5
For there’s nae luck about the house,
There’s nae luck ava;
There’s little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman’s awa.
Rise up and mak a clean fireside;
Put on the muckle pat;
Gie little Kate her cotton gown,
And Jock his sunday’s coat:
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;
It’s a’ to pleasure our gudeman,
He likes to see them braw.
For there’s nae luck, &c.
There are twa hens into the crib
Hae fed this month and mair,
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare:
And spread the table neat and clean,
Gar ilka thing look braw;
It’s a’ for love o’ our gudeman,
For he’s been lang awa.
For there's nae luck, &c.
O gie me down my bigonet,
My bishop satan gown,
And then gae tell the bailie’s wife,
That Colin’s come to town.
My Sunday’s shoon they maun gae on,
My hose o’ pearl blue;
