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' that
     Is 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.