AW WISH YOE MUTHER WAD CUM!

  “Cum, Geordy, haud the bairn,
  Aw’s sure aw’ll not stop lang,
  Aw’d tyek the jewl me-sel,
  But really aw’s not strang. 
  Thor’s flooer and coals te get,
  The hoose-torns thor not deun,
  So haud the bairn for fairs,
  Ye’re often deun’d for fun!”

  Then Geordy held the bairn,
  But sair agyen his will,
  The poor bit thing wes gud,
  But Geordy had ne skill,
  He haddint its muther’s ways,
  He sat both stiff an’ num,—­
  Before five minutes wes past
  He wished its muther wad cum!

  His wife had scarcely gyen,
  The bairn begun te squall,
  Wi’ hikin’t up an’ doon
  He’d let the poor thing fall,
  It waddent haud its tung,
  Tho’ sum aud teun he’d hum,—­
  ‘Jack an’ Gill went up a hill’—­
  “Aw wish yor muther wad cum!”

  “What weary toil,” says he,
  “This nursin bairns mun be,
  A bit on’t’s weel eneuf,
  Ay, quite eneuf for me;
  Te keep a crying bairn,
  It may be grand te sum,
  A day’s wark’s not as bad—­
  Aw wish yor muther wad cum.

  “Men seldom give a thowt
  Te what thor wives indure,
  Aw thowt she’d nowt te de
  But clean the hoose, aw’s sure. 
  Or myek me dinner an’ tea—­
  It’s startin’ te chow its thumb,
  The poor thing wants its tit,
  Aw wish yor muther wad cum.”

  ’What a selfish world this is,
  Thor’s nowt mair se than man;
  He laffs at wummin’s toil,
  And winnet nurse his awn;—­
  It’s startin’ te cry agyen,
  Aw see tuts throo its gum,
  Maw little bit pet, dinnet fret,—­
  Aw wish yor muther wad cum.

  “But kindness dis a vast. 
  It’s ne use gettin’ vext. 
  It winnet please the bairn,
  Or ease a mind perplext. 
  At last—­its gyen te sleep,
  Me wife’ll not say aw’s num,
  She’ll think aw’s a real gud norse,
  Aw wish yor muther wud cum!”

  Joe Wilson

  THE AULD FISHER’S LAST WISH

  The morn is grey, and green the brae, the wind is frae the wast
  Before the gale the snaw-white clouds are drivin’ light and fast;
  The airly sun is glintin’ forth, owre hill, and dell, and plain,
  And Coquet’s streams are glitterin’, as they run frae muir to main.

  At Dewshill wood the mavis sings beside her birken nest,
  At Halystane the laverock springs upon his breezy quest;
  Wi’ eydent e’e, aboon the craigs, the gled is high in air,
  Beneath brent Brinkburn’s shadowed cliff the fox lies in his lair.

  There’s joy at merry Thristlehaugh tie new-mown hay to win;
  The busy bees at Todstead-shaw are bringing honey in;
  The trouts they loup in ilka stream, the birds on ilka tree;
  Auld Coquet-side is Coquet still—­but there’s nae place for me!

  My sun is set, my eyne are wet, cauld poortith now is mine;
  Nae mair I’ll range by Coquet-side and thraw the gleesome line;
  Nae mair I’ll see her bonnie stream in spring-bright raiment drest,
  Save in the dream that stirs the heart when the weary e’e’s at rest.