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 eer 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 oer my pow.
The weary pund, &c.
At last her feetI sang to seet!
Gaed foremost oer the knowe,
And or I wad anither jad,
Ill wallop in a tow.
The weary pund, &c.
