Her Letter

"I'm taking pen in hand this night, and hard it is for me;         My poor old fingers tremble so, my hand is stiff and slow,         And even with my glasses on I'm troubled sore to see. . . .         You'd little know your mother, boy; you'd little, little know.         You mind how brisk and bright I was, how straight and trim and smart;         'Tis weariful I am the now, and bent and frail and grey.         I'm waiting at the road's end, lad; and all that's in my heart,         Is just to see my boy again before I'm called away."         "Oh well I mind the sorry day you crossed the gurly sea;         'Twas like the heart was torn from me, a waeful wife was I.         You said that you'd be home again in two years, maybe three;         But nigh a score of years have gone, and still the years go by.         I know it's cruel hard for you, you've bairnies of your own;         I know the siller's hard to win, and folks have used you ill:         But oh, think of your mother, lad, that's waiting by her lone!         And even if you canna come - JUST WRITE AND SAY YOU WILL."         "Aye, even though there's little hope, just promise that you'll try.         It's weary, weary waiting, lad; just say you'll come next year.         I'm thinking there will be no 'next'; I'm thinking soon I'll lie         With all the ones I've laid away . . . but oh, the hope will cheer!         You know you're all that's left to me, and we are seas apart;         But if you'll only SAY you'll come, then will I hope and pray.         I'm waiting by the grave-side, lad; and all that's in my heart         Is just to see my boy again before I'm called away."