Classic Poem

On her had she leans her head,
By the banks of the busy Clyde;
Our two little boys are in bed.

The pitiful tears are shed;
She has nobody by her side;
On her hand she leans her head.

I should be working; instead
I dream of my sorrowful bride,
And our two little boys in bed.

Were it well if we four were dead?
The grave at least is wide.
On her hand she leans her head.

She stares at the embers red;
She dashes the tears aside,
And kisses our boys in bed.

“God, give us our daily bread;
Nothing we ask beside.”
On her hand she leans her head;
Our two little boys are in bed.