Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver By William Thom. Edited, with a Biographical Sketch, by W. Skinner |
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DREAMINGS OF THE BEREAVED. |
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 | Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver |  |
DREAMINGS OF THE BEREAVED.
The morning breaks bonnie o'er mountain an' stream,
An' troubles the hallowed breath o' my dream!
The gowd light of morning is sweet to the e'e,
But, ghost-gathering midnight, thou'rt dearer to me.
The dull common world then sinks from my sight,
An' fairer creations arise to the night;
When drowsy oppression has sleep-sealed my e'e,
Then bright are the visions awaken'd to me!
An' troubles the hallowed breath o' my dream!
The gowd light of morning is sweet to the e'e,
But, ghost-gathering midnight, thou'rt dearer to me.
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An' fairer creations arise to the night;
When drowsy oppression has sleep-sealed my e'e,
Then bright are the visions awaken'd to me!
Oh! come, spirit mother, discourse of the hours,
My young bosom beat all its beating to yours,
When heart-woven wishes in soft counsel fell,
On ears—how unheedful prov'd sorrow might tell!
That deathless affection—nae trial could break,
When a' else forsook me ye wouldna forsake,
Then come, oh! my mother, come often to me,
An' soon an' for ever I'll come unto thee!
My young bosom beat all its beating to yours,
When heart-woven wishes in soft counsel fell,
On ears—how unheedful prov'd sorrow might tell!
That deathless affection—nae trial could break,
When a' else forsook me ye wouldna forsake,
Then come, oh! my mother, come often to me,
An' soon an' for ever I'll come unto thee!
An' thou shrouded loveliness! soul-winning Jean,
How cold was thy hand on my bosom yestreen!
'Twas kind—for the lowe that your e'e kindled there,
Will burn aye, an' burn, till that breast beat nae mair,
Our bairnies sleep round me, oh! bless ye their sleep,
Your ain dark-e'ed Willie will wauken an' weep;
But blythe in his weepin' he'll tell me how you,
His heaven-hamed mammie, was “dautin' his brow.”
How cold was thy hand on my bosom yestreen!
'Twas kind—for the lowe that your e'e kindled there,
Will burn aye, an' burn, till that breast beat nae mair,
Our bairnies sleep round me, oh! bless ye their sleep,
Your ain dark-e'ed Willie will wauken an' weep;
But blythe in his weepin' he'll tell me how you,
His heaven-hamed mammie, was “dautin' his brow.”
Tho' dark be our dwallin'—our happin' tho' bare,
An' night closes round us in cauldness an' care;
Affection will warn us—an' bright are the beams
That halo our hame in yon dear land of dreams.
Then weel may I welcome the night's deathy reign,
Wi' souls of the dearest I mingle me then,
The gowd light of morning is lightless to me,
But, oh, for the night wi' its ghost revelrie!
An' night closes round us in cauldness an' care;
Affection will warn us—an' bright are the beams
That halo our hame in yon dear land of dreams.
Then weel may I welcome the night's deathy reign,
Wi' souls of the dearest I mingle me then,
The gowd light of morning is lightless to me,
But, oh, for the night wi' its ghost revelrie!
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