O Jeanie, my woman! whar is't ye are gaun,
Wi' a bairn on yer arm an' ane in yer haun?
There's snaw on the grun, an' nae shoon on yer feet,
And ye speak na a word, but jist murther an' greet.
Yer ae drogget coat is baith scrimpy an' worn,
An' yer aul leloc toush is baith dirty an' torn;
An' roun' yer lean haffits, ance sonsy and fair,
Hings tautit an' tousie yer bonny broun hair.
Yer wee shilpit weanie's a pityfu' prufe
That yer bosom's as dry an' as queem as my lufe;
For the bairn wi' the beard sooks ye sairest alace,
For he draws the red bluid frae yer hert an' yer face.
Waesucks for ye, Jeanie! I kent ye fu' weel
When a lass; ye war couthie, an' cantie', an' leal:
Wi' cheeks like the roses, yer bonnie blue ee,
Aye glancin' an' dancin' wi' daffin an' glee.
They tauld ye that Davie was keen o' the drink,
That siller ne'er baid in his pouches a blink;
An' a' he got claut o' he waret on the dram,
An' ae pay ne'er sert till anither ane cam.
But ye wadna be warnt, sae yer wierd ye maun dree,
Tho' aften ye raither wad lie doun an' dee;
For o' puir drucken Davie ye've nae houp ava,
Sae yer greetin', an' toilin', an' fechtin' awa.