CONTENTMENT

W.D COCKER

The hoose is a’ quate an’ the weans are in bed;

Jean sits by the fire wi’ her needle an’ thread; 

Sae thrang wi’ her thi’mle that seldom she speaks;

She’s patchin’ a hole in oor wee Bobbie’s breeks.

An’ as she sits shooin’ she gies a bit smile;

“what’s this in his pooches?’ she says in while;

“Juist rype them an’ see, lass,” says I, for a splore,

An’ oot on the table comes wee Bobbie’s store.

A fankled bit string, then a plunker an’ glassie;

Wi’ ane or two bools an’ the heid o’ a brassie;

The warks o’ a watch that had gane tapsalteerie,

A pirn he had whittled to mak’ him a peerie:

A wee tait o’ putty, a sooker, a sling,

A knife wi’oot blades, an’ a puckle mair string,

A wee bit slate pencil, an”, oh! the sly loon,

The crust o’ a piece that was hard to get doon.

We pit them a’ back, an” I lauch to his mither;

What’s treasure to ane may be trash to anither;

An’ to us the possessions the pridefu’ man seeks

Are like trash in the pooches o’ wee Bobbie’s breeks

* * *

      Ma Mither Tung 

Awa wi aw yer high-flown speech! 

   Tho framed wi muckle airt,

A cannae thole its plishit soonds,

   They dinnae reach the hairt;

Gie me the straicht-oot feckfu crack

   Frae affectation free,

An deed it in the guid braid Scotch

   Ma mither tung  for me! 

An wha are they that caw it coorse,

   Nor fit for cultured ear?

It's accents speak o' Freedom's micht,

   An aw the hairt hauds dear;

Let aw gang wrang, an may ma hairt

   Wi dule an wae be wrung,

Gin A forget or lichtly speak

   O thee, Ma mither tung  for me! 

Ma mither tung   - ah, yes twas hers

   Wha bein gave tae me;

A'll mind her guid auld-farrant wards

   Until the day A dee.

Their hamely music thrills me thro,

   An maks me aince mair yung;

Nae wunder tho I lou  it weel,

   Ma ain -Ma mither tung  for me! 

When far awa fae Scotland's shore, 

   Oot ower the saut sea faem,

Her mony wanderin sons aft think

   Upon their ain auld hame;

When nocht upon their weary ears

   But stranger speech is flung,

They lang tae hear the kindly sough

   O their ain mither tung. 

An syne its sangs - oor ain Scots sangs,

   Nane may wi them compare,

For natur, an the passions aw,

   Are mirrored truly there;

May mony mair, as time rows on

   By Scotia's bairns be sung!

An sae like brithers mak us aw

   Wha lou oor mither tung 

* * *

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