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What hae I, cried Willie, waking, What hae I frae night to dree? orn, through clouds in splendour breaking, Lights nae brightning hope to me.

House nor hame, nor farm nor stedding, Wife nor bairns hae I to see, House nor hame, nor bed nor bedding, What hae I frae night to dree?

air, alas! and sad and many Are the ills poor mortals share, Yet, though hame nor bed ye hae nae, Yield nae, Soldier, to despair.

What’s this life, sae wae and wearie, If Hope's brightning beams should fail? See, though night comes, dark and eerie, Yon sma' cot-light cheers the dale.

Where, though walth and waste ne'er riot, Humbler joys their comforts shed, labour--health—content and quiet— Mourner, there ye’se get a bed.

Wife'tis true, wi bairnies smiling, There, alas! ye need nae seek— Yet there bairns, ilk care beguiling, Paint wi smiles a mither's cheek.

A’ her earthly pride and pleasure Left to cheer her widow'd lot, A’ her wardly walth and treasure To adorn her lanely cot!