I wish I were single, I wish I were freed;
    I wish I were doited, I wish I were dead;
    Or she in the mouls, to dement me nae mairly. 
      What does it ’vail to cry, Hooly and fairly! 
        Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly;
      Wasting my health to cry, Hooly and fairly.

[31] The style of this song and the chorus are borrowed from “The Drucken Wife o’ Gallowa’,” a song which first appeared in the “Charmer,” a collection of songs, published at Edinburgh in 1751, but the authorship of which is unknown.

THE WEARY PUND O’ TOW.

A young gudewife is in my house,
And thrifty means to be,
But aye she ‘s runnin’ to the town
Some ferlie there to see. 
The weary pund, the weary pund, the weary pund o’ tow,
I soothly think, ere it be spun, I ’ll wear a lyart pow.

And when she sets her to her wheel,
To draw her threads wi’ care,
In comes the chapman wi’ his gear,
And she can spin nae mair. 
The weary pund, &c.

And then like ony merry May,
At fairs maun still be seen,
At kirkyard preachings near the tent,
At dances on the green. 
The weary pund, &c.

Her dainty ear a fiddle charms,
A bagpipe ’s her delight,
But for the crooning o’ her wheel
She disna care a mite. 
The weary pund, &c.

“You spake, my Kate, of snaw-white webs
Made o’ your hinkum twine,
But, ah!  I fear our bonnie burn
Will ne’er lave web o’ thine. 
The weary pund, &c.

“Nay, smile again, my winsome mate,
Sic jeering means nae ill;
Should I gae sarkless to my grave,
I’ll loe and bless thee still.” 
The weary pund, &c.

THE WEE PICKLE TOW.[32]

A lively young lass had a wee pickle tow,
And she thought to try the spinnin’ o’t;
She sat by the fire, and her rock took alow,
And that was an ill beginnin’ o’t. 
Loud and shrill was the cry that she utter’d, I ween;
The sudden mischanter brought tears to her een;
Her face it was fair, but her temper was keen;
O dole for the ill beginnin’ o’t!

    She stamp’d on the floor, and her twa hands she wrung,
      Her bonny sweet mou’ she crookit, O! 
    And fell was the outbreak o’ words frae her tongue;
      Like ane sair demented she lookit, O! 
    “Foul fa’ the inventor o’ rock and o’ reel! 
      I hope, gude forgi’e me! he ‘s now wi’ the d—­l,
    He brought us mair trouble than help, wot I weel;
      O dole for the ill beginnin’ o’t!

    “And now, when they ‘re spinnin’ and kempin’ awa’,
      They ‘ll talk o’ my rock and the burnin’ o’t,
    While Tibbie, and Mysie, and Maggie, and a’,
      Into some silly joke will be turnin’ it: 
    They ’ll say I was doited, they ‘ll say I was fu’;
    They ’ll say I was dowie, and Robin untrue;
    They ’ll say in the fire some luve-powther I threw,
      And that made the ill beginning o’t.