Classic Poem

Tune — Comin' thro' the rye

O Wha'll m-w me now, my jo,
An' wha'll m-w me now:
A sodger wi' his bandileers
Has bang'd my belly fu'.

O, I hae tint my rosy cheek,
Likewise my waste sae sma';
O wae gae by the sodger lown,
The sodger did it a'.

An' wha'll, &c.
Now I maun thole the scornfu' sneer
O' mony a saucy quine;
When, curse upon her godly face!
Her c — t 's as merry 's mine.

An' wha'll, &c.
Our dame hauds up her wanton tail,
As due as she gaes lie;
An' yet misca's [a] young thing,
The trade if she but try.

An' wha'll, &c.
Our dame can lae her ain gudeman,
An' m-w for glutton greed;
An' yet misca's a poor thing
That 's m — n' for its bread.

An' wha'll, &c.
Alake! sae sweet a tree as love,
Sic bitter fruit should bear!
Alake, that e'er a merry a — e,
Should draw a sa'tty tear.

An' wha'll, &c.
But deevil damn the lousy loun,
Denies the bairn he got!
Or lea's the merry a — e he lo'ed
To wear a ragged coat!
An' wha'll, &c.