 | War-lyrics and other poems |  |
NOVEMBER. By L. E. B.
November daies are short and dour,
And mirk, mirk fa's the night;
Sad and alane, by the firelight dim,
Is a dame, in weedes bedight.
And mirk, mirk fa's the night;
Sad and alane, by the firelight dim,
Is a dame, in weedes bedight.
153
For her four sons are gane frae her—
They are gane for mony a day:
And as she listeth the wind monand,
She grieveth, as well she may.
They are gane for mony a day:
And as she listeth the wind monand,
She grieveth, as well she may.
Twa of them were clerkly taught,
'Mid the hills their weird they drie—
And ane is aff on the high, high land,
And ane is farre in the South Countrie.
'Mid the hills their weird they drie—
And ane is aff on the high, high land,
And ane is farre in the South Countrie.
“O, quan sall I get letters?” she said,
“And quatten the newes I sall heare?”
There came nae aunswer, nor ony sound
But the sough o' the wind thro' the lindens dreare.
“And quatten the newes I sall heare?”
There came nae aunswer, nor ony sound
But the sough o' the wind thro' the lindens dreare.
“And O, if I were sair sick!” she said,
“And O, if I suld dee!
And my deare sons sae farre awa,
And nane to comfort me.
“And O, if I suld dee!
And my deare sons sae farre awa,
And nane to comfort me.
“The ugsome worme wolde gnawe at my cheeke—
Sae wolde he at my chinne:
Lang, lang or e'er my bonnie sons
To their mither's side colde winne.
Sae wolde he at my chinne:
Lang, lang or e'er my bonnie sons
To their mither's side colde winne.
“And sairly wolde they greet to find
Nae welcome at the hearthe—
Nae welcome but frae twa white stanes
And a knowe o' new-turn'd earthe.”
Nae welcome at the hearthe—
Nae welcome but frae twa white stanes
And a knowe o' new-turn'd earthe.”
| War-lyrics and other poems | |