The poem
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.