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Poem	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.
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