WEE WILLIE WINKIE rins through the toon,Up stairs an doon stairs in his nicht-gown,Tirlin' at the window, crying 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' grey thrums to the sleepin hen,The dog's speldert on the floor and disnae gie a cheep,But here's a waukrif laddie that wanna fa' asleep."
Onything but sleep, you rogue, glow'rin like the moon,Rattlin' in the airn jug wi' an airn spoon,Rumblin', tumblin' roon about crawin' like a cock,Skirlin' like a kenna-what, waukenin' sleepin' folk.
"Hey, Willie Winkie, the weans in a creel,Wamblin' aff a bodie's knee like a verra eel,Ruggin' at the cat's lug and rauelin' a' her thrums --Hey, Willie Winkie, see, there he comes!"
Wearit is the mither that has a stoorie wean,A wee, stumpie, stousie, that canna rin his lane,That has battle aye wi' sleep afore he 'll close an e',But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gives strength anew to me.
