8
The Kirk then pardons no such prots,
They must tell down good five pounds Scots,
Tho’ they should pledge their petticoats,
And gae arse bare;
The least price there is twenty groats,
And prigging sair.
If then the lad does not her wed,
Poor Meg some feigned tears maun shed,
Her minny crooks her mou’ and dad,
They fart and fling:
“O wow that ere I made the bed,”
Then does she sing.
Thus for her Maidenhead she moans,
Bewailing what is past;
Her pitcher’s dash’d against the stones,
And broken at the last.
———
PART II.
A’ maids, therefore, I do bemoan,
Betwixt the rivers Dee and Don,
If anes they get a lick o’ yon,
Tho’ by the laird,
The toy-mutch maun then gae on,
Nae mair bare-hair’d.
Yet wanton Venus, that she bitch,
Does a’ our senses sae bewitch,
An’ fires our blood wi’ sic an itch,
That aftentimes,
There is nae help but to commit
Some ill-far’d crimes.
