The Last O The Tinkler Poem by Violet Jacob

LAY me in yon place, lad,
The gloamin's thick wi nicht;
I canna see yer face, lad,
For my een's no richt,
But it's ower late for leein,
An I ken fine I'm deein,
Like an auld craw fleein
To the last o the licht.
The kye gang to the byre, lad,
An the sheep to the fauld,
Ye'll mak a spunk o fire, lad,
For my hert's turned cauld;
An whaur the trees are meetin,
There's a soond like waters beatin,
An the bird seems near to greetin,
That was aye singin bauld.
There's jist the tent to leave, lad,
I've gaithered little gear,
There's jist yersel to grieve, lad,
An the auld dug here;
An when the morn comes creepin,
An the waukwnin birds are cheepin,
It'll finnd me lyin sleepin
As I've slept saxty year.
Ye'll rise to meet the sun, lad,
An baith be traivelin west,
But me that's auld an duin, lad,
I'll bide an tak my rest;
For the grey heid is bendin,
An the auld shuin's needin mendin,
But the traivelin's near its endin,
An the end's aye the best.