Volume I Part 62 (2/2)

CHILDREN'S SONG

Sometimes wind and sometimes rain, Then the sun comes back again; Sometimes rain and sometimes snow, Goodness, how we'd like to know Why the weather alters so.

When the weather's really good We go nutting in the wood; When it rains we stay at home, And then sometimes other some Of the neighbors' children come.

Sometimes we have jam and meat, All the things we like to eat; Sometimes we make do with bread And potatoes boiled instead.

Once when we were put to bed We had nowt and mother cried, But that was after father died.

So, sometimes wind and sometimes rain, Then the sun comes back again; Sometimes rain and sometimes snow, Goodness, how we'd like to know If things will always alter so.

Ford Madox Ford [1873-

THE MITHERLESS BAIRN

When a' other bairnies are hushed to their hame By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'?

'Tis the puir doited loonie,--the mitherless bairn!

The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed; Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head; His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn, An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn.

Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there, O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair; But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, That lo'e na the locks o' the mitherless bairn!

Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly rocked bed Now rests in the mools where her mammie is laid; The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn, An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn.

Her spirit, that pa.s.sed in yon hour o' his birth, Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth; Recording in heaven the blessings they earn Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn!

O, speak him na harshly,--he trembles the while, He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile; In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless shall learn That G.o.d deals the blow, for the mitherless bairn!

William Thom [1798?-1848]

THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years?

They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, And that cannot stop their tears.

The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young birds are chirping in the nest, The young fawns are playing with the shadows, The young flowers are blowing toward the west-- But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly!

They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free.

Do you question the young children in the sorrow, Why their tears are falling so?

The old man may weep for his to-morrow Which is lost in Long Ago; The old tree is leafless in the forest, The old year is ending in the frost, The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, The old hope is hardest to be lost: But the young, young children, O my brothers, Do you ask them why they stand Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, In our happy Fatherland?

They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their looks are sad to see, For the man's h.o.a.ry anguish draws and presses Down the cheeks of infancy; ”Your old earth,” they say, ”is very dreary; Our young feet” they say, ”are very weak; Few paces have we taken, yet are weary-- Our grave-rest is very far to seek: Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children For the outside earth is cold, And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering, And the graves are for the old.

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