23
Here, supported, cheered, and cherished,
Nine blest months I’ve lived, and mair;
Seen these infants clad and nourished,
Dried my tears, and tint despair:
Sometimes servin’, sometimes spinnin’,
Light the lanesome hours gae round,
Lightly, too, ilk quarter rinnin’
Brings yon angel’s helping pound.”
“Eight pounds mair,” cried Willie, fondly-
“Eight pounds mair will do nae harm;
And, oh Jean ! gin friends were kindly,
Twelve pounds soon might stock a farm.
There, ance mair, to thrive by ploughin’,
Freed frae a’ that peace destroys—
Idle waste and drucken ruin,
War, and a’ its murdering joys!”
Thrice he kissed his lang-lost treasure—
Thrice ilk bairn, but couldna speak:
Tears of love, and hope, and pleasure,
Streamed in silence down his cheek.
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