The weary Pund o' Tow

The weary pund, the weary pund,The weary pund o' tow;I think my wife will end her lifeBefore she spin her tow.I bought my wife a stane o' lintAs gude as e'er did grow;And a' that she has made o' that,Is ae poor pund o' tow.

There sat a bottle in a bole,Beyond the ingle low,And ay she took the tither soukTo drouk the stowrie tow.Quoth I, For shame, ye dirty dame,Gae spin your tap o' tow!She took the rock, and wi' a knockShe brake it o'er my pow.

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, the weary pund,The weary pund o' tow;I think my wife will end her lifeBefore she spin her tow.