4 I book my pipe an tint my mal, an roun the houſe did reel man, I ſtump about like ane gane wil, and blinter like a fiel man. My Meg ſhe darna taſte the tea, ſhe ſays her wame it taxes, She flabbers at her ain kail bree, an curſes at the taxes. She trails her wallops out an in, an looks ſae wondrous ſweat man, She frees the potage ay ſo thin, an maks them wanto ſaut man: She ſclyces about wi barfit feet, an unto clouted claen man, The leather tax it gars her greet, an braken o her tax man. Altho' my wame were ne'er ſo fair an I were like ſpue man, I coudna get to eaſe my care, a drappy o the blue man. My whiſky pot they gae a coup, an connacht a my bree man, I wiſe my ht war i' their doup, Tho' I ſhould tine my ſhoe man.
