Poems by Robert Nicoll Second edition: with numerous additions, and a memoir of the author |
 | I. |
| II. |
 | III. |
THE POOR MAN'S DEATH-BED. |
| IV. |
| V. |
 | Poems by Robert Nicoll |  |
THE POOR MAN'S DEATH-BED.
The Winter floods frae bank to brae
Gaed roaring to the sea,
When a weary man of toil cam' hame,
And laid him down to dee.
And lowly was his bed of strae,
And humble was his fare,
But high and strong his honest heart—
Nor wish'd he to ha'e mair!
Gaed roaring to the sea,
When a weary man of toil cam' hame,
And laid him down to dee.
And lowly was his bed of strae,
And humble was his fare,
But high and strong his honest heart—
Nor wish'd he to ha'e mair!
His bonnie bairns, sae fair and young,
Around his bed they sat,
And their wae mother held his head,
And lang and sair she grat.
“Why greet ye, wife?” said that poor man—
“Why greet ye, bairns, for me?
If frae this toilsome world I win,
Rejoicing ye should be.
Around his bed they sat,
And their wae mother held his head,
And lang and sair she grat.
“Why greet ye, wife?” said that poor man—
“Why greet ye, bairns, for me?
If frae this toilsome world I win,
Rejoicing ye should be.
125
“I've kept a house aboon my head
This thirty years and mair,
And tried to haud the honest way
By toils and struggles sair.
And God look'd down, and God did see
The waes the poor maun dree,
And sent an angel frae aboon
To come and ca' for me!
This thirty years and mair,
And tried to haud the honest way
By toils and struggles sair.
And God look'd down, and God did see
The waes the poor maun dree,
And sent an angel frae aboon
To come and ca' for me!
“O greet na, wife, though lang we've been
As twa fond hearts should be;
For though I gang to Heaven first,
Ye soon will follow me.
And God, who minds the lintie young,
And gars the lily grow,
Will care for you and our wee bairns,
And gi'e ye love enow.
As twa fond hearts should be;
For though I gang to Heaven first,
Ye soon will follow me.
And God, who minds the lintie young,
And gars the lily grow,
Will care for you and our wee bairns,
And gi'e ye love enow.
“Lang toil is coming on my bairns—
Toil sair and sad, like mine;
But keep a high and sturdy heart,
And never weakly pine.
Your father had an honest name,
And be ye honest too;
What's fause ne'er say for living man—
What's evil dinna do!
Toil sair and sad, like mine;
But keep a high and sturdy heart,
And never weakly pine.
Your father had an honest name,
And be ye honest too;
What's fause ne'er say for living man—
What's evil dinna do!
“My toil, and cauld, and hunger sair,
Are wellnigh past and done;
Your toil, and cauld, and hunger, dears,
Are barely yet begun.
But live, like brothers, lovingly,
And honest-hearted dee;
And syne, where I am gaun to dwell,
My bairns will come to me.
Are wellnigh past and done;
126
Are barely yet begun.
But live, like brothers, lovingly,
And honest-hearted dee;
And syne, where I am gaun to dwell,
My bairns will come to me.
“The blast blaws chill—I'm waxing faint—
And when I'm ta'en awa,
Be to your mother, comforts, hopes,
And joys and loves an' a'.
Your father's dying counsels from
Your bosoms never tine;
And if you live as he has lived,
Your deaths will be like mine!”
And when I'm ta'en awa,
Be to your mother, comforts, hopes,
And joys and loves an' a'.
Your father's dying counsels from
Your bosoms never tine;
And if you live as he has lived,
Your deaths will be like mine!”
The pious poor man sleeps at length,
Where pains and toils are o'er;
The bitter wind—the hunger fiend—
Can torture him no more.
That land hath something to amend,
And much to prize and bless,
Where poor men suffer and endure,
Whose death-beds are like this.
Where pains and toils are o'er;
The bitter wind—the hunger fiend—
Can torture him no more.
That land hath something to amend,
And much to prize and bless,
Where poor men suffer and endure,
Whose death-beds are like this.
| Poems by Robert Nicoll | |