Dae ye know whaut am gane tae tell yese, A hae had a wile time o guid guid freens passin awa in tha last wheen o months.
In tha last week it haes bane jest desperate, am mair nir feart tae luk tha paper in tha mornin’ for fear mae ain name micht bae there. But it haes got mae switherin aboot hoo shoart life is. Wae that in mine am gane let yese hae a keek at a wee rhyme thaut taaks aboot these things in general. It wus scrieved bae T. Given awa bak in 1909.
The morning o’ their day/Oor bairns wur a aboot us/ In the morning o’ their day/ How could they dae withoot us/ In the morning o’ their day?/ Yet as kittlin’ wae a pretae,/ As it skites it through the hoose,/ Or lamb aside its mither,/ Niver loupit half sae croose,/ As the wee yins a’ through ither/ In their parliament o’ play,/ Forcing health on yin anither/ In the morning o’ their day.
We had little tae dement us/ In the morning o’ their day,/ Weel pleased wae what was sent us/ In the morning o’ their day/ Big clouds micht lower an’ blacken,/ An craps wi’ mildew rot,/ We had yae phrase tae reckon/ Contentment wae oor lot. Sae lang as Fate wus freenly/ We wur proud o each display/ O’ oor bairns’ noon an e’enly/ In the morning o’ their day.
There wus music in the sheelin’/ In the morning o’ their day,/ Youth, hope, an mirth revealin’/ In the morning o’ their day/ The world wae a its canker/Had little terror then/Wae young hands tae fa’ back on/ We cud either len’ or spen’/ School books weel thumbed at ilka page/ Nor conned for doufe display/ Made up that all important stage/ The morning o’ their day.
Still Time his log kept writin’/ In the morning o’ their day,/Each tick seemed fain inviting/Frae the morning o’ their day/Their sun o’ expectation/Though dimmed wae doubts an’ fears/Kept shining on their scholar heads
An’ months grew into years/Wae toys o’ childhood flung aside/Nor neded in the fray/Made up that all important stride – The middle o their day/ Wus Fate that turned tae mournin’/ The gloaming o oor day/ Wae scarce a glint adornin’/The gloaming o oor day ?
There’s quateness in the hallan/Ilk joyous theme’s unsung,/Green scraws within the kirkyerd/Are happin’ heads fu’ young/The corncrake’s pipe’s a burden/The licht has gaun astray/An’ yet the heart keeps hoarding/The memory o’ their day.
T. Given 1909.
A hope yese laked it, Aa fur noo