| |
| AND are ye sure the news is true? | |
| And are ye sure he ’s weel? | |
| Is this a time to think of wark? | |
| Ye jauds, fling by your wheel. | |
| Is this a time to think of wark, | 5 |
| When Colin ’s at the door? | |
| Gie me my cloak! I ’ll to the quay | |
| And see him come ashore. | |
| |
| For there ’s nae luck about the house, | |
| There ’s nae luck ava; | 10 |
| There ’s little pleasure in the house, | |
| When our gudeman’s awa’. | |
| |
| Rise up and mak’ a clean fireside; | |
| Put on the muckle pot; | |
| Gi’e little Kate her cotton gown, | 15 |
| And Jock his Sunday coat: | |
| And mak’ their shoon as black as slaes, | |
| Their hose as white as snaw; | |
| It ’s a’ to please my ain gudeman, | |
| For he ’s been long awa’. | 20 |
| |
| There ’s twa fat hens upo’ the bank, | |
| Been fed this month and mair; | |
| Mak’ haste and thraw their necks about, | |
| That Colin weel may fare; | |
| And mak’ the table neat and clean, | 25 |
| Gar ilka thing look braw; | |
| It ’s a’ for love of my gudeman, | |
| For he ’s been long awa’. | |
| |
| O gi’e me down my bigonet, | |
| My bishop satin gown, | 30 |
| For I maun tell the bailie’s wife | |
| That Colin ’s come to town. | |
| My Sunday’s shoon they maun gae on, | |
| My hose o’ pearly blue; | |
| ’T is a’ to please my ain gudeman, | 35 |
| For he ’s baith leal and true. | |
| |
| Sae true his words, sae smooth his speech, | |
| His breath ’s like caller air! | |
| His very foot has music in ’t, | |
| As he comes up the stair. | 40 |
| And will I see his face again? | |
| And will I hear him speak? | |
| I ’m downright dizzy wi’ the thought,— | |
| In troth, I ’m like to greet. | |
| |
| The cauld blasts o’ the winter wind, | 45 |
| That thrillèd through my heart, | |
| They ’re a’ blown by; I ha’e him safe, | |
| Till death we ’ll never part: | |
| But what puts parting in my head? | |
| It may be far awa’; | 50 |
| The present moment is our ain, | |
| The neist we never saw. | |
| |
| Since Colin’s weel, I ’m weel content, | |
| I ha’e nae more to crave, | |
| Could I but live to mak’ him blest, | 55 |
| I ’m blest above the lave: | |
| And will I see his face again? | |
| And will I hear him speak? | |
| I ’m downright dizzy wi’ the thought,— | |
| In troth, I ’m like to greet. | 60 |
| |
| For there ’s nae luck about the house, | |
| There ’s nae luck ava; | |
| There ’s little pleasure in the house, | |
| When our gudeman ’s awa’. | |
| |
