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Crying, O! what will come o' me,And, O! what will I do then,My mither has naething to gi'e me,And my maidenhead's out in a lend.Will Downie the weaver came to me,He wanted a lend of the same,But I said he should not have it,Till once he had made me his ain:Alas, that he has been thrice burnt,It's time now her buttocks to claw,She'll surely be war of the fourth,If she mind any fortune at a'.Now the tailor bobb'd round i' the ring,But, O! he was short in the shanks,And as he came kissing the maids,His mouth scarce came to their flanks,Some was right lowerdly looting,And so was lang Meg of the moss,She set up her bum to the wa',And stretch'd out her neck like a goose,Crying, O, what will come o' me,And, O, what will do then,If I bow so low to a tailor,For I'm sure I m no kist by a man.But the tailor let glaum at her pussy,And made her to squeak like a cat,And as she bow'd down to defend him,He kist her, she flaug and she flet;And O as he cracket and smacket,And hang by his paws at her neck,Till a' in the ring fell a-laughing:The fiddler the spring he did stick,Crying, O, what what will come o' meFor I can play up nae mair,
