Work-a-day Warriors/The Song of the Sock
THE SONG OF THE SOCK
DEDICATED TO LADY BAXTER OF INVEREIGHTY
He stood within the flooded trench,The water reached his knee,His feet seemed like twa icebergs sunkDeep in an Arctic sea;His heart was cold; his hands were coldAnd dead as granite blocks:"Lord! What would I no gi'e the nichtFor a clean pair o' socks!"
He stood within the tottering trench,The water touched his thigh;His wits were wander'ed, wanting sleep,But down he daurna lie;His blood seemed frozen; "Lord," he cried,"Could I but slip my fitIn saft, warm woolly socks, the kindMy mither used to knit!"
He followed down the twining trenchThe way the men did go;Sometimes he wrastled in a sloughAs stern as Solway Flow.Richt ruefully, "Why did I no'Bide at hame like ither folks?"Syne dourly swore he'd see it thro',If he had but clean socks!
He struggled on the endless road,All through the endless night,Thro' wind and weet, thro' snaw and sleet,He was a waeful wight;Quo' he, "I dinna mind being killed,I dinna mind the knocks,If only I could put my feetInto a pair o' socks!"
He stumbled thro' the silent town,And to the ruined farm,Then threw himself among the strawAnd found it welcome, warm;But the clay walls were ill-designedTo stay the Winter's shocks,And a' the nicht his feet were cauld—He dreamed o' nought but socks!
He dreamed that on his mother's knee,A golden, curly head,Before the fire he warmed his feetEre he should go to bed;She felt his tiny toes—He woke—'Twas but a dream that mocks;For she was dead—" Or I this dayWad no' hae wanted socks!"
Just then a much-wished mail came in,And there was great a-do,To find out rightly which was which,And what was there for who;The postman picked a parcel up;"For Private Weelum Knox!"—Will slipped the string, and out there fellA pair o' worsted socks!
There was beside a hame-baked cakeTo help him wi' his tea;A case of Straight Cut CigarettesStraight frae Virginiee;Some soap, some jam, a packet neatO' Edina's far-famed rocks,But first and best o' a', a pairO' well-knit woollen socks!
They werena fashioned frail and fine,Too dainty for defiling,Not like the lasses' silken hoseWorn for the lads' beguiling;They bore no dandified designO' arrows or o' clocks—But just an honest, homely pairO' hand-made Scottish socks!
"Now, thank the Lord!" he softly cried,"For woman's skilful hand,And thank the Lord for woman's heartSo swift to understand!And thanks to her, matron or maid,Seventeen or seventy-three,The socks who wrought, and had the thoughtTo send them out to me!
Was't frae some mither, such as his?Working her "purl and plain,"And thinking o' her absent ladTill the tears drapp'd down like rain; Her hands aye full o' housely work,Patching trousers, mending frocks,Yet somehow finding time to knitA pair o' sodger's socks?
Was't frae some grand dame, nearly done,Yet eager still to do,And full of memories of her sireWho fought at Waterloo?Was't frae a maid o' modest mien,Soft eyes, and silken locks?—Here Will pu'ed up his straying thoughts,And pu'ed on baith the socks!
Then quickly pu'ed ane off, to findA note, the which did say:"I hope these socks will warm your feet,Yours faithfully, Nell Grey."—They warmed his feet, they fired his heart—Wi' fearsome "Heuchs!" and "Hocks!"The day they wed, it's like I'll danceThe soles out o' my socks!
O, women in this woeful time,Who work while ye do weep,Forget not that who goeth forthThe sheaves shall surely reap;Hearts that bemoan a man child slain—Hands that the Cradle rock,May knit this broken world again,Knitting a soldier's sock!