When Eighty-five was seven months auld,
And wearing thro' the aught,
When rotting rains and Boreas bauld
Gied farmer-folks a faught;
Ae morning quondam Mason Will,
Now Merchant Master Miller,
Gaed down to meet wi' Nansie Bell
And her Jamaica siller,
To wed, that day.------
The rising sun o'er Blacksideen
Was just appearing fairly,
When Nell and Bess get up to dress
Seven lang half-hours o'er early!
Now presses clink and drawers jink,
For linnens and for laces;
But modest Muses only think
What ladies' under dress is,
On sic a day.---
But we'll suppose the stays are lac'd,
And bonie bosom steekit;
Tho', thro' the lawn----but guess the rest----
An Angel scarce durst keekit:
Then stockins fine, o' silken twine,
Wi' cannie care are drawn up;
And gartened tight, whare mortal wight ----
. . . . .
. . . .
But now the gown wi' rustling sound,
Its silken pomp displays;
Sure there 's no sin in being vain
O' siccan bony claes!
Sae jimp the waist, the tail sae vast
Trouth, they were bony Birdies!
O Mither Eve, ye wad been grave
To see their ample hurdies
Sae large that day!!!
Then Sandy wi 's red jacket bra’
Comes, whip-jee-whoa! about,
And in he gets the bony twa
Lord send them safely out!
And auld John Trot wi' sober phiz
As braid and bra's a Bailie,
His shouthers and his Sunday's giz
Wi' powther and wi' ulzie
Weel smear'd that day------