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Twa or three todlin weans they hae,
The pride o’ a’ Strabogie;
Whene‘er the tottums cry for meat,
She curses ay his cogie.
Crying, wae betide the three gird cog,
Oh wae betide the cogie;
It does mair skaith than a’ the ills
That happen in Strabogie.
She fand him ance at Willie Sharp's,
And what they maist did laugh at,
She brak the bicker, spilt the drink.
And tightly gouff’d his haffet.
Crying, wae betide, &c.
Yet here's to ilka honest soul,
Wha‘ll drink wi‘ me a cogie;
And for ilk silly whinging fool,
We'll duck him in a bogie.
For I maun hae my three-gird cog,
I canna want my cogie;
I wadna gie my three-gird cog
For a‘ the wives in Bogie.
DEAR TOM.
Dear Tom, this brown jug, that now
foams with mild ale,
