"I'm taking pen in hand this night, and hard it is for me; My poor old fingers tremble so, my hand is stiff and slow, And even with my glasses on I'm troubled sore to see. . . . You'd little know your mother, boy; you'd little, little know. You mind how brisk and bright I was, how straight and trim and smart; 'Tis weariful I am the now, and bent and frail and grey. I'm waiting at the road's end, lad; and all that's in my heart, Is just to see my boy again before I'm called away."
"Oh well I mind the sorry day you crossed the gurly sea; 'Twas like the heart was torn from me, a waeful wife was I. You said that you'd be home again in two years, maybe three; But nigh a score of years have gone, and still the years go by. I know it's cruel hard for you, you've bairnies of your own; I know the siller's hard to win, and folks have used you ill: But oh, think of your mother, lad, that's waiting by her lone! And even if you canna come -- just write and say you will."
"Aye, even though there's little hope, just promise that you'll try. It's weary, weary waiting, lad; just say you'll come next year. I'm thinking there will be no `next'; I'm thinking soon I'll lie With all the ones I've laid away . . . but oh, the hope will cheer! You know you're all that's left to me, and we are seas apart; But if you'll only say you'll come, then will I hope and pray. I'm waiting by the grave-side, lad; and all that's in my heart Is just to see my boy again before I'm called away."