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The Hawking Wench, or Gowf my Logie.
Of modest maids in single weeds, I've nothing for to say man.But ’gainst the game of hawking wench, I'll tell you and you’ll stay man.Chor. And ye bulk sae bra' lassie,and ye busk sae bra',The lads will crack your maidenhead,and that's against the law.
I view them aft come to the church, with meal upon their hair man;Whom I have seen in former times, with back and buttocks bare man: O do not look so high lassie,O do not look so high, You'll mind your mither was but poor,though now you drink your tea.
Those dirty maids come to the church, holding their mouths so mim man.Like riddle-rims their tails go round, fine coats stript in the loom man. O vow but ye be vogie lassie, O vow but ye be vogie, Ye’re proud to wear that whorelike coat, its name is Gowf my Logie.
I laugh to see them come to fairs, with whalebone stays it's queer man,So foolishly they are primpt up, like sunks upon a mare man.