There’s news, lassies, news,
Gude news I’ve to tell!
There’s a boatfu’ o’lads
Come to our town to sell.
Chorus-The wean wants a cradle,
And the cradle wants a cod:
I’ll no gang to my bed,
Until I get a nod.
Father, quo’she, Mither, quo she,
Do what you can,
I’ll nogangto my bed,
Until I geta man.
The wean, &c.
I haeas gudea craftrig
As made o’yird and stane;
And waly fa’the ley-crap,
For I mauntill’d again.
The wean, &c.