The weary pund, the weary pund,|
The weary pund o' tow,
I think my wife will end her life
Before she spin her tow.
I baught my wife a stane o' lint,
As good as e'er did grow;
And a' that she hae made o' that,
Is ae poor pund o' tow.
There sat a bottle in a bole,|
Beyond the ingle low;
And aye she took the tither souk,
To drouk the stourie tow.
Quoth I: "For shame, ye dirty dame,
Gae spin your tap o' tow."
She took the rock and wi' a knock
She brak it o'er my pow.
At last her feet, I sang to see't,|
Gaed foremost o'er the knowe;
And or I wad another jad,
I'll wallop in a tow.
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