An Aged Widow's Lament

Oh, is he gane, my good auld man?

And am I left forlorn ?
And is that manly heart at rest,
The kindest e'er was born ?

We've sojourn'd here, thro' hope and fear,
For fifty years and three,
And ne'er in all that happy time
Said he harsh word to me.

And mony a braw and bourdly son,
And daughters in their prime,
His trembling hand laid in the grave,
Lang, lang afore the time.

I dinna greet the day, to see
That he to them has gane,
But oh, it's fearful thus to be
Left in a world alane,
Wi' a poor worn and broken heart,
Whose race of joy is run,
And scarce has little opening left
For aiight aneath the sun.

My life nor death I winna crave,
Nor fret, nor yet despond,
But a' my hope is in the grave,
And the dear hame beyond.