Her skart t'is short,
Her slim legs bare,
And on her cunte there grows nae hair.
Golden is her head,
Toes fire red,
The cunnig wife waits,
On her snare,
Of a bed.

Upon her back,
The shrewd shrew doth lay,
The gold squire pay,
Gets what he lack.

The cunnig cunte's mate,
Would have all her queynte,
But she doth learn,
And he too late,
That her queynte doth earn,
And used as bait,
Both get all the gold,
In squire's crate.