3 Our Meg ſhe had ſome clouts to waſh, an made an unco steer man, The ſaip its naething new bat traſh, an grown fae waefu dear man; Sic dirten times was never ſeen, ſays I, I was ſo vext man, We canna get our hippens clean, without them bein tax'd man! I hae a wee bit cantie bag, I bought to eaſe my fel man, But now the taid begins to fag, he kicks an cocks his tail man. O weary fa their taxes a, coud onie thing be worſe man, Whan we are loaded like to fa, then they maun load the horſe man! In mornnins whan I raiſe wi ſpeed, to work and thraſh my ſtail man, my meg brought out a cake o bread, beſides a cog o ale man. But now its grown ſo vicious ſma, wi that miſehieveus fax man, Its guid for naething maiſt zva, bat rottin o' my guts man!
