O the days when I strutted (to think o't I'm sad)
⁠The heir to a cosy bit mailen,
When sly Widow Skinner gat round me, the jaud!
For she thocht my auld daddy was failin', was failin',
⁠For she thocht my auld daddy was faillin'.

I promised to tak' her for better for worse,
⁠Though sma' was my chance to be happy,
For I found she had courted na me but my purse,
What's waur—that she liket a drappy, a drappy,
⁠What's waur that she liket a drappy.

Then ae nicht at a kirn I saw Maggy Hay,
⁠To see her was strait to adore her;
The Widow look'd blue when I pass'd her neist day,
An' waited na e'en to speer for her, speer for her,
⁠An' waited na e'en to speer for her.

O pity my case, I was terribly raw,
⁠And she was a terrible Tartar;
She spak about "measures" and "takin' the law,"
And I set mysel' down for a martyr, a martyr,
⁠And I set mysel' down for a martyr.

Weel! I buckled wi' Meg, an' the blythe honeymoon
⁠Scarce was owre when the Widow, I met her,
She girningly whisper'd, "Hech! weel ha'e ye dune,
But tent me lad I can do better, do better,
⁠But tent me lad I can do better:—

'Gin ye canna get berries put up wi' the hools,
⁠Her proverb I countit a blether,
But,—widows for ever for hookin' auld fules,—
Neist week she was cryed wi' my feyther, my feyther!
⁠Neist week she was cryed wi' my feyther!