Though thin, thin her locks, now like hill-drifted snaw,
Ance sae glossy and black, like the wing o' the craw;
Though grief frae her mild cheek the red rose has ta'en,
Yet there's naebody hears Widow Miller complain.
The sang o' the lark finds the widow asteer,
The birr o' her wheel starts the night's dreamy ear;
The tears o'er the tow-tap will whiles fa' like rain,
Yet there's naebody hears Widow Miller complain.
Ye may hear in her speech, ye may see in her claes,
That auld Widow Miller has seen better days,
Ere her auld Robin died, sae fond and sae fain—
Yet there's naebody hears Widow Miller complain.
Ye wealthy and wise in this fair world of ours,
When your fields wave wi' gowd, your gardens wi' flowers, When ye bind up the sheaves, leave out a few grains
To the heart-broken widow who never complains.
Intensity of her Grief as a Widow.
Among the tombs she walks at noon of night,
In miserable garb of widowhood.
Observe her yonder, sickly, pale, and sad,
Bending her wasted body o'er the grave
Of him who was the husband of her youth.
The moonbeams trembling through these ancient yews,
That stand like ranks of mourners round the bed
Of death, fall dismally upon her face,
Her little, hollow, wither'd face, almost
Invisible, so worn away with woe.
The tread of hasty foot, passing so late,
Disturbs her not; nor yet the roar of mirth,
From neighbouring revelry ascending loud.
She hears, sees nought, fears nought. One thought alone Fills all her heart and soul, half-hoping, half
Remembering, sad, unutterable thought!
Utter'd by silence and by tears alone.
Sweet tears! the awful language eloquent
Of infinite affection, far too big
For words. She sheds not many now.
Which springs so rankly o'er the dead, has drunk
Already many showers of grief; a drop
Or two are all that now remain behind,
And, from her eye that darts strange fiery beams,
At dreary intervals, drip down her cheek,
Falling most mournfully from bone to bone.
But yet she wants not tears. That babe, that hangs
Upon her breast, that babe that never saw
Its father he was dead before its birth-
Helps her to weep, weeping before its time,
Taught sorrow by the mother's melting force,
Repeating oft the father's sacred name.
Be not surprised at this expense of woe!
The man she mourns was all she call'd her own,
The music of her ear, light of her eye,
Desire of all her heart, her hope, her fear,
The element in which her passions lived,
Dead now, or dying all: nor long shall she
Visit that place of skulls. Night after night
She wears herself away. The moonbeam now,
That falls upon her unsubstantial frame,
Scarce finds obstruction; and upon her bones,
Barren as leafless boughs in winter-time,
Her infant fastens his little hands, as oft,
Forgetful, she leaves him awhile upheld.
But look, she passes not away in gloom.
A light from far illumes her face, a light
That comes beyond the moon, beyond the sun—
The light of truth divine, the glorious hope
Of resurrection at the promised morn,
And meetings then which ne'er shall part again.
As a thrifty old Widow.
A poore widow, somedeal stoop'n in age,
Was whilom dwelling in a narwé cottage
Beside a grove standing in a dale.
This widow, which I tell you of my
Since thilke day that she was last a wife,
In patience led a full simple life,
For little was her cattle and her rent;
By husbandry of such as God her sent,
She found herself and eke a sheep that highte Mall.
Full sooty was her bower and eke her hall,
In which she ate many a slender meal;
Of poignant sauce ne knew she never deal;
No dainty morsel pass'd through her throat;
Her diet was accordant to her cote:
Repletion ne made her never sick;
Attemper diet was all her physic,
And exercise, and heartes suffisance :
The goute let her nothing for to dance,
Ne apoplexy shente not her head;
No wine ne drank she, neither white nor red ;
Her board was served with white and black,
Milk and brown bread, in which she found no lack; Seinde bacon, and sometimes an egg or tway,
For she was as it were a manner day.
She is so conjunctive to my life and soul,
That as the star moves not but in his sphere,
I could not, but by her.
I feel my spirit humbled when you call
My love of home a virtue: 'tis the part
Yourself have play'd has fix'd me; for the heart
Will anchor where its treasure is; and small
As is the love I bear you; 'tis my all-
The widow's mite, compared with your desert:
You and our quiet room, then, are the mart
Of all my thoughts; 'tis there they rise and fall.
The parent bird that in its wanderings
O'er hill and dale, through copse and leafy spray,
Sees nought to lure his constant heart away
From her who gravely sits with furlèd wings,
Watching their mutual charge: howe'er he roam,
His eye still fixes on his mossy home.
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