The Widow

The widow is feckless, the widow 's alane,
Yet nae ane e'er hears the puir widow complain;
For, ah! there 's a Friend that the world wots na o',
Wha brightens her ken, and wha lightens her wo.

She looks a' around her, and what sees she there
But quarrels and cavils, but sorrow and care?
She looks in within, and she feels in her breast
A dawning o' glory, a foretaste o' rest.

The hope o' hereafter her lane bosom cheers,
She langs sair to meet him wha left her in tears;
And life's flickerin' licht, as it wanes fast awa',
But fades to gie place to a far brichter daw.

The God o' high heaven is her comfort and guide,
When earthly friends leave her, He stands by her side;
He soothes a' her sorrows, an' hushes her fears,
An' fountains o' joy rise frae well-springs o' tears.

Then, oh! shew the widow the smile on your face,
She 's aft puir in gear, but she 's aft rich in grace;
Be kind to the widow, her Friend is on high,
You 'll meet wi' the widow again in the sky.