HER hands upon her brows are pressed,
⁠She goes upon her knees to pray,
Her head is bowed upon her breast,
⁠And, oh, she's sairly failed the day.

Her breast is old, it will not rise,
⁠Her tearless sobs in anguish choke,
God put His finger on her eyes,
⁠And then it was her tears that spoke.

"I've ha'en o' brawer sons a flow,
⁠My Walter mair renown could win,
And he that followed at the plough,
⁠But Louis was my Benjamin.

"Ye sons wha do your little best,
⁠Ye writing Scots, put by the pen,
He's deid, the ane abune the rest,
⁠I winna look at write again.

"It's sune the leave their childhood drap,
⁠I've ill to ken them, gaen sae grey,
But aye he climbed intil my lap,
⁠Or pu'd my coats to make me play.

"He egged me on wi' mirth and prank,
⁠We hangit gowans on a string,
We made the doakens walk the plank,
⁠We mairit snails withoot the ring.

"'I'm auld,' I pant, 'sic ploys to mak,
⁠To games your mither shouldna stoup,'
'You're gey and aul',' he cries me back,
⁠'That's fou I like to gar you loup !'

"O' thae bit ploys he made sic books,
⁠A' mithers cam to watch us playing;
I feignèd no to heed their looks,
⁠But fine I kent what they was saying!

"At times I lent him for a game
⁠To north and south and east and west,
But no for lang, he sune cam hame,
⁠For here it was he played the best.

"And when he had to cross the sea
⁠He wouldna lat his een grow dim,
He bravely dree'd his weird for me,
⁠I tried to do the same for him.

"Ahint his face his pain was sair,
⁠Ahint hers grat his waefu' mither,
We kent that we should meet nae mair,
⁠The ane saw easy thro' the ither.

"For lang I've watched wi' trem'ling lip,
⁠But Louis ne'er sin syne I've seen,
The greedy island keept its grip,
⁠The cauldriff oceans rolled at ween.

"He's deid, the ane abune the rest,
⁠Oh, wae, the mither left alane!
He's deid, the ane I loo'ed the best,
⁠Oh, mayna I hae back my nain!"

Her breast is old it will not rise,
⁠Her tearless sobs in anguish choke,
God put his finger on her eyes,
⁠It was her tears alone that spoke.

Now out the lights went stime by stime,
⁠The towns crept closer round the kirk,
Now all the firths were smored in rime,
⁠Lost winds went wailing thro' the mirk.

A star that shot across the night
⁠Struck fire on Pala's mourning head,
And left for aye a steadfast light,
⁠By which the mother guards her dead.

"The lad was mine!" Erect she stands,
⁠No more by vain regrets oppress't,
Once more her eyes are clear; her hands
⁠Are proudly crossed upon her breast.