Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town,
Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht gown,
Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock,
Are the weans in their bed?—for it's now ten o'clock.
Hey, Willie Winkie! Are ye comin' ben?
The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen,
The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep;
But here's a waukrife laddie that winna fa' asleep.
Onything but sleep, ye rogue!—glowerin' like the moon,
Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon,
Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a cock,
Skirlin' like a knna what—waukerin' sleepin' folk.
Hey, Willie Winkie! The wean's in a creel!
Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee, like a vera eel,
Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums:
Hey, Willie Winkie!—See, there he comes!
Weary is the mither that has a storie wean,
A wee stumpie stonesie, that canna rin his lane,
That has a battle aye wi' sleep before he'll close an ee;
But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me