Auld Scotland At The Abbey Craig In November, 1864 Poem by Janet Hamilton

As white as a ghaist, wi' a tear in her e'e,
Her gray hair doon-hingin' oot-ower her e'ebree,
Gangs auld mither Scotlan', sair mournin' the shame
That's lyin' e'en noo on her bairns an' her name.


That haf-bigget touir they hae raised on the height
O' the auld Craig at Stirlin' to Wallace the wight-
The day it was foundit her auld lyart pow
Fu' heich she was haudin'; its laigh eneuch now.


She daurna leuk up she's sae doon i' the mouth:
Weel kens she the bodies that dwall in the South,
And specially the Cockneys, are lauchin' ilk ane
At her an' her sticket big humplock o' stane.


The wins o' November blaw sleety and chill,
But she's aff through the heather awa' to the hill;
Like a ghaist she gangs wannerin' an' mournin' alane,
An' the auld Abbey echoes her sorrowfu' mane:


O! shade o' my Wallace! the sainted, the blest,
Frae the mansions abune, frae thy bricht place o' rest,
Dost see thy ain Scotlan' in sorrow and shame
That her son's hae neglected to nourish thy fame?


The Scots are lang gane that 'wi' Wallace hae bled,'
The Scots that the Bruce aft to victory led;
They fell, they are sleepin' on Fame's gory bed,
And their name still is ours, but their spirit is fled!


She cried, and the tear-draps were dried on her cheeks,
O listen, my bairns (it's your mither that speaks);
Bring gowd in your gowpens to big up the touir:
Wi' the will there's a way, wi' the means there's a power.