The Days That Are Geane Poem by Robert Anderson

Now, weyfe, sin the day--leet hes left us,
And drizzly sleet's 'ginnin to fa',
Let's creep owre the heartsome turf ingle,
And laugh the weyld winter awa';
Contented, thou spins the lang e'enin',
And I wi' my peype envy neane;
Then why shou'd we peyne about riches--
Let's think o' the days that are geane.

This crazy auld chair, when I think on't,
Nae wonder a tear blins my ee;
'Twas e'en my puir fadders, God rest him!
He valued this warl nit a flea:
His maxim was, be guid, and dui guid;
To mortal he wadna gie pain--
My chair's mair than gilded throne to me,
It prop'd the leel fellow that's gane.

Thy wheel that's gien cleedin' to monie,
O' mortals ay puts me i' meynd;
The spoke now at top, is suin lowest,
And thus it oft fares wi' mankeynd:
The clock, clickin', tells how Teyme passes,
A moment he'll tarry for neane;
Contented we'll welcome to--morrow,
Ay thankfu' for days that are geane.

Now fifty shwort years hae flown owre us,
Sin furst we fell in at the fair;
I've monie a teyme thowt, wi' new pleasure,
Nae weyfe cud wi' Jenny compare:
Tho' thy rwose has gien way to the wrinkle,
At changes we munna complain;
They're rich, whea in age are leet--hearted,
And mourn nit for days that are geane.

Our bairns are heale, hearty, and honest,
And willinly toil thro' the year;
Our duty we ay hae duin ti' them,
And poverty e'en let them bear:
Theer's Jenny hes larnin', and manners,
And Wully can match onie yen;
We tought tem my guid fadder's maxim,
And they'll bliss the auld fwok, when geane.

Theer's ae thing I lang, lang hae pray'd for,
Sud tyrant Deeth teer thee away,
And rob me o' life's dearest treasure,
May he gie me a caw the seame day!
If fworc'd to resign my auld lassie,
I cuddent lang linger my leane;
I'd creep to thy greave, broken--hearted,
Wi' thowts o' the days that are geane.