Classic Poem

November daies are short and dour,
And mirk, mirk fa's the night;
Sad and alane, by the firelight dim,
Is a dame, in weedes bedight.

For her four sons are gane frae her —
They are gane for mony a day:
And as she listeth the wind monand,
She grieveth, as well she may.

Twa of them were clerkly taught,
'Mid the hills their weird they drie —
And ane is aff on the high, high land,
And ane is farre in the South Countrie.

" O, quan sall I get letters? " she said,
" And quatten the newes I sall heare? "
There came nae aunswer, nor ony sound
But the sough o' the wind thro' the lindens dreare.

" And O, if I were sair sick! " she said,
" And O, if I suld dee!
And my deare sons sae farre awa,
And nane to comfort me.

" The ugsome worme wolde gnawe at my cheeke —
Sae wolde he at my chinne:
Lang, lang or e'er my bonnie sons
To their mither's side colde winne.

" And sairly wolde they greet to find
Nae welcome at the hearthe —
Nae welcome but frae twa white stanes
And a knowe o' new-turn'd earthe. "