Whan furth ye gaed tae bide maternity,
A dream o bairns ungotten fixed ma thocht,
Wraiths knittit frae us twa in fainness claucht;
A clan that corporate nou will niver be.
If A thirl masel forby tae mode's decreet,
An ilkane plants apairt, o dowf desire,
A race o tumshies nae heich ettles' fire
Coud licht like oors, tho niver yit we see't;
An, stung that weirdit lifes coud miscompone
Baith murns the dooble dounset; daurs tae speir
At thon Gret Dame that heids oor carnate loan
Forwhy the unfurmed regents isna here:
Whit will she answer? That she'll shed nae tear
Tho warld's end the tide o bluid postpone.
Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
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