The Mother’s Remonstrance Poem by Joanna Baillie

HAST thou well my counsels weigh'd,
Shew me not that gay cockade;--
I have watch'd thy tender years,
With a mother's hopes and fears;
I should yield thee up with tears.
Thou would'st only live for fame,
Thou would'st win a hero's name,--
But thou know'st not what I know;
I have seen the realms of woe,
Where the soldier's laurels grow.--
Can'st thou thirst and famine bear,
Yet march on with cheerful air?
Can'st thou stand the autumn's rain,
On a cold and marshy plain,
When thy gallant heart is vain?
When thy comrades round thee fall,
When 'tis death and tumult all,
Can'st thou then untroubled stand,
With thy reason at command,
To save thy shatter'd band?

Can'st thou die, as soldiers die,
Give to love thy last sad sigh,
Then, 'mid dead and dying cast,
Feel thy dreams of glory past,
Yet contented breathe thy last?--
'Twas thus thy father fell.--
I could ne'er the story tell--
But I see his image now,
With the death-blood on his brow;--
I surviv'd, I know not how.--
'Twas for thee that life was dear,--
But my words thou wilt not hear;
And the fire, ev'n while I speak,
Mantles higher on thy cheek,
To reproach my fondness weak.--
Oh! on th' embattled field,
May the God of Battles shield
Thee, the soldier's widow's son!--
--Return with laurels won--
Or his righteous will be done.—