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,