This warld o' ours has been lang in a low!
I wonder wha bred the beginning o't?
God send us a rock, and a wee pickle tow!
And let us again to the spinning o't!
Our spinning, God help us! is no ganging right;
Our men they're fighting; our woman tak fright;
We're vap'rig a' day; and we're blind-fou at night:
-But wha yet has heard o' the winning o't?

They crack o' our trade; and they crack o' our walth;
They brag o' our mills that are spinning o't;
But, spite o' our boasting, and spite o' our pelf,
Good faith! I hear few that are winning o't.
Our wabsters are breaking, our looms they stand still!
Our lads doing little but tending the drill!
I doubt if e'en lairds now their pouches can fill
-Oh, hon! for the wearie beginning o't!

They're plenty, nae doubt, who can had their head high,
And ay wad be thought to be winning o't;
We're a' ganging fine; but we ay keep abeigh,
When folk wad keek in at the spinning o't.
Our houses are glittering; our lasses gang bra'!
Our tbles are costly - our pride's warst o' a'!
But gin we gae on, we shall soon get a fa'!
And then we'll hear nought but the tyning o't!

Oh-oh! for the time when we sat at our weel,
And ilka ane sang to the spinning o't!
A canty fire-side, and a cap o' good ale,
Gaed ay sweetly down wi' the winning o't!
We're strutting! - we're blawing! morn, e'ening and noon,
We're wishing to see our French friends unco soon!
But gif Bonaparte gangs on as he's done,
We'll neither see end nor beginning o't!

Yet think na, my lads, ye are yet to lye by!
Its ay right to try a beginning o't;
When folk are sair put, they maun e'en 'ride and tie;'
Its better than gi' up the spinning o't:
Then up wi' your muskets, and up wi' your might!
And up wi' youre signals and fires on ilk height!
If ance we get steddy, we yet may get right,
And, ablins, ere lang prie the winning ot'!'