When sair foredung wi' crabbit care,
When days come dark whilk promised fair,
To cheer the gloom, just come an' share
The pleasures o' our rockin'.
THE WIDOW.
Oh, there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain,
Oh, there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain;
Though the heart o' this warld 's as hard as a stane,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain.
Though totterin' noo, like her auld crazy biel,
Her step ance the lichtest on hairst-rig or reel;
Though sighs tak' the place o' the heart-cheerin' strain,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
Though humble her biggin', and scanty her store,
The beggar ne'er yet went unserved frae her door;
Though she aft lifts the lid o' her girnel in vain,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
Though thin, thin her locks, noo like hill-drifted snaw,
Ance sae glossy and black, like the wing o' the craw;
Though grief frae her mild cheek the red rose has ta'en,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
The sang o' the lark finds the Widow asteer,
The birr o' her wheel starts the nicht's dreamy ear;
The tears o'er the tow-tap will whiles fa' like rain,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
Ye may hear in her speech, ye may see in her claes,
That auld Widow Miller has seen better days,
Ere her auld Robin dee'd, sae fond an' sae fain'—
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
Oh, sad was the hour when the brave Forty-twa,
Wi' their wild-sounding pipes, march'd her callant awa';
Though she schules, feeds, an' cleeds his wee orphan wean,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!