Jenny Macraw was a bird o' the game,
An' mony a shot had been lows'd at her wame;
Be't a lang bearing arrow, or the sharp-rattlin' hail,
Still, whirr! she flew off wi' the shot in her tail.
Jenny Macraw to the mountains she's gane,
Their leagues and their covenants a' she has ta'en;
"My head now, and heart now," quo she, "are at rest,
An' for my poor c—t, let the deil do his best."
Jenny Macraw on a midsummer morn,
She cut off her c—t and she hung't on a thorn;
There she loot it hing for a year and a day,
But oh! how looked her a—e when her c—t was away?