Work-a-day Warriors/The Song of the Sock

by Joseph Lee

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 sunk
Deep in an Arctic sea;
His heart was cold; his hands were cold
And dead as granite blocks:
"Lord! What would I no gi'e the nicht
For 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 fit
In saft, warm woolly socks, the kind
My mither used to knit!"

He followed down the twining trench
The way the men did go;
Sometimes he wrastled in a slough
As 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 feet
Into a pair o' socks!"

He stumbled thro' the silent town,
And to the ruined farm,
Then threw himself among the straw
And found it welcome, warm;
But the clay walls were ill-designed
To 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 feet
Ere 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 day
Wad 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 fell
A pair o' worsted socks!

There was beside a hame-baked cake
To help him wi' his tea;
A case of Straight Cut Cigarettes
Straight frae Virginiee;
Some soap, some jam, a packet neat
O' Edina's far-famed rocks,
But first and best o' a', a pair
O' well-knit woollen socks!

They werena fashioned frail and fine,
Too dainty for defiling,
Not like the lasses' silken hose
Worn for the lads' beguiling;
They bore no dandified design
O' arrows or o' clocks—
But just an honest, homely pair
O' hand-made Scottish socks!

"Now, thank the Lord!" he softly cried,
"For woman's skilful hand,
And thank the Lord for woman's heart
So swift to understand!
And thanks to her, matron or maid,
Seventeen or seventy-three,
The socks who wrought, and had the thought
To send them out to me!

Was't frae some mither, such as his?
Working her "purl and plain,"
And thinking o' her absent lad
Till the tears drapp'd down like rain;
Her hands aye full o' housely work,
Patching trousers, mending frocks,
Yet somehow finding time to knit
A pair o' sodger's socks?

Was't frae some grand dame, nearly done,
Yet eager still to do,
And full of memories of her sire
Who 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 find
A 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 dance
The soles out o' my socks!

O, women in this woeful time,
Who work while ye do weep,
Forget not that who goeth forth
The 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!