Who would be a fisherman's wife

to work with a tub and a scrubber and a knife

A died out fire and a raveled bed

And away to the mussels in the morning

chorus:

Here we come scouring in

Three reefs to the foresail in

there's not a dry stitch to put on our back

But still we're all tee totlers

Now give us a hand to run a ripper lead,

to try for a coddy in the Bay of Peterhead

They're maybe at the lummies or the clock at Sautis Head,

and we're off to the small lines in the morning

Me poor old father's in the middle of the floor,

beating hooks onto tippets and they're hanging on his chair

They're made with horses hair, for that's the best of gear

to be going to the fishing in the morning

Soon it's down the Geddle Braes in the middle of the night,

with an old syrup tin and a candle for a light

To gather up the pullars, every one of them in sight, 

to  get the liney baited for the morning

It's easy for the cobbler sitting in his nook, 

his big copper kettle hanging from a hook

but we're in the bow and we cannot get a hook, 

and it's sore hard work in the morning

It's not the kind of life that a gentle quine can thole,

with her fingers red raw, and a scrubbin' out a yole

A little'n on her hip, she's away to carry coal and

She'll be cauld sore done in the morning.