The maltman comes on Monday,
He craves wonder sair,
Cries, Dame, come gi'e me my siller,
Or malt ye sall ne'er get mair.
I took him into the pantry,
And gave him some good cock-broo,
Syne paid him upon a gantree,
As hostler wives should do.

When maltmen come for siller,
And gaugers with wands o'er soon,
Wives, tak them a' down to the cellar,
And clear them as I have done.
This bewith, when cunzie is scanty,
Will keep them frae making din,
The knack I learn'd frae an auld aunty,
The snackest of a' my kin.

The maltman is right cunning,
But I can be as slee,
And he may crack of his winning,
When he clears scores with me:
For come when he likes, I 'm ready;
But if frae hame I be,
Let him wait on our kind lady,
She 'll answer a bill for me.