Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Midnight

Midnight.

"The darkest hour of night is the hour before the dawn."

 

"Ay, ay! I thocht it wad come to this at the last!Deein' o' want, an' the bite o' the wintry blast;Deein' o' hunger an' cauld; an' nane to see me dee—Nae ane to grip my han', nae une to stock my e'e.

"Eh! hoo the drivin' sleet comes unbidden through the roof;An' the cauld, canid sweat is half frozen in my loof;An' the win' howls wildly, as gin it cried for me—An' there's nane to grip my han', nane to steek my e'e.

"Since my auld man was laid doon 'neath the sod last year(My man for forty simmers), I've grat my e'en blear:I think o' the days o' lang syne, an' my bairns three—But my bairns dinna grip my han', nor steek my e'e.

"Deid, deid, a' deid! an' I wus I were deid an' a',Sleepin' amang the daisies, aneath the saft snaw,Wha's here to bid me bide? wha's here to care for me?I hae nane to grip my han', I hae nane to steek my e'e."

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Stiff in the straw she lay, when the dull morning broke;The redbreast chirruped without, but she never spoke;For there entered One in the night, and lovingly HeLaid her tired hand in His, and gently closed her e'e.