A poem by Violet Jacob

Maggie, I ken that ye are happ'd in glory
And nane can gar ye greet;
The joys o' Heaven are evermair afore ye,
It's licht about yer feet.

I ken nae waefu' thochts can e'er be near ye
Nor sorrow fash yer mind,
In yon braw place they winna let ye weary
For him ye left behind.

Thae nichts an' days when dule seems mair nor double
I'll need to dae my best,
For aye ye took the half o' ilka trouble,
And noo I'd hae ye rest.

Yer he'rt'll be the same he'rt since yer flittin',
Gin auld love doesna tire,
Sae dinna look an' see yer lad that's sittin'
His lane aside the fire.

The sky is keen wi' dancin' stars in plenty,
The New Year frost is strang;
But, O my lass! because the Auld Year kent ye
I'm sweir to let it gang!

But time drives forrit; and on ilk December
There waits a New Year yet,
An naething bides but what our he'rts remember -
Maggie, ye'll na forget?

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