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Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
"Tears, Idle Tears"
Wee Willie Winkie rins through the toon,
Upstairs and downstairs in his nicht-gown,
Tirlin' at the window, crying at the lock,
Are the weans in their bed, for it's now ten o'clock!
Hey, Willie Winkie, are ye comin' ben?
The cat's singing grey thrums to the sleepin' hen,
The dog's speldert on the floor and disna gie a cheep,
But here's a waukrife laddie that wunna fa' asleep!
Onything but sleep, you rogue! Glowerin' like the moon,
Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon;
Rumbin', tumblin' roon about, crawin' like a cock,
Skirlin' like I kenna what, wauk'nin sleepin' folk.
Hey, Willie Winkie - the wean's in a crecl,
Wamblin' aff a bodie's knee like a verra eel,
Ruggin' at the cat's lug and ravelin' a' her thrums,
Hey, Willie Winkie - see, there he comes.
Wearit is the mither that has a stoorie wean,
A wee stumpie stousie that canna rin his lane,
That has a battle aye wi' sleep afore he'll close an e'e-
But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gi'es stength anew to me.
William Miller
(1810-1872)
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