Richt earlie on Ash Wednesday,
Drinkin’ the wine sat kimmers tway;
The tane couth to the tother complene,
Sichin’ and suppin’ couth she say,
“This lang Lentren makis me lean.”

On couch beside the fire she sat,
God wit, gif she was great and fat,
Yet to be feeble she did fein,
And ay she said, “Let preif o’ that,
This lang Lentren makis me lean.”

“My fair, sweet kimmer,” quo’ the tother.
Ye tak that niggertness o’ your mother;
All wine to taste she wad disdane
But Mavsey, she bad nane other.

Kimmer, be glad both e’en and morrow
Though ye suld baith beg and borrow,
Fra ower-lang fasting see you refrain,
And let your husband dree the sorrow.”

“Your counsel, kinner, is guid,” quo’ she,
“All is to tene him that I do,
In bed he is not worth a bean;
Fill the cup, kimmer, and drink me to;
This lang Lentren makis me lean.”

Of wine out of ane choppin stoup,
The drank twa quartis, soup and soup;
Sic drouth the kimmers did constene,
Be than to mend they had guid houp,
That Lentren suld not mak them lean.