 | The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill |  |
EILD.
A FRAGMENT.
The rough hail rattles through the trees,
The sullen lift low'rs gloomy gray,
The trav'ller sees the swelling storm,
And seeks the ale-house by the way.
The sullen lift low'rs gloomy gray,
The trav'ller sees the swelling storm,
And seeks the ale-house by the way.
But, wae 's me! for yon widow'd wretch,
Borne down with years and heavy care,
Her sapless fingers scarce can nip
The wither'd twigs to beet her fire.
Borne down with years and heavy care,
Her sapless fingers scarce can nip
The wither'd twigs to beet her fire.
Thus youth and vigour fends itsel';
Its help, reciprocal, is sure,
While dowless Eild, in poortith cauld,
Is lonely left to stand the stoure.
Its help, reciprocal, is sure,
While dowless Eild, in poortith cauld,
Is lonely left to stand the stoure.
| The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill | |