Robert Burns

* * *

THERE’S news, lasses, news,
  Gude news I’ve to tell!
There’s a boat fu’ o’ lads
  Come to our town to sell.
    The wean wants a cradle,
      An’ the cradle wants a cod.
    An’ I’ll no gang to my bed
      Until I get a nod.

Father, quo’ she, Mither, quo’ she,
  Do what ye can,
I’ll no gang to my bed
  Till I get a man.
    I hae as gude a craft rig
      As made o’ yird and stane;
    And waly fa’ the ley-crap
      For I maun till’d again.