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| GRANDMITHER, think not I forget, when I come back to town, | |
| An’ wander the old ways again, an’ tread them up and down. | |
| I never smell the clover bloom, nor see the swallows pass. | |
| Wi’out I mind how good ye were unto a little lass; | |
| I never hear the winter rain a-pelting all night through | 5 |
| Wi’out I think and mind me of how cold it falls on you. | |
| An’ if I come not often to your bed beneath the thyme, | |
| Mayhap ’t is that I’d change wi’ ye, and gie my bed for thine, | |
| Would like to sleep in thine. | |
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| I never hear the summer winds among the roses blow | 10 |
| Wi’out I wonder why it was ye loved the lassie so. | |
| Ye gave me cakes and lollipops and pretty toys a score— | |
| I never thought I should come back and ask ye now for more. | |
| Grandmither, gie me your still white hands that lie upon your breast, | |
| For mine do beat the dark all night and never find me rest; | 15 |
| They grope among the shadows an’ they beat the cold black air, | |
| They go seekin’ in the darkness, an’ they never find him there, | |
| They never find him there. | |
| |
| Grandmither, gie me your sightless eyes, that I may never see | |
| His own a-burnin’ full o’ love that must not shine for me. | 20 |
| Grandmither, gie me your peaceful lips, white as the kirkyard snow, | |
| For mine be tremblin’ wi’ the wish that he must never know. | |
| Grandmither, gie me your clay-stopped ears, that I may never hear | |
| My lad a-singin’ in the night when I am sick wi’ fear; | |
| A-singin’ when the moonlight over a’ the land is white— | 25 |
| Ah, God! I’ll up and go to him, a-singin’ in the night, | |
| A-callin’ in the night. | |
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| Grandmither, gie me your clay-cold heart, that has forgot to ache, | |
| For mine be fire wi’in my breast an’ yet it cannot break. | |
| Wi’ every beat it’s callin’ for things that must not be,— | 30 |
| So can ye not let me creep in an’ rest awhile by ye? | |
| A little lass afeard o’ dark slept by ye years agone— | |
| An’ she has found what night can hold ’twixt sunset an’ the dawn: | |
| So when I plant the rose an’ rue above your grave for ye, | |
| Ye’ll know it’s under rue an’ rose that I would like to be, | 35 |
| That I would like to be. | |
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