Poem by William Julius Mickle

There's Nae Luck about the House

    And are ye sure the news is true?
      And are ye sure he's weel?
    Is this a time to think o' wark?
      Mak haste, lay by your wheel;
    Is this the time to spin a thread
      When Colin's at the door?
    Reach 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 at a',
  There's little pleasure in the house
    When our gudeman's awa.

    And gie to me my bigonet,
    My bishop's satin gown;
  For I maun tell the bailie's wife
    That Colin's come to town.
  My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
    My stockings pearly blue;
  It's a' to pleasure my gudeman,
    For he's baith leel and true.
  For there's nae luck about the house,
    There's nae luck at a',
  There's little pleasure in the house
    When our gudeman's awa.

    Rise, lass, and mak a clean fire side,
    Put on the muckle pot,
  Gie little Kate her button gown,
    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 lang awa.
  For there's nae luck about the house,
    There's nae luck at a',
  There's little pleasure in the house
    When our gudeman's awa.

    There's twa fat hens upo' the bauk,
    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,
    Gar ilka thing look braw,
  For wha can tell how Colin fared
    When he was far awa?
  Ah, there's nae luck about the house,
    There's nae luck at a',
  There's little pleasure in the house
    When our gudeman's awa.

    Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,
    His breath 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 downright dizzy wi' the thought,
  In troth I'm like to greet.
  For there's nae luck about the house,
    There's nae luck at a',
  There's little pleasure in the house
    When our gudeman's awa.

    If Colin's weel, and weel content,
    I hae nae mair to crave—
  And gin I live to keep him sae,
    I'm blest aboon 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.
  For there's nae luck about the house,
    There's nae luck at a',
  There's little pleasure in the house
    When our gudeman's awa.

1. Elegy Written in a Wood near Roslin Castle, 1762
2. Cumnor Hall

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