I CANNA see ye, lad, I canna see ye,
For a' yon glory that's aboot yer heid,
Yon licht that haps ye, an the hosts that's wi ye,
Aye, but ye live, an it's mysel that's deid!
They gaed frae mill an mart; frae wind-blawn places,
An grey toon-closes; i' the empty street
Nae mair the bairns ken their steps, their faces,
Nor stand to listen to the trampin feet.
Beside the brae, an souchin throu the rashes,
Yer voice comes back to me at ilka turn,
Amang the whins, an whaur the watter washes
The arn-tree wi its feet amangst the burn.
Whiles ye come back to me when day is fleein,
An a' the road oot-by is dim wi nicht,
But weary een like mine is no for seein,
An, gin they saw, they wad be blinnd wi licht.
Daith canna kill. The muils o France lie ower ye,
An yet ye live, O sodger o the Lord!
For Him that focht wi daith an duil afore ye,
He gied the life - 'twas Him that gied the sword.
But gin ye see my face or gin ye hear me,
I daurna ask, I maunna seek to ken,
Tho I should dee, wi sic a glory near me,
By nicht or day, come ben, my bairn, come ben!