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Jenny Macraw
Jenny Macraw was a bird o' the game,
An' mony a shot had been lows'd at her wame;
Be't a lang bearing arrow, or the sharp-rattlin' hail,
Still, whirr! She flew off wi' the shot in her tail.
Jenny Macraw to the mountains she's gaen,
Their leagues and their covenants a' she has taen;
My head now, and heart now, quo' she, are at rest,
An' for my poor cunt, let the deil do his best.
Jenny Macraw on a midsummer morn,
She cut off her cunt and she hang't on a thorn;
There she loot it hing for a year and a day,
But, oh! how look'd her arse when her cunt was away.
