Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver By William Thom. Edited, with a Biographical Sketch, by W. Skinner |
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TO MY SON WILLIE |
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 | Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver |  |
TO MY SON WILLIE
The ae dark spot in this loveless world,
That spot maun ever be, Willie,
Whaur she sat an' dauted your bonnie brown hair,
An' lithely looket to me, Willie;
An' oh! my heart owned a' the power
Of your mither's gifted e'e, Willie.
That spot maun ever be, Willie,
Whaur she sat an' dauted your bonnie brown hair,
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An' oh! my heart owned a' the power
Of your mither's gifted e'e, Willie.
There's now nae blink at our slacken'd hearth,
Nor kindred breathing there, Willie;
But cauld and still our hame of Death,
Wi' its darkness evermair, Willie;
For she wha lived in our love, is cauld,
An' her grave the stranger's lair, Willie.
Nor kindred breathing there, Willie;
But cauld and still our hame of Death,
Wi' its darkness evermair, Willie;
For she wha lived in our love, is cauld,
An' her grave the stranger's lair, Willie.
The sleepless nicht, the dowie dawn,
A' stormy though it be, Willie,
Ye'll buckle ye in your weet wee plaid,
An' wander awa wi' me, Willie;
Your lanesome sister little kens,
Sic tidings we hae to gie, Willie.
A' stormy though it be, Willie,
Ye'll buckle ye in your weet wee plaid,
An' wander awa wi' me, Willie;
Your lanesome sister little kens,
Sic tidings we hae to gie, Willie.
The promised day, the trysted hour,
She'll strain her watchfu' e'e, Willie;
Seeking that mither's look of love,
She never again maun see, Willie;
Kiss ye the tear frae her whitening cheek,
An' speak awhile for me, Willie.
She'll strain her watchfu' e'e, Willie;
Seeking that mither's look of love,
She never again maun see, Willie;
Kiss ye the tear frae her whitening cheek,
An' speak awhile for me, Willie.
Look kindly, kindly when ye meet,
But speak nae of the dead, Willie;
An' when your heart would gar you greet,
Aye turn awa' your head, Willie;
That waesome look ye look to me
Would gar her young heart bleed, Willie.
But speak nae of the dead, Willie;
An' when your heart would gar you greet,
Aye turn awa' your head, Willie;
That waesome look ye look to me
Would gar her young heart bleed, Willie.
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Whane'er she names a mither's name,
An' sairly presseth thee, Willie,
Oh! tell her of a happy hame
Far, far o'er earth an' sea, Willie;
An' ane that waits to welcome them,
Her hameless bairns, an' me, Willie.
An' sairly presseth thee, Willie,
Oh! tell her of a happy hame
Far, far o'er earth an' sea, Willie;
An' ane that waits to welcome them,
Her hameless bairns, an' me, Willie.
| Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver | |