THE END O’T
There’s a fine braw thistle that lifts its croon
By the river-bank whaur the ashes stand,
An’ the swirl o’ water comes whisp’rin’ doon
Past birk an’ bramble an’ grazin’ land.
But simmer’s flittit an’ time’s no heedin’
A feckless lass nor a pridefu’ flow’r;
The dark to hide me’s the grace I’m needin’,
An’ the thistle’s seedin’
An’ my day’s owre.
I redd the hoose an’ I meat the hens
(Oh, it’s ill to wark when ye daurna tire!)
An’ what’ll I get when my mither kens
It’s niver a maiden that biggs her fire?
I mind my pray’rs, but I’m feared to say them,
I hide my een, for they’re greetin’ fast,
What though I blind them—for wha wad hae them?
The licht’s ga’en frae them
An’ my day’s past.
Oh, wha tak’s tent for a fadin’ cheek?
No him, I’se warrant, that gar’d it fade!
There’s little love for a lass to seek
When the coortin’s through an’ the price is paid.
Oh, aince forgotten’s forgotten fairly,
An’ heavy endit what’s licht begun,
But God forgie ye an’ keep ye, Chairlie,
For the nicht’s fa’en airly
An’ my day’s done!