maggy,

The lass wi’ the gowden hair.

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