Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver By William Thom. Edited, with a Biographical Sketch, by W. Skinner |
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THE MITHERLESS BAIRN. |
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 | Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver |  |
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THE MITHERLESS BAIRN.
When a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame,
By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame;
Wha stan's last an' lanely, an' naebody carin'?
'Tis the puir doited loonie—the mitherless bairn!
By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame;
Wha stan's last an' lanely, an' naebody carin'?
'Tis the puir doited loonie—the mitherless bairn!
The mitherless bairn gangs till his lane bed,
Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head;
His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn,
An litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn!
Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head;
His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn,
An litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn!
Aneath his cauld brow, siccan dreams tremble there,
O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair!
But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern,
That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn!
O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair!
But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern,
That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn!
Yon sister, that sang o'er his saftly-rocked bed,
Now rests in the mools whaur her mammie is laid;
The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn,
An' kens nae the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn!
Now rests in the mools whaur her mammie is laid;
The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn,
An' kens nae the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn!
Her spirit, that pass'd in yon hour o' his birth,
Still watches his wearisome wand'rings on earth,
Recording in heaven the blessings they earn,
Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn!
Still watches his wearisome wand'rings on earth,
Recording in heaven the blessings they earn,
Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn!
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Oh! speak him nae harshly—he trembles the while—
He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile!
In their dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn
That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn!
He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile!
In their dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn
That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn!
In hardy Scotland, it is not always a sure sign of poverty in its sons and daughters that they are to be seen tripping it bare-footed from April till Christmas. It is choice; but when necessity carries the matter a little farther into the winter, the feet break up in gashes, or “hacks;” hence hackit heelies.
| Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver | |