Had my daddie left me gear enough,
Whene'er I'd gane to kirk or fair,
Ilk mither had held out her loof,
And led me to her son and heir.
Now, gin a canker'd minny comes
And sees her dawty set by me,
She looks as sour as Gala's plumbs,
And wonders what the fool can see.

Hout! man, come here, ye're surely blind,
Do ye no see Miss Fowler there?
A bonnier lass ye canna find;
I wat there's nae sic dancer here.
Troth! some folk might hae staid away,
And nae ane wad hae mist them yet,
For fient a chiel I've seen the day
Has spear'd gin she can dance a fit.

Then honest Jock loupt on the floor,
And cried--We'll a' be canty yet!
And if some grudging souls be here,
O may they never dance a fit!
And let them ken, if goud's their pride,
It's no won gear that's counted yet,
They're here wad take a poundless bride!--
Rise up, my lass, let's dance a fit.