I'm Taking Pen In Hand This Night, And Hard It Is For Me; My Poor Old Fingers Tremble So, My Hand Is Stiff And Slow, And Even With My Glasses On I'm Troubled Sore To See. . . . You'd Little Know Your Mother, Boy; You'd Little, Little Know. You Mind How Brisk And Bright I Was, How Straight And Trim And Smart; 'Tis Weariful I Am The Now, And Bent And Frail And Grey. I'm Waiting At The Road'S End, Lad; And All That's In My Heart, Is Just To See My Boy Again Before I'm Called Away. "Oh Well I Mind The Sorry Day You Crossed The Gurly Sea; 'Twas Like The Heart Was Torn From Me, A Waeful Wife Was I. You Said That You'd Be Home Again In Two Years, Maybe Three; But Nigh A Score Of Years Have Gone, And Still The Years Go By. I Know It's Cruel Hard For You, You've Bairnies Of Your Own; I Know The Siller'S Hard To Win, And Folks Have Used You Ill: But Oh, Think Of Your Mother, Lad, That's Waiting By Her Lone! And Even If You Canna Come - Just Write And Say You Will." "Aye, Even Though There'S Little Hope, Just Promise That You'll Try. It's Weary, Weary Waiting, Lad; Just Say You'll Come Next Year. I'm Thinking There Will Be No 'Next'; I'm Thinking Soon I'll Lie With All The Ones I've Laid Away . . . But Oh, The Hope Will Cheer! You Know You're All That's Left To Me, And We Are Seas Apart; But If You'll Only Say You'll Come, Then Will I Hope And Pray. I'm Waiting By The Grave-Side, Lad; And All That's In My Heart Is Just To See My Boy Again Before I'm Called Away."