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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