Maggie's Wean Poem by Alexander Anderson

I ken'd Maggie weel ere she grew to a wife,
An' smiled in the sunshine o' a' its sweet life;
But, wae's me, a twalmonth had scarce gane to rest
Ere the green kirkyard sod was laid ow'r her young breast,
Leavin' to this cauld warld, to warsle its lane,
A wee feeble lifie they ca'd Maggie's wean.


But it took root, and grew, for the angels abune
Water a' the buds left by their stems far ow'r sune,
Wi' their sweetest o' tears, that fa' saft as the dew,
While the mither looks on wi' a smile on her broo,
An' a fond half-hid yearning, that tells aye hoo fain
She wad come back ance mair to her mitherless wean.


But it thrived like a breckan fu' bonnie to see,
A canty bit thing fu' o' lauchin' an' glee;
An' prood were they a' ow'r this waif frae the strife,
When the cauld wave o' death wreck'd a mither's sweet life;
So ae afternoon a thocht enter'd my brain,
To gang up ance erran' an' see Maggie's wean.


When I gaed ben the room the wee lassie was there,
An' I scarce had got richt settled doon in the chair
Till she toddled up to me, and frankly and kin'
Put her wee han' sae trustfu' and saft into mine—
Lookin' up as if tryin' some thocht to explain,
Ken'd to nae ither body but Maggie's wee wean.


Then she lauch'd when we lauch'd, till in very delicht
Her pawkie blue een creepit fair oot o' sicht;
Tum'led ow'r the least thing that took haud o'her tae,
Put a froon on her broo, then wi' smiles chase't away;
Play'd her queerist o' tricks at a word ow'r again—
Nae winner her fowk's prood ow'r Maggie's wee wean.


Then she row'd wi' the dog on the rug a' her lane,
Her wee dumpy nose close to that o' his ain;
An' aye as his braid sonsie lugs got a pu',
Or his rough sides a dunch frae her han' or her broo,
He look'd proodly roun', as if tellin' us plain
That nane got sic freedom but Maggie's wee wean.


What a changfu' bit creature, for aye noo an' than,
When she took to the dumps, an' her mou' got half-thrawn,
Losh me! in a moment, afore ye could speak,
A sunny smile brichten'd her broo an' her cheek,
An' her blue een cam' oot like the skies after rain;
She's the April o' mitherless tots—Maggie's wean.


An' I couldna but think, as we join'd in her glee,
If the mither had been but amang us to see
A' the turns an' the flichts o' her wee dawtie's mirth,
What a joy wad been hers, far abune a' on earth,
As she clappit an' cuddled, prood, smirkin', an' fain,
Her Lilliput sel' in her ain bonnie wean.


But I thocht, an' I think, that she still lookit doon
Frae her ain happy hame wi' the angels abune,
Whisperin' words to her bairnie we couldna hear said,
Layin' han's that we couldna see on her wee head,
While the bricht, happy smiles were but types o' her ain,
Fa'in' saft as her love on the broo o' her wean.


Ay me! this auld warl' moves on wi' sic stride,
That the best o' oor thochts are flung a' to the side,
An' we think, as the soun' fills the braid toilin' day,
That alang wi't God draws Himsel' farrer away;
But He speaks oot amang us at times unco plain,
When we look on a wee smilin' mitherless wean.