The Book of Scottish Song/The Spinnin' o't
The Spinnin' o’t.
[Alex. Ross.]
There was an auld wife had a wee pickle tow,
And she wad gae try the spinnin' o't;
She louted her doun, and her rock took a-low,
And that was a bad beginnin' o't.
She sat and she grat, and she flat and she flang,
And she threw and she blew, and she Wriggled and wrang,
And she chokit and boakit, and cried like to mang,
Alas, for the dreary beginnin' o't!
I've wanted a sark for these aught years and ten,
And this was to be the beginnin' o't;
But I vow I shall want it for as lang again,
Or ever I try the spinnin' o't.
For never since ever they ca'd as they ca' me,
Did sic a mishap and mischanter befa' me;
But ye shall ha'e leave baith to hang and to draw me,
The neist time I try the spinnin' o't.
I ha'e keep it my house now these threescore years,
And aye I kept frae the spinnin' o't;
But how I was sark it, foul fa' them that speirs,
For it minds me upo' the beginnin' o't.
But our women are now-a-days a' grown sae braw,
That ilk ane maun ha'e a sark, and some ha'e twa—
The warlds were better where ne'er ane ava
Had a rag, but ane at the beginnin' o't.
In the days they ca' yore, gin auld fouks had but won
To a surcoat, hough-syde, for the winnin o't.
Of coat-raips weel cut by the cast o' their bum,
They never socht mair o' the spinnin' o't.
A pair o' grey hoggers weil cluikit benew,
Of nae other lit but the hue of the ewe,
With a pair o' rough mullions to scuff through the dew,
Was the fee they socht at the beginnin' o't.
But we maun ha'e linen, and that maun ha'e we,
And how get we that but by spinnin' o't?
How can we ha'e face for to seek a great fee,
Except we can help at the winnin' o't?
And we maun ha'e pearlins, and mabbies, and cocks,
And some other things that the ladies ca' smocks;
And how get we that, gin we tak' na our rocks,
And pow what we can at the spinnin' o't?
'Tis needless for us to mak' our remarks,
Frae our mither's miscookin' the spinnin' o't,
She never kenn'd ocht o' the gueed o' the sarks,
Frae this aback to the beginnin' o't.
Twa-three ell o' plaiden was a' that was socht
By our auld-warld bodies, and that bude be bought;
For in ilka town siccan things wasna wrocht-
Sae little they kenn'd o' the spinnin' o't!