My Mither an' Me.
(Bob the Ploughman's Reverie.)
By M. M’L H.
In a bonnie wee cot wi’ a But an’ a Ben,
On the briest o’ a brae at the heid o’ Screel Glen,
Where the grey heather linties sit liltin’ their sang
To the bricht, tinklin’ burn as it wimples alang,
Wi’ monie a jouk an’ a turn to the sea,
For lang hae we lieved, my auld mither an’ me.
Tho’ a wee feckless callant, I min’ the day weel
That my faither was ta’en to the “Lan’ o’ the Leal:”
Sair, sair I was sabbin’, an’ my heart it was fu’
As, pattin’ my heid, he telt me aye to be true
To mysel’, an’ my Maker, an’, wi’s blessin’, did pray
Me to look to my mither when he was away.
Dule an’ sorrow, my mither, for lang I saw dree,
As the tear o’ remembrance wud start to her e’e,
For as aften she looked on the auld empty chair,
Her thochts turned to him she wud see there nae mair;
But seein’ me rompin’, aye as brisk as a bee,
She forgot a’ her sorrows in tendin’ o’ me.
I was sent to the schule the Carritch to learn,
And my mither wrocht hard for her faitherless bairn,
Wi’ her auld speckled crummie, an’ patch o’ a fiel’,
An’ eidently plyin’ her big spinnin’ wheel;
An’ my sma’ herdin’ fees laid intil the store,
She managed to keep Daddie Care frae the door.