C ARY B RUNSWICK o' the Guelph
There's ower mony swearing at her;
Cary Brunswick o' the Guelph,
There's ower mony swearing at her;
Swearing at her, spying at her,
Lying at her, what's the matter?
Merry elf! It's for the pelf,
That a' the louts are swearing at her.

Scores come east, and scores come south,
A' came rowing o'er the water,
A', puir sauls! to speak the truth;
So three and forty's swearing at her,
Swearing at her, trothing at her,
Oathing, loathing, cloathing at her;
Filthy brutes! it's for new boots,
That a' the rogues are swearing at her.

Fie upon the filthy louns!
There's ower mony swearing at her;
Fifteen came frae German towns;
There's eight and fifty swearing at her;
Swearing at her, mumbling at her,
Tumbling at her, canna hit her;
Tawdry louns! its for new gowns,
The hizzies a' are swearing at her.

Be a lassie ne'er sae kind,
Gin a King but frown upon her,
She might live till ninety-nine,
E'er a courtier wad smile on her;
Swearing at her, getting fatter,
Turning from her, crying " Damn her!"
Church and King! a pretty thing,
Wi' sic an anti-christian clatter!

Be a lassie ne'er sae foul,
Gie her but the name o' Regent,
And were her throne a cutty-stool,
E'en Church wad be her maist obedient;
Booing at her, wooing at her,
Praying, Yea-ing, Nay-ing at her,
Were she fatter than King Batter,
They wad a' be dressing at her.
C ARY B RUNSWICK o' the Guelph
There's ower mony swearing at her;
Cary Brunswick o' the Guelph,
There's ower mony swearing at her;
Swearing at her, spying at her,
Lying at her, what's the matter?
Merry elf! It's for the pelf,
That a' the louts are swearing at her.

Scores come east, and scores come south,
A' came rowing o'er the water,
A', puir sauls! to speak the truth;
So three and forty's swearing at her,
Swearing at her, trothing at her,
Oathing, loathing, cloathing at her;
Filthy brutes! it's for new boots,
That a' the rogues are swearing at her.

Fie upon the filthy louns!
There's ower mony swearing at her;
Fifteen came frae German towns;
There's eight and fifty swearing at her;
Swearing at her, mumbling at her,
Tumbling at her, canna hit her;
Tawdry louns! its for new gowns,
The hizzies a' are swearing at her.

Be a lassie ne'er sae kind,
Gin a King but frown upon her,
She might live till ninety-nine,
E'er a courtier wad smile on her;
Swearing at her, getting fatter,
Turning from her, crying " Damn her!"
Church and King! a pretty thing,
Wi' sic an anti-christian clatter!

Be a lassie ne'er sae foul,
Gie her but the name o' Regent,
And were her throne a cutty-stool,
E'en Church wad be her maist obedient;
Booing at her, wooing at her,
Praying, Yea-ing, Nay-ing at her,
Were she fatter than King Batter,
They wad a' be dressing at her.