Thursday, May 20, 2010

Wee Willie Winkie

I looked him up for the last post...

Did you know there is a WHOLE entire poem dedicated to him? Beyond the first para, which I thought as the whole song...I love Wikiepdia.

Cool.

Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town,
Up stairs and doon stairs in his nicht-gown,
Tirling at the window, cryin' at the lock,
Are the weans in their bed, for it's now ten o'clock?

Hey, Willie Winkie, are ye coming ben?
The cat's singing grey thrums to the sleeping hen,
The dog's spelder'd on the floor, and disna gi'e a cheep,
But here's a waukrife laddie! that winna fa' asleep!"

Onything but sleep, you rogue! glow'ring like the mune,
Rattling in an airn jug wi' an airn spoone,
Rumbling, tumbling round about, crawing like a cock,
Skirlin' like a kenna-what, wauk'ning sleeping fock.

"Hey, Willie Winkie - the wean's in a creel!
Wambling aff a bodie's knee like a very eel,
Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and raveling a' her thrums-
Hey, Willie Winkie - see, there he comes!"

Wearied is the mither that has a stoorie wean,
A wee stumple stoussie, that canna rin his lane,
That has a battle aye wi' sleep before he'll close an ee-
But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gi'es strength anew to me.

Versions paraphrased for English readers began to appear in print from 1844 in the form:

Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town,
Up stairs and down stairs in his night-gown,
Tapping at the window, crying at the lock,
Are the children in their bed, for it's past ten o'clock?

Hey, Willie Winkie, are you coming in?
The cat is singing purring sounds to the sleeping hen,
The dog's spread out on the floor, and doesn't give a cheep,
But here's a wakeful little boy who will not fall asleep!

Anything but sleep, you rogue! glowering like the moon,'
Rattling in an iron jug with an iron spoon,
Rumbling, tumbling round about, crowing like a cock,
Shrieking like I don't know what, waking sleeping folk.

Hey, Willie Winkie - the child's in a creel!
Wriggling from everyone's knee like an eel,
Tugging at the cat's ear, and confusing all her thrums
Hey, Willie Winkie - see, there he comes!"

Weary is the mother who has a dusty child,
A small short little child, who can't run on his own,
Who always has a battle with sleep before he'll close an eye
But a kiss from his rosy lips gives strength anew to me.

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