Poems by Robert Nicoll Second edition: with numerous additions, and a memoir of the author |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
 | IV. |
THE WIDOW'S CHILD. |
| V. |
 | Poems by Robert Nicoll |  |
181
THE WIDOW'S CHILD.
You said my lip was red, Mamma;
You said my face was fair;
You said my brow was white, Mamma,
And silken was my hair:
And you ca'd me your infant lassie sweet,
While I sat on the green grass at your feet;
And you said, while laigh was your tearful mane,
I was like my father dead and gane:—
O! I aye would like to be, Mamma,
What thou couldst love fu' weel;
And ever by your knee
Your bairn would like to kneel, Mamma,
Your bairn would like to kneel!
You said my face was fair;
You said my brow was white, Mamma,
And silken was my hair:
And you ca'd me your infant lassie sweet,
While I sat on the green grass at your feet;
And you said, while laigh was your tearful mane,
I was like my father dead and gane:—
O! I aye would like to be, Mamma,
What thou couldst love fu' weel;
And ever by your knee
Your bairn would like to kneel, Mamma,
Your bairn would like to kneel!
Do you mind the summer day, Mamma,
When through the woods we went—
When the e'enin' sunlight red, Mamma,
Wi' the leaves sae green was blent?—
And ye shawed me the wild-wood birdies a'—
The Lintie green and the Wren sae sma';
And I heard ilk singer chant its sang,
The green green leaves and buds amang:
And, O! their sangs were sweet, Mamma,
And their life was blithe and free;
And there's ane I there did meet
Whilk I would like to be, Mamma,
Whilk I would like to be!
When through the woods we went—
When the e'enin' sunlight red, Mamma,
Wi' the leaves sae green was blent?—
And ye shawed me the wild-wood birdies a'—
The Lintie green and the Wren sae sma';
And I heard ilk singer chant its sang,
The green green leaves and buds amang:
And, O! their sangs were sweet, Mamma,
And their life was blithe and free;
And there's ane I there did meet
Whilk I would like to be, Mamma,
Whilk I would like to be!
182
It's no the Lintie green, Mamma,
And it's no the Robin gray;
And it's no the little Wren, Mamma,
Nor the Mavis on the spray;
But, O! it's the bonnie wee Croodlin Doo,
That churm'd its sang where the beeches grew—
Wi' its downy wing and its glossy breast,
And its loving heart, and its forest nest:—
And though my lip be red, Mamma,
And though my face be fair,
I wish my hame were made
Wi' the bonnie Wild Doo there, Mamma,
Wi' the bonnie Wild Doo, there!
And it's no the Robin gray;
And it's no the little Wren, Mamma,
Nor the Mavis on the spray;
But, O! it's the bonnie wee Croodlin Doo,
That churm'd its sang where the beeches grew—
Wi' its downy wing and its glossy breast,
And its loving heart, and its forest nest:—
And though my lip be red, Mamma,
And though my face be fair,
I wish my hame were made
Wi' the bonnie Wild Doo there, Mamma,
Wi' the bonnie Wild Doo, there!
If I had the Wild Doo's wing, Mamma,
I far awa' wad flee,
Where my father, whom ye mourn, Mamma,
Is watchin' thee an' me!
An' I would press his lips to mine,
As ye aften press my cheek to thine—
I wad say to him my e'enin' prayer,
An' drop to sleep on his bosom there!
Syne back your wee Croodlin Doo, Mamma,
Wad come to its Mither's hand,
An' tidings bring to you
O' that far an' better land, Mamma,
O' that far an' better land!
I far awa' wad flee,
Where my father, whom ye mourn, Mamma,
Is watchin' thee an' me!
An' I would press his lips to mine,
As ye aften press my cheek to thine—
I wad say to him my e'enin' prayer,
An' drop to sleep on his bosom there!
Syne back your wee Croodlin Doo, Mamma,
Wad come to its Mither's hand,
An' tidings bring to you
O' that far an' better land, Mamma,
O' that far an' better land!
| Poems by Robert Nicoll | |