William Julius Mickle (1735–1788)

BUT are ye sure the news is true?

And are ye sure he’s weel?

Is this a time to think o’ wark?

Ye jauds, fling bye your wheel!

For there’s nae luck about the house,

There’s nae luck at a’;

There’s nae luck about the house,

When our gudeman’s awa’.

Is this a time to think o’ wark,

When Colin’s at the door?

Rax down my cloak—I’ll to the quay,

And see him come ashore.

Rise up and make a clean fireside,

Put on the muckle pot;

Gie little Kate her cotton gown,

And Jock his Sunday’s coat.

Make their shoon as black as slaes,

Their stockings white as snaw;

It’s a’ to pleasure our gudeman—

He likes to see them braw.

There are twa hens into the crib

Hae fed this month or mair;

Mak haste and thraw their necks about,

That Colin weel may fare.

My Turkey slippers I’ll put on,

My stockins pearl-blue,—

It’s a’ to pleasure our gudeman,

For he’s baith leal and true.

Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue,

His breath’s like cauler air;

His very foot has music in’t,

As he comes up the stair.

And will I see his face again,

And will I hear him speak?

I’m downricht dizzy wi’ the thought,

In troth I’m like to greet.

There’s nae luck about the house,

There’s nae luck at a’;

There’s nae luck about the house,

When our gudeman’s awa’.