Her Letter

“I'm taking pen in hand this night, and hard it is for me;

My poor old fingers tremble so, my hand is stiff and slow,

And even with my glasses on I'm troubled sore to see....

You'd little know your mother, boy; you'd little, little know.

You mind how brisk and bright I was, how straight and trim and smart;

‘ Tis weariful I am the now, and bent and frail and grey.

I'm waiting at the road's end, lad; and all that's in my heart,

Is just to see my boy again before I'm called away.”

“Oh well I mind the sorry day you crossed the gurly sea;

‘ Twas like the heart was torn from me, a waeful wife was I.

You said that you'd be home again in two years, maybe three;

But nigh a score of years have gone, and still the years go by.

I know it's cruel hard for you, you've bairnies of your own;

I know the siller's hard to win, and folks have used you ill:

But oh, think of your mother, lad, that's waiting by her lone!

And even if you canna come — JUST WRITE AND SAY YOU WILL.”

“Aye, even though there's little hope, just promise that you'll try.

It's weary, weary waiting, lad; just say you'll come next year.

I'm thinking there will be no‘ next’; I'm thinking soon I'll lie

With all the ones I've laid away... but oh, the hope will cheer!

You know you're all that's left to me, and we are seas apart;

But if you'll only SAY you'll come, then will I hope and pray.

I'm waiting by the grave-side, lad; and all that's in my heart

Is just to see my boy again before I'm called away.”