Jenny Macraw was a bird o' the game, An' mony a shot had been lows'd at her wame; Be't a lang bearing arrow, or the sharp-rattlin' hail, Still, whirr! She flew off wi' the shot in her tail. Jenny Macraw to the mountains she's gaen, Their leagues and their covenants a' she has taen; My head now, and heart now, quo' she, are at rest, An' for my poor cunt, let the deil do his best. Jenny Macraw on a midsummer morn, She cut off her cunt and she hang't on a thorn; There she loot it hing for a year and a day, But, oh! how look'd her arse when her cunt was away.