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Wee Willie Winkie

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Wee Willie Winkie

A weel-kent favourite.

Wee Willie Winkie rins thro the toon
upstairs and doonstairs in his nicht goon,
tirlin at the windae, cryin at the lock,
"Are aw the bairnies in their beds? It's past eight o'clock."

Hey Willie Winkie, are ye comin ben?
The cat's singin grey thrums to the sleepin hen.
The dug's speldert on the flair an disnae gie a cheep,
but here's a waukrife laddie that winna fa asleep.

Onythin but sleep, ye rogue,
glowrin like the moon,
rattlin in an airn jug wi an airn spoon,
rumblin, tumblin roon aboot,
crawin like a cock,
skirlin like A kenna what, waukerin sleepin folk.

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 an ravenin a her thrums.
Hey Willie Winkie! See, here he comes!