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.