Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/130
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THE MOTHER'S JEWELS.
Them baith waesooks I couldna get,
An' sae wi' tearfu' e'e
I swithered lang on whilk to spen'
My first bawbee.
An' sae wi' tearfu' e'e
I swithered lang on whilk to spen'
My first bawbee.
At length a wheedlin' Eerish loon
Began to brawl an' brag;
Says he, "Come here, my little lad,
An' try the lucky bag.
Began to brawl an' brag;
Says he, "Come here, my little lad,
An' try the lucky bag.
If you have but one copper got—
For it you may get three;
Shure, never venture never win—
Come sport wi' your bawbee."
For it you may get three;
Shure, never venture never win—
Come sport wi' your bawbee."
Sae at the bag I tried my luck;
But hope was dang agee—
A blank was mine, and sae I lost
My first bawbee.
But hope was dang agee—
A blank was mine, and sae I lost
My first bawbee.
A tear cam' happin' ower my cheek,
As sad I daundered hame,
Wi' hunger tum'lin' up an' doun
Like win' within my wame.
As sad I daundered hame,
Wi' hunger tum'lin' up an' doun
Like win' within my wame.
I telt auld grannie a' my tale;
"You've gane far wrang," said she;
"But muckle guid may yet come oot
Your first bawbee."
"You've gane far wrang," said she;
"But muckle guid may yet come oot
Your first bawbee."
The Mother's Jewels.
The dreamy night draws nigh;
Soft airs delicious breathe of mingled flowers,
And on the wings of slumber creep the hours;
The moon is high.
See yonder tiny cot,
The lattice decked with vines; a tremulous ray
Strolls out to where the silver moonbeams lay,
Yet pales them not!
Soft airs delicious breathe of mingled flowers,
And on the wings of slumber creep the hours;
The moon is high.
See yonder tiny cot,
The lattice decked with vines; a tremulous ray
Strolls out to where the silver moonbeams lay,
Yet pales them not!