Wee Willie Winkie rins through the toun, Upstairs and dounstairs, in his nicht-goun, Tirlin at the window, cryin at the lock, Are the weans in their bed? for its nou ten oclock.
For lo! the days are hastening on, By prophet-bards foretold, When with the ever-circling years, Comes round the age of gold; When Peace shall over all the earth Its ancient splendors fling And the whole world send back the song Which now the angels sing.