HALF o’ us drooned in the Firth! | |
| Hearses at ilk ither door! | |
| No a hale heart in the toon, | |
| No a dry e’e on the shore! | |
| No a hooss but has its dead, | 5 |
| Father, or cousin, or brither! | |
| For nane o’ us stands by himsel’, | |
| We are a’ sib to ilk ither. | |
| |
| My Janet was wedded to Jake, | |
| George was my brither-in-law, | 10 |
| Elsie was promised to Will— | |
| An’ noo they’re a’ dead an’ awa’; | |
| Drooned within sight o’ their hames, | |
| Throttled richt doon to their graves, | |
| Wi’ the screams o’ their wives an’ the weans | 15 |
| Mixed up wi’ the crash o’ the waves. | |
| |
| Lord God, what does it mean? | |
| They were a’ brave lads an’ true, | |
| And what can this misery bring | |
| O’ profit tae us or you? | 20 |
| My head gangs roon when I think | |
| Hoo the sea lay calm in the bay, | |
| Till it had them a’ weel in its grip, | |
| An’ took the brave lads for a prey. | |
| |
| Lord, keep me frae sin if ye can: | 25 |
| I canna be sure what I do; | |
| There’s Elsie sits dazed-like an’ dumb, | |
| And Janet moans a’ the day through; | |
| I try tae keep hauds o’ Thee, Lord, | |
| But a’ that I get for my pains | 30 |
| Is tae drift farther into the dark | |
| ’Mid the wail o’ the women an’ weans. | |
| |
| Oh, the folk are a’ kind in their way, | |
| Baith gentle an’ simple, nae doot; | |
| An’ ready wi’ pity an’ prayers, | 35 |
| An’ siller if siller wu’d do’t! | |
| But prayers winna bring the lads back, | |
| An’ pity feels almost like mockin’, | |
| An’ a’ the fine gowd i’ the lan’ | |
| Winna sowder the heart that is broken. | 40 |
| |
| The bairnies are greetin’ a’ day, | |
| An’ the women are moanin’ a’ nicht, | |
| An’ the bread winna gang doon oor throats, | |
| An’ the Book doesna bring ony licht; | |
| An’ though there’s nae hope in oor hearts, | 45 |
| We gang an’ glower lang at the sea, | |
| An’ scan weel the rig o’ ilk boat, | |
| An’ then we come hame like tae dee. | |
| |
| Half o’ us drooned i’ the Firth! | |
| A’ o’ us drooned in despair! | 50 |
| Bairns cryin’, “Daddie, come hame,” | |
| As their mithers are rivin’ their hair! | |
| An’ where there’s a corpse they are glad, | |
| For the sea has the maist in her maw; | |
| An’ I watna weel what’s tae come neist— | 55 |
| But, Lord, if ye’d just tak’ us a’. | |
| |
