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.