Wha'll Mow Me Now
O Wha'll mow me now, my jo, An' wha'll mow me now: A sodger wi' his bandileers Has bang'd my belly fu'. O' I hae tint my rosy cheek, Likewise my waste sae sma'; O wae gae by the sodger lown, The sodger did it a'. Now I maun thole the scornfu' sneer O' mony a' saucy quine; When, curse upon her godly face! Her cunt's as merry's mine. Our dame hauds up her wanton tail As due as she gaes lie; An' yet misca's a young thing, The trade if she but try. Our dame can lae her ain gudeman, An' mow for glutton greed; An' yet misca's a poor thing That's mown' for its bread. Alake! sae sweet a tree as love, Sic bitter fruit should bear! Alake, that e'er a merry arse, Should draw a sa'tty tear. But deevil damn the lousy loun, Denies the bairn he got! Or lea's the merry arse he loe'd To wear a ragged coat! O Wha'll mow me now, my jo, An' wha'll mow me now: A sodger wi' his bandileers Has bang'd my belly fu'.