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But gin I wad ſhog about till a new ſpring,
I ſhou'd yet hae a bout o’ the ſpinning o t;
A mutchkin o' lintſeed I'd in the yird ſling,
for a’ the wanchancie beginning o’t.
I'll gar my ain Tammie gang down to the howe,
And cut me a rock o’ the witherſhins grow,
O’ gude rantry-tree, for to carry my tow,
And a ſpindle o’the ſame for the twining o’t.
For now, when I mind me, I met Maggy Grim,
that morning, juſt at the beginning o’t;
ſhe was ne’er ca'd chancy, but unlucky and ſlim,
and fae it has far’d o’ my ſpinning o’t.
But gin my new rock were ance cutted and dry,
Ife a’ Maggy’s can and her cantrips defy.
And, but ony ſoothing, the ſpinning I’ll fry,
And yeſe a’ hear o’ the beginning o’t.
Quo’ Tibby her daughter, tak tent what ye ſay,
the never a rag we’ll be ſeeking o’t;
Gin ye ance begin; ye’ll traverſe night and day,
ſae it’s vain ony mair to be ſpeaking o’t.
Since Lammas I’m now gane thirty and twa,
And ne’er a dud ſark had I yet, great or ſma’;
And what war am I ?—I'm as warm and as braw
As thrummy-tail’d Meg, that’s a ſpinner o’t.
To labour lint-land, and then buy the ſeed.
and then to yoke me to the harrowing o’t;
And ſyne hobble amang’t, and pick out ilka weed,
like ſwine in a ſty, at the farrowing o't:
Syne pu'ing, and rippling, and ſteeping, and then
