O WHA’LL mow me now, my jo,
An’ wha ‘ll mow me now:
A sodger wi’ his bandoleers
Has bang’d my belly fu’.

O, I hae tint my rosy cheek,
Likewise my waste sa sma’;
O wae gae by the sodger lown,
The sodger did it a’.
An’ wha ‘ll, &c.

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.
An’ wha ‘ll, &c.

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.
An’ wha ‘ll, &c.

A dame can lae her ain gudeman,
An’ mow for glutton greed;
An’ yet misca’s a poor thing
That ‘s mowin’ for its bread.
An’ wha ‘ll, &c.

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.
An’ wha ‘ll, &c.

But deevil damn the lousy loun,
Denies the bairn he got!
Or lea’s the merry arse he lo’ed
To wear a ragged coat!
An’ wha ‘ll, &c.