C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

The Weary Pund o’ Tow

A YOUNG gudewife is in my house,

And thrifty means to be,

But aye she’s runnin’ to the town

Some ferlie there to see.

The weary pund, the weary pund, the weary pund o’ tow,

I soothly think, ere it be spun, I’ll wear a lyart pow.

And when she sets her to her wheel

To draw her threads wi’ care,

In comes the chapman wi’ his gear,

And she can spin nae mair.
The weary pund, etc.

And she, like ony merry may,

At fairs maun still be seen,

At kirkyard preachings near the tent,

At dances on the green.
The weary pund, etc.

Her dainty ear a fiddle charms,

A bagpipe’s her delight,

But for the crooning o’ her wheel

She disna care a mite.
The weary pund, etc.

You spake, my Kate, of snaw-white webs,

Made o’ your linkum twine,

But, ah! I fear our bonny burn

Will ne’er lave web o’ thine.
The weary pund, etc.

Nay, smile again, my winsome mate;

Sic jeering means nae ill;

Should I gae sarkless to my grave,

I’ll lo’e and bless thee still.
The weary pund, etc.