I'll tell you a tale of a wife,
And she was a Whig and a saunt.
She lived a most sanctify'd life,
But whiles she was fashed wi' her c—t.
Poor woman, she gaed to the Priest,
And to him she made her complaint,
There's naething that troubles my breast
Sae sair as the sins of my c—t.
He bade her to cheer up her brow,
And no be discourag'd upon't,
For holy good women enow
Are mony times waur'd wi' their c—t.
It's nocht but Beelzebub's art,
And that's the mair sign of a saunt,
He kens that ye' re pure at the heart,
So he levels his dart at your c—t.
O ye that are calléd and free,
Elected and chosen a saunt,
Won't break the eternal decree,
Whatever you do wi' your c—t.
And now wi' a sanctify'd kiss,
Let's kneel and renew the cov'nant.
It's this—and it's this—and it's this,
That settles the pride of your c—t.
Devotion flew up to a flame,
No words can do justice upon't.
The honest auld woman gaed hame,
Rejoicing, and clawing her c—t.