I sit afore a half-oot fire,
An' I am a' my lane,
Nae frien' or fremit daun'ers in,
For a' my fowk are gane.
An' John, that was my ain gudeman,
He sleeps the mools amang—
An auld frail body like mysel'—
It's time that I should gang.
The win' moans roun' the auld hoose en',
An' shakes the ae fir tree,
An' as it sughs it waukens up
Auld things fu' dear to me.
If I could only greet, my heart
It wadna be sae sair;
But tears are gane, an' bairns are gane,
An' baith come back nae mair.
Ay, Tam, puir Tam, sae fu' o' fun,
He faun' this warld a fecht,
An' sair, sair he was hauden doon,
Wi' mony a weary wecht.
He bore it a' until the en',
But, when we laid him doon,
The grey hairs there afore their time
Were thick amang the broon.
An' Jamie wi' the curly heid,
Sae buirdly, big an' braw,
Was cut doon in the pride o' youth
The first amang them a'.
If I had tears for thae auld een,
Then could I greet fu' weel,
To think o' Jamie lyin' deid
Aneath the engine wheel.
Wee Rab—what can I say o' him?
He's waur than deid to me,
Nae word frae him thae weary years
Has come across the sea.
Could I but ken that he was weel,
As here I sit this nicht,
This warld wi' a' its faucht an' care
Wad look a wee thing richt.
I sit afore a half-oot fire
An' I am a' my lane,
Nae frien' ha'e I to daun'er in,
For a' my fowk are gane.
I wuss that He wha rules us a',
Frae where He dwalls aboon,
Wad touch my auld grey heid, and say—
'It's time to cuddle doon.'