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 disna gie a cheep,

But here's a waukrife laddie, that wunna fa' asleep."

Onything but sleep, you rogue, glow'ring like the moon,

Rattling in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon,

Rumblin', tumblin' roon about, crawin' like a cock,

Skirlin like a kenna-what, waukenin' sleepin' fock.

"Hey Willie Winkie, the wean's in a creel,

Wamblin' aff a bodie's knee like a verra eel,

Ruggin' at the cat's lug and raveling 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 a battle aye wi' sleep afore he'll close an e'e-

But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me.