Classic Poem

" What ails brither Johnny, he'll no look at me,
But lies looking up wi' a half-steekit ee?
Oh, cauld is his hand, and his face pale and wee —
What ails brither Johnny, he'll no speak to me? "

" Alack, my wee lammie! your brither's asleep,
He looksna, he speaksna — yet, dear, dinna weep;
Ye'll break mither's heart gin ye sab ower him sae;
He's dreaming — he's gazing — on freends far away! "

" Oh, wha can he see like the freends that are here?
And whaur can he find hearts that lo'e him sae dear?
Just wauken him, mither! his brither to see,
I'll gie him the black frock my faither ga'e me. "

" Your black frock, my bairn, — ah! your brither is dead!
That symbol o' death sends a stound through my head.
I made mysel' trow he wad wauken ance mair;
But now he 's in Heaven — he 's waiting us there. "