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 no gang to my bed,
Until I get a man.
The wean, &c.
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.
The wean, &c.
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