And are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?
Ye jauds, fling by your wheel.
Is this a time to think o' wark,
When Colin's at the door?
Rax me my cloak, I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.
For there's nae luck about the house.
There's nae luck at a'
There's little pleasure in the house.
When our gudeman's awa'.
And gie to me my bigonet,
My bishop-satin gown;
For I maun tell the baillie's wife
That Colin's come to town.
My turkey slippers maun gae on,
My hose o' pearl blue;
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he's baith leal and true.
Rise up and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle pot;
Gie little Kate her Sunday gown
And Jock his button coat;
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he's been lang awa'.
Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content,
I hae nae mair to crave;
Could I but live to mak him blest,
I'm blest aboon the lave:
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downricht dizzy wi' the thocht,
In troth I'm like to greet.
There's twa fat hens upo' the bauk,
They've 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;
For wha can tell how Colin fared
When he was far awa'?
Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech
His breath like caller air;
His very foot has music in't
As he comes up the stair.
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downricht dizzy wi' the thocht,
In troth I'm like to greet.
For there's nae luck about the house
There's nae luck at a'
There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa'.
