Hidden awa, in a neuk o' the fair,
Slicht, an sleekit, an sly,
The spae wife sits, in the spae wife's tent,
Watchin the fowk gaun by.
Hidden awa, in her lang-luggit lair,
Her skill, the gift o' the gab,
The spae wife sits, in the spae wife's tent,
A wyver, wyvin her wab.

Her een's twa lichtit spunks o' fire,
Her hair's a corbie's wing,
She's steep't till the core, in the Black, black airt
Her truth's a birlin ring.

Fur Misery's a mairket place,
That's trade fur as the sizzens,
The spae wife kens, the fly auld jaad,
That Hope sells mair nur besoms.

Her Ace o' Trumps is promises,
She's skilled at the hinneyed lee,
Thoombin the cairds o' Fortune
Tae ken fit weird ye'll dree.

Fur fit's afore, ye'll nae win by,
Bit a nod's as guid as a wink,
An some wid sup wi' the Deil himsel,
The Ace o' Spaads tae jink.

As iron boos  i' the blacksmith's haun,
As meal mells wi the miller,
The lassie's thochts on a pyock o' dreams
The spae wife's thochts on siller.