Rhymes of a Rolling Stone

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."