Poem by Alexander Anderson

Wauken up

Wull I ha'e to speak again
 To thae weans o' mine?
Eicht o'clock, an' weel I ken
 The schule gangs in at nine.
Little hauds me but to gang
 An' fetch the muckle whup—
O, ye sleepy-heidit rogues,
 Wull ye wauken up?

Never mither had sic faught—
 No' a moment's ease;
Cleed Tam as ye like, at nicht
 His breeks are through the knees.
Thread is no' for him ava'—
 It never hauds the grup;
Maun I speak again ye rogues—
 Wull ye wauken up?

Tam, the very last to bed,
 He winna rise ava'
Last to get his books an' sklate—
 Last to won awa'.
Sic a limb for tricks an' fun—
 Heeds na' what I say,
Rab and Jamie—but thae plagues—
 Wull they sleep a' day?

Here they come, the three at ance,
 Lookin' gleg an' fell,
Hoo they ken their bits o' claes
 Beats me fair to tell.
Wash your wee bit faces clean,
 An' here's your bite an' sup—
Never was mair wiselike bairns
 Noo they've waukened up.

There, the three are aff at last,
 I watch them frae the door,
That Tam, he's at his tricks again,
 I coont them by the score.
He's put his fit afore wee Rab,
 An' coupit Jamie doon,
Could I but lay my han's on him
 I'd mak' him claw his croon.

Noo to get my wark on han'
 I'll ha'e a busy day,
But losh! the hoose is unco quate
 Since they are a' away.
A dizzen times I'll look the clock
 When it comes roun' to three,
For, cuddlin' doon, or waukenin' up,
 They're dear, dear bairns to me.

1. Nottman
2. Cuddle Doon
3. “Drew the Wrong Lever!”
4. The Long Deep Grass in Springing
5. Bonnie Bessie Logan

Print

1203 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version