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SCOTLAND'S LAMENT[1]
By Sir J. M. Barrie
Her hands upon her brows are pressed,
She goes upon her knees to pray,
Her head is bowed upon her breast,
And, oh, she's sairly failed the day.
She goes upon her knees to pray,
Her head is bowed upon her breast,
And, oh, she's sairly failed the day.
Her breast is old, it will not rise,
Her tearless sobs in anguish choke,
God put His finger on her eyes,
And then it was her tears that spoke.
Her tearless sobs in anguish choke,
God put His finger on her eyes,
And then it was her tears that spoke.
"I've ha'en o' brawer sons a flow,
My Walter mair renown could win,
And he that followed at the plough,
But Louis was my Benjamin.
My Walter mair renown could win,
And he that followed at the plough,
But Louis was my Benjamin.
"Ye sons wha do your little best,
Ye writing Scots, put by the pen,
He's deid, the ane abune the rest,
I winna look at write again.
Ye writing Scots, put by the pen,
He's deid, the ane abune the rest,
I winna look at write again.
"It's sune the leave their childhood drap,
I've ill to ken them, gaen sae grey,
But aye he climbed intil my lap,
Or pu'd my coats to make me play.
I've ill to ken them, gaen sae grey,
But aye he climbed intil my lap,
Or pu'd my coats to make me play.
"He egged me on wi' mirth and prank,
We hangit gowans on a string,
We made the doakens walk the plank,
We mairit snails withoot the ring.
We hangit gowans on a string,
We made the doakens walk the plank,
We mairit snails withoot the ring.
"'I'm auld,' I pant, 'sic ploys to mak,
To games your mither shouldna stoup,'
'You're gey and aul',' he cries me back,
'That's fou I like to gar you loup!'
To games your mither shouldna stoup,'
'You're gey and aul',' he cries me back,
'That's fou I like to gar you loup!'
- ↑ All rights reserved. First published in The Bookman, January, 1895.
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