Prison Rhymes 7: ‘The Flittin’’ and ‘The Mother’s Plaint.’

The Flittin’.

We on Setterday were pentin'
And wi' heat were nearly fentin',
When a message frae the gate was howled in style-
" Christie, leave the paint-pots sittin',
Send your men to lift a flittin'
Up at the female quarters in the jile."

There were boxes, trunk, and crate,
A piano, too, in state;
They were heavy, and the stair was like a mile.
When oor een wi' sweat were blinkin',
We consoled oorselves wi' thinkin'
There may be something in the bottle in the jile.

We wrestled, hugged, and worried,
Heavy loads upstairs we hurried,
'And for reward we barely got a smile
Noo wi' achin' banes we're sittin,
Cursin' hard aboot the flittin'
O' the lass than cam frae Ayr to Dundee Jile.

The Mother’s Plaint.

O, heavy is the burden
That he bears upon his back,
And heavy are my eyelids
As I view the dreary track,
And sore and heavy are the feet
That tread the blood-red way,
And heavy, heavy is my heart
That waits and weeps to-day.

"Tis said they fight for justice
With their bayonets and guns;
Our lads are " God's own angels,"
And their foemen " Wicked Huns.!'
But their mothers wait as sadly
Far beyond the sweeping Rhine,
And their hearts, like ours, would gladly
Hail the dawn of peace sublime.