The winter sat lang.
[By J. Mayne, author of "Logan Braes." See page 24.]
The winter sat lang on the spring o' the year,
Our seedtime was late, and our mailing was dear;
My mither tint her heart when she look'd on us a',
And we thought upon them that were farest awa';
O! were they but here that are farest awa'!
O! were they but here that are dear to us a'!
Our cares would seem light and our sorrows but sma'.
If they were but here that are far frae us a'!
Last week, when our hopes were o'erclouded wi' fear,
And nae ane at hame the dull prospect to cheer,
Our Johnnie has written, frae far awa' parts,
A letter that lightens and hauds up our hearts.
He says, "My dear mither, though I be awa',
In love and affection I'm still wi' ye a';
While I ha'e a being, ye'se aye ha'e a ha',
Wi' plenty to keep out the frost and the snaw."
My mither, o'erjoy'd at this change in her state,
By the bairn that she doated on early and late,
Gi'es thanks, night and day, to the Giver of a',
There's been naething unworthy o' him that's awa'!
Then, here is to them that are far frae us a',
The friend that ne'er fail'd us, though farest awa'!
Health, peace, and prosperity, wait on us a'!
And a blythe comin' hame to the friend that's awa'!