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Cry'd, ' here's my beast, lad had the grup,
"Or tiw him to a tree:
'What’s goud to me, I’ve wealthh o’ lan’
‘ Bestow on ane o' worth your han’
He thought to pay what he was awn,
Wi Jenny’s Bawbee.
A Lawyer neist wi’ blatherin gab,
Wi’ speeches wove like ony web;
In ilk anes corn he took a dab,
And a’ for a fee;
Accounts he owed through a’ the town,
And tradesmen’s tongues nae mair could drown;
But now he thought to clout his gown,
Wi’ Jenny’s Bawbee.
Quite spruce, just frae the washing tubs,
A fool came neist, but life has rubs,
Foul were the roads, and fu' the dubs,
And fair besmear’d was he;
He danc’d up squinting thro’ a glass,
And grinn’d, ‘ I faith a bonny lass;"
He thought to win wi’ front o’ brass.
Jenny’s Bawbee.
