The house be coth and warm And aye a blazing fire The long nights of winter Make everybody tire Make everyone to tire And to fret and to mourn And nothing will content them 'Til the day be on the turn The milkmaid in the evening Goes lightly with her pail And the cotter sits contented O'er the lingle of his flail The good wife she is fond to say When scouring out the churn We'll get plenty of butter When the day is on the turn