The Weary Pund O’ Tow
Chorus.—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 bought my wife a stane o’ lint,As gude as e’er did grow,And a’ that she has made o’ thatIs ae puir pund o’ tow.The weary pund, &c.
There sat a bottle in a bole,Beyont the ingle low;And aye she took the tither souk,To drouk the stourie tow.The weary pund, &c.
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.The weary pund, &c.
At last her feet—I sang to see’t!Gaed foremost o’er the knowe,And or I wad anither jad,I’ll wallop in a tow.The weary pund, &c.