Softly she slept in the night—her newborn bairn at her breast,
A wee warm crinkled hand to the dimpling bosom pressed—
As I rose from her side to go, though sore was my heart to stay,
To the ease of the labouring ewes that else would have died before day.

Banking the peats on the hearth, I reached from the rafter-hook
My lanthorn and kindled the wick; and taking my plaid and my crook,
I lifted the latch and turned once more to see if she slept;
And looked on the slumber of peace ere into the night I stepped—

Into the swirling dark of the driving, blinding sleet,
And a world that seemed to sway and slip from under my feet
As if rocked in the wind that swept the starless roaring night,
Yet fumed in a fury vain at my lanthorn's shielded light.

Clean-drenched in the first wild gust I battled across the garth
And passed through the clashing gate—the warm peat-glow of the hearth
And the quiet of love in my breast, the craven voices to quell,
As I set my teeth to the wind and turned to the open fell.

Over the tussocky bent I strove till I reached the fold—
My brow like ice and my hands so numbed that they scarce could hold
My crook or unloosen the pen; but I heard a lamb's weak cries
As the gleam of my lanthorn lit the night of its newborn eyes.

Toiling and trembling I watched each young life struggle for breath—
Fighting till dawn for my flock with the oldest of herdsmen, death;
And glad was my heart when at last the stackyard again I crossed,
And thought of the labour well-over with never a yeanling lost.

But as I came to the door of my home, drawing wearily nigh,
I heard with a boding heart a feeble whickering cry
Like a motherless yeanling's bleat; and I stood in the dawn's grey light,
Afraid of I knew not what, sore spent with the toil of the night.

Then setting a quaking hand to the latch, I opened the door,
And shaking the cold from my heart, I stumbled across the floor
To the bed where she lay so quiet, calm-bosomed, in dreamless rest,
And the wailing baby clutched in vain at the lifeless breast.

I looked on the still white face, then sank with a cry by the bed,
And knew that the hand of death had stricken my whole joy dead—
My flock, my world, and my heart—with my love at a single blow;
And I cried “I, too, will die!” and it seemed that life ebbed low

And the shadow of death drew nigh: when I felt the touch on my cheek
Of a little warm hand out-thrust, and I heard that wail so weak;
And knowing that not for me yet was there ease from love or strife,
I caught the babe to my breast and looked in the eyes of life.