Too Late to Say "Thank You"

 When you're a writer (or any kind of artist), there's a fine line between promoting your work and bragging about it. I want to share my writings, but sometimes pride takes over and I forget how I got where I am.

I'm learning to be very grateful for those who have helped me along the way. 

When I turned fifty, I published my first novel, A Home for Phoebe. I thought of a teacher that allowed me to put my teenage troubled thoughts into words, and that's when Phoebe was born. When I tried to thank Mr. Harriman, I found he had died a couple of years earlier. 

I was too late. 

This week, I thought of Norman Rohrer, the founder of Christian Writers Guild. The summer after I graduated from high school, I saw an advertisement in a magazine and ordered the correspondence course. He gave me the tools to develop those teenage thoughts and put them in a sensible order. 

Later, I took more lessons with Christian Writers Guild, then owned by Jerry Jenkins. This time it was a non-fiction course. I learned to write how-to articles and devotionals. God used those skills to prompt me to write "Putting My Hand in God's." I've been able to distribute and sell over 100 copies in just a few years. 

I wanted to thank Norman Rohrer. 

Today, I learned that he lived to be 95 years old and passed away peacefully on December 24, 2024 - just this last Christmas Eve. 

(click here for Norman Rohrer's Legacy )

I was too late . . . again. 

Why do I wait so long to tell others how much they mean to me? It doesn't take but a moment 

to say "thank you" 

to say "you've been a good friend" 

to say "I love you."

Hosanna and Alleluia

We call it Palm Sunday - the Sunday before Easter.

Each time I hear this story of the triumphant entry of Jesus into Jerusalem, I learn more and more. It fulfilled so many prophecies all in one day. It showed humility and sovereignty all in one action. It demonstrated the authority of Jesus, the Son of God.

As Jesus approached Jerusalem, the crowds greeted him with shouts of "Hosanna! Hosanna!" (Save us! Save us!) thinking He would free them from the Romans. They waved palm branches and laid a carpet of coats before Him. Children danced and sang praises to Him. When the religious leaders demanded that He hush their voices, He said, "If these should hold their peace, the stones would immediately cry out." This was the day proclaimed by the prophets that He would be presented as King of the Jews, and it would happen no matter what.

I've wondered much about the stones praising God, and it has led me to write a story about all of nature singing to God. (Song of the Sunbeams)

My friend, Jan Ackerson, wrote a beautiful poem about the child Jesus hearing the voices and songs of nature. Read this slowly, and let its beauty sink into your soul.

Allelu by  Jan Ackerson Creator, You dwell with us now,
And so we proclaim with one voice—
Each creature and each blade of grass,
Each rock and each river—Rejoice!

Allelu, bless Your name, allelu,
Creation is singing for You.

O hear now the animals’ choir:
Vicuna, raccoon, chimpanzee—
We offer our song to the King:
Great elephant, tiniest flea.

Allelu, bless Your name, allelu,
Creation is singing for You.

We sing, too. (You only can hear).
The cedars and lilies, the wheat,
Bamboo, passionflower, and palm:
Hosannas we lay at Your feet.

Allelu, bless Your name, allelu,
Creation is singing for You.

A wee grain of sand, and this stone,
This boulder, this mountain, this star—
Our melody will not be stilled,
We glory in all that You are.

Allelu, bless Your name, allelu,
Creation is singing for You.

Come, waters of earth, raise your song:
Murmuring book, rushing waterfalls, too,
Lake, river and pond, mighty sea,
All join in the great “Allelu!”

Allelu, bless Your name, allelu,
Creation is singing for You.
(For the complete story click here.)
If I could choose one day of Jesus' life, I might choose the Triumphant Entry. I can't wait for the day when I WILL be there when He enters the gates of Jerusalem again - this time as King of Eternity! (Isaiah 60)

Read this story of how I imagine it might be. ( Zion Rejoices )

A Special Day

The Ending of a Special Day

by

Yvonne Beverly Blake

I drag my slippered feet upstairs,

I brush my teeth, and say my prayers.

My eyes are heavy; the lights are dim.

My puffy quilt is under my chin.

My daddy sits upon my bed,

Gives me Teddy, and rubs my head.

“There's something special about today.

Every four years is Leap Year Day.

"The earth makes a circle around the sun.

It takes a year before it’s done.

"Three hundred and sixty-five days,

Plus six more hours— it's a long ways.

"We could not have one fourth of a day.

There's not enough time to sleep and play

"So every four years, it works out fine

To have a February twenty-nine.”

 Dad kisses my head and turns out the light,

And as he leaves, he whispers, “Good night.”

“A special day?” – I am wide awake.

“I can’t sleep now, for goodness sake!”

If I had known, when day was new,

A hundred things I’d want to do.

I would have worn my lucky hat,

And hit a super home-run –SMACK!

I could have sailed a kite so high,

With cotton-puff clouds dotting the sky

The day is gone. It is slipping fast.

This special day is almost past.

I could have read my favorite book

While curled up in a cozy nook,

And waved to train cars traveling far.

Or wished upon the brightest star.

Another four years? I’ll be so old.

I wish this day could be retold.

IN THEIR SANDALS

INTRODUCING -

In Their Sandals

a book of Biblical short stories and poems. 

March around Jericho, walk on the Sea of Galilee,

even listen to the angels. Read it in God's Word,

then put yourself in their sandals.

Here is an example of a short story in pages of In Their Sandals.

BUT NOT JESUS

“Don’t touch me!”  

Sarai pulled back as if she had been burned. Her eyes filled with tears when they met Ruben’s gaze. “I forgot.” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

Ruben wrapped a loaf of bread in a cloth and filled a skin with fresh water. Flinging it over his shoulder, he crouched near Sarai. “Dearest, I must leave because I love you. You know that.”

Fresh tears ran down her cheeks, and she nodded in acknowledgment. “Oh, Ruben! I’d rather go with you.”

“Sarai, I will never stop loving you. I will be watching for you…” His gaze dropped to her rounded belly. “…and the little one, when you come to the sheep gate.”

Sarai nodded. It would be the closest she would ever get to him again.

Ruben held his hand over her head—only he did not touch her. His arms and heart ached with the restraint. “Sarai!” he whispered, then disappeared into the night.

The air was warm and heavy. He hoisted his sack higher on his shoulder and clutched his walking stick with determination. As he neared the campfires, he saw the shadows of a dozen people—some squatting, some lying down, and one leaning against a tree. His foot knocked a pebble loose, and they all turned in his direction.

“Who is it? We are unclean!”

Unclean…the word stabbed Ruben’s heart. “I am Ruben ben Jacob. I am unclean, also.”

“Come! Show yourself.” 

When Ruben stepped into the light, the others melted away from him. Some crawled on festering limbs; others tugged rags around their faces. Their eyes shone in the firelight like wild animals around their prey. Ruben pulled down on his tunic to show the white spots on his chest. A sympathetic moan surrounded him.

“Come,” said the leader. “Sit down. I am Jedediah.” He put a hand on each of Ruben’s shoulder. One by one, the others approached, each touching him on the back or shoulder or head. Ruben sat on a stone and took a bowl of stew offered to him.

Jedediah leaned close. “Tell us of the city. What is new?” The others listened expectantly. “Have you seen this man called Jesus?”

Ruben looked up quickly. “Yes, I was there when he made bread for hundreds of people. He heals the lame and blind. I heard he walked on the sea. Some say he is a prophet, and others say he is the Messiah.”

“What do you think?”

Ruben shrugged. “I don’t know.  He is not a man like others.”       

Each evening, Ruben waited for Sarai. The first day was the hardest. He could not approach closer than fifty steps from the wall. Sarai sobbed. She could not even speak. Leaving her basket, she stumbled away.

As the months passed, Ruben saw that the time of her birthing was getting closer. He longed to touch her.

 “Are you well?” he hollered.

She nodded.

“I am praying to Jehovah for you!”

“Oh Ruben!” The tears began again. “I need you!”

Sarai did not come the next evening. Ruben waited until the stars appeared. Still she did not come. He could not sleep. I must see Sarai. I must go home! But Ruben knew the law. “The unclean must live outside the city.” If only he could be cured…if only…He sobbed, “Jehovah, be merciful to me!”

Jedediah roused him the next morning. “Ruben! Ruben! The man called Jesus is coming this way. Perhaps we will see him as he enters the city.”

Ruben jumped up. The Lord has heard my cry!

“Where are you going, Ruben? He’s not here, yet.”

Ruben ran. The stones cut his feet, but he didn’t feel them. People shied away from him when they saw his bandages. Crowds filled the road— people who were busy, people who didn’t care.

Then he saw Jesus. 

It had to be Jesus! Others turned away from his ugliness and rotten flesh—but not Jesus. Ruben fell down before Him, “Lord, if you will, I know you can heal me.” 

Jesus lifted him to his feet. He wrapped his arms around Ruben and held him close. “I will. Be clean!” 

Ruben felt his body fill with strength and healing. He pulled up his shirt and felt his chest and face. His skin was clean! He jumped and danced and shouted. 

Jesus smiled. “Go, Ruben. Go show the priests that you are healed. Go home to your wife, for she has born a son.”  

To purchase In Their Sandals, 

(click here)

or contact me for a signed copy. 

"I'm Going to Name Him Gimpy"

Phoebe always seems to find the critters that need help. Who ever heard of a caterpillar with a gimpy leg? He'll be fine. He's in good hands with Phoebe.

On a chilly October morning, Phoebe waited for Matthew to catch up as they hurried to school. As they passed the place where they picked strawberries last summer, Phoebe noticed some milkweed plants. She couldn’t wait until the pods dried and cracked open and the fluffy seeds floated away on the breeze like snowflakes. She noticed some yellow and black striped caterpillars on the plants and picked up one. She let him hump up her arm. Matthew found one too.

“Ewww… he tickles!” Matthew moved it from his arm back down to his palm where it wasn’t so ticklish. 

“Don’t you love their yellow and blacked striped pajamas?” Phoebe held hers up to eye level. “I think I will name you Gimpy.”

“Gimpy? That’s a funny name.”

“He’s a funny caterpillar. Besides, I think something’s wrong with one of his feet. He wobbles when he crawls, like one isn’t working right.”

Matthew put his caterpillar back on a milkweed plant. Phoebe put hers in her pocket and picked a few leaves and added them to her pocket too. “You’re not going to keep him, are you?” Matthew asked.

“Why not? Besides, I think he needs me.”

(exerpt from chap 8, Going Home with Phoebe)

You can order Going Home with Phoebe on Amazon, 

or

you can contact me and receive a signed copy for $20.

or you can get both books for $30.

Annual Christmas Fruit Cake Gala

With Christmas just around the corner

and lots of parties and food,

I thought I'd share a fun story I wrote 

for Faithwriters a few years ago.

The Annual Christmas Fruit Cake Bake-Off Gala

“Good evening. This is Cheri Bing, reporting for WHIP, in Quince Valley, Florida. I am standing outside the Capitol Convention Building, where we are expecting much to be happening here tonight. The Annual Christmas Cake Bake-Off and the State Christmas Gala are being held in the same hall because of a scheduling dilemma. 

“Tables are loaded with exquisite displays of culinary creations: a Black Forest Cherry Cake, a Festive Eggnog Cake, an Orange Marmalade Noel Cake, a Chocolate Yule Log, a Jewel Fruit Cake, and even a Coconut Cookie Tree. Band music is filling the air, and dignitaries are arriving by limousines. What a grand event this will be! 

“Here is Miss Linda Emmon, wife of Senator Meringue, arriving now, dressed in a yellow chiffon gown, topped with fluffy white stole. 

“Hello, Miss Emmons, could you tell us what you think of the Bake-Off and Gala occurring at the same time?”

“It’s an outrage! To think that we have to mingle with restaurant chefs and ordinary cooks. It’s enough to give me the shivers!”

“Thank you, Miss Emmons. Let’s go inside to get some other opinions. Here is someone in a dark plum outfit near the food tables.

“Excuse me, Ma’am. Could you tell me your name and what brings you here, tonight, the Bake-Off or the Gala?”

“My name is Candace Dumpling. I’m just here for the excitement. I love Christmas puddings, but I think any kind of cake or pie is scrumptious. I could just sit in a corner and eat one all by myself. Oh, this is so much fun! Did you know that because of the double scheduling, anyone can come…no invitations needed?”

“So, do you know any of the Cake Contestants?”

“Oh, yes, there’s George over there. He’s a peach, but a little young for me to date; still got fuzz on his chin…hee, hee!” 

“What’s the name of the band?”

“That’s The Concords! Aren’t they great? They’re whining, though, because they are squeezed into the corner and have to share the stage with The Pomegranate Ensemble, a foreign group for the Gala.”

“Well, thank you, Miss… oh, there she goes… Well, let’s talk to one of the cake contestants, Chef Ping Apple.

“Hello, Sir, what do you think of the competition tonight?”

“It’s quite a crowd all right! I hope things stay organized. I’ve spent twenty-three full hours working on my nine-layer cake. ‘Twould be a shame if anything happened to it.” 

“So you think you’ve got a good chance of winning?”

“Yes, Ma’am. I even brought my Granny, Ida Smith. It’s her recipe, and when I get the blue ribbon, I want to share it with her.”

“Well, that’s very considerate of you…and you, Ma’am, do you think he’ll win?”

“Hi, Dear. Yes, I think he has a good chance. My grandson may seem prickly on the outside, but he’s got a sweet inner core.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Ping Apple and Granny Smith. Now, I hear the music changing. It sounds like the Holiday Mixer Waltz. The floor is filled with swirling dresses of all colors: raspberry, cranberry, lime green, tangerine, and blueberry. 

“The Pomegranate Ensemble is now playing the Mango Tango. A couple dressed in black is strutting shoulder to shoulder across the floor, amid flickering specks of light. Wow! Look at them dip! What a pair!

“Anna Chiquita, dressed in a cream-colored skirt and satin slippers, is now singing ‘Feliz Navidad’, with The Pomegranates playing and people singing along.

“Now the Concord band has started playing ‘Holiday Hoe-Down Cobbler.’ The crowd is really getting into a party spirit. I think I better back out of the way. I can hardly hear myself, with all the clapping and foot stomping.

“Oh, no! Percy Simmons, with his sequined tuxedo, has backed into Mandy Rin, in the orange Chinese kimono. With her arms flailing, she’s trying to catch her balance, but grabs the edge of the tablecloth instead. Oh, no! There goes Chef Ping Apple’s nine-layer cake! It’s falling! It’s upside-down on the floor. He’s not too happy. Oh, I hope this doesn’t end in people throwing punches. I think it’s time for me to sign off.

“This is Cheri Bing, from station WHIP, in Quince, Florida. Merry Christmas!”

FREE BOOK

(with any purchase)

( CLICK HERE)

This story is included in

A Box of Christmas Candy

(A Country Store Collection)

Watching with Shomer

"Be sober, be vigilant!

For your adversary, the devil, as a roaring lion,

walks about, seeking whom he may devour."'

(I Peter 5:8)

WATCHING WITH SHOMER

“Terach, wake up.”

“I’m awake.” Terach squinted at Kerem’s flashlight. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. That’s the trouble. It’s too quiet.”

Kerem ambled to the other side of the guard tower. A slight breeze whispered down the rows of drooping vines. Their shadows fluttered in the moonlight, making them seem alive. The fruit was ready to harvest. It was the time to be vigilant. Shomer lifted his head and gave a low “gr-r-r-r.” Kerem scanned the fields but saw nothing unusual. 

“I don’t like it.”

“Don’t like what?” Terach scratched his back against the guard house wall. 

“I’ve just got a strange feeling.”

“Well, I have a bored-of-your-worrying feeling.”

Kerem worried about Terach. Being an employee of the king, with job security and a good retirement, was enough for him. He didn’t care about the king’s vineyards. Terach looked up as another breeze swished through the leaves. A shadow on the far side caught his attention. 

Kerem gave Terach a nudge with his boot. “Let’s walk the perimeter. I think I saw something.” 

“Ahhh, Man. It’s just a rabbit or something.” He leaned his head back, eyes still closed. “I’ll wait here for you.”

“Come on!” He nudged Terach again and untied Shomer’s leash. The dog pranced around—alert and ready for action. 

Their rhythmic strides were interrupted only by Shomer, sniffing around a gopher hole. As they turned the corner on the back side, the dog tensed—his fur bristling on his back. “Gr-r-r.”

Kerem stopped. He peered along the shadowy path ahead. The silhouette of a craggy rock looked like a giant’s head waiting for its next victim. “Come on, Boy!”

The dog obeyed but continued to growl. 

Terach laughed. “What a wimp! He’s afraid of shadows!”

Kerem’s heart pounded. “He’s never been before.”

Terach pulled out a cracker. “Come here, Boy. Here’s a treat. This will help you not be afraid.”

“What are you doing? What if there really is danger? He won’t warn us; he’ll lick us—looking for a treat!”

“Don’t be such a ridgepole! Do you always follow every itty-bitty rule? Loosen up at bit, Man!” 

Kerem stared at Terach playing with Shomer. Maybe I am just being paranoid. Maybe I worry too much. 

They continued around the edge of the property. The night was warm and bright and the air filled with the sweet scent of ripe fruit. All was well.

The next night, Kerem had been on duty for an hour before Terach finally arrived with Shomer. “Where have you been?”

Terach settled against the wall. “Oh, I had to give some new guy directions. We got to talking about the king’s land and all. He seems like a nice fella. “

“Really? What’s his name?”

“He didn’t say, but we’ll probably see him around.”

The night was colder than usual, and clouds hid the moon. Kerem pulled his hat over his ears and paced back and forth to keep warm. Something’s not right. I just know it! He wished he felt as relaxed as Shomer and Terach—dozing side by side. Shomer isn’t worried, probably I shouldn’t be either. 

Kerem walked to the other end. Something caught his eye over near the big rock. A light? There it is again! 

He grabbed Shomer’s leash. “Terach! Terach! Wake up! There’s something over by the big rock.”

Moving double-time to where Kerem saw the flickering light, they slowed, but all was dark. Shomer didn’t growl or bark. In fact, he was sitting near Terach, nuzzling his pockets for a cracker. Terach gave him one. They were about to turn back when Kerem heard a “snap” amid the grapevines. He shone his flashlight into the fields and illuminated a face.

“Hey! Who are you? Come out here where we can see you!”

Terach laughed. “It’s the new fella! Man, you really are lost! What are you doing in there?”

The man raised his arm to shield his face from the bright light. “I thought I could take a shortcut through here. Sorry if I scared you.”

Terach slapped the man’s shoulders. “Sure! I’ll even walk a ways with you.” He turned to Kerem. “See, it was nothing. Doesn’t the king say we’re supposed help those who are lost? Go on back to the tower. I’ll be along in awhile.” 

Kerem turned, but then noticed the broken vines, stripped of their precious fruit. I knew it! He bent to release the dog from the leash and whispered, “Shomer, sic’em!” 


(Hebrew names)
Kerem – a vineyard
Terach – a wild goat
Shomer – a watchman

A Writer's Prayer

I claimed an old copy of  In the Arena by Isobel Kuhn from my parents' house. My mother and father often talked about her writings, but for some reason, I had never read them. Maybe out of regret, maybe looking for a way to be close to my parents, I picked it up and began reading.

I like to read the forward at the beginning of a book. I've learned that is where you can find an insight into the author's background and motives for the book. This one overwhelmed me, for it was speaking thoughts that were close to my heart.

"Dear Lord Jesus,

         I want to write a love letter to You. Not the 

ordinary  I-love-you kind. Nor the usual just-between-

you-and-me kind; for others will read what I write. 

Something like Elizabeth Barrett Browning's;

                      How do I love Thee?

                      Let me count the ways.

And yet not like that one either, for the subject of 

the letter is not to be my love for You. That has

been too puny, too shoddy, too besmirched with 

failure to be a theme.

        I want this letter to be a revelation of You. When 

people read it I want them to see You. when they 

find me in a perfectly hopeless situation, as so often

I was, I want them to know clearly it was You who

pulled me out,. I want them to see Your infinite

patience, Your unwavering faithfulness. Although

You work so silently, so delicately, there is a 'shining

forth' when You are present. But how can one

make other see it?

        Lord, dear, please will You help me write? I 

cannot put Your beauty into words, but if I can

show You working in the back ground of all that

happened (even as I watched You) that will be

enough. As You did revel Yourself to me, please

reveal Yourself to them!

   You own - by right of purchase, then by 

self-surrender.                Isobel S. Kuhn "

In The Arena by Isobel S. Kuhn

(written in 1958, the year I was born)

Purim

Purim is celebrated in remembrance of a very interesting story in the Bible - the story of Esther. There's a beautiful girl, treachery, conspiracy, bravery, and victory. Today, Jews all over the world remember when God saved His people from an evil man.

  (CLICK HERE)

I love the ironic humor that God uses when Haman's pride brings him down. Take a look at this story from a different point of view -

The Man the King Delights to Honor

The king of Persia tossed this way and that. He kicked off his royal silk coverings and fluffed up his royal tasseled pillow. He lay on his back. He lay on his left side and his right. Nothing helped. 

“Servant! Close the window again! That pounding is driving me crazy. How can anyone sleep with all that noise?” 

The king closed his eyes. He could still hear the hammering in the middle of the night. 

“Servant! I must get my rest! Read to me.”

“What shall I read?”

“Read the daily chronicles to me, and don’t try to make them interesting. Hopefully you can bore me to sleep.”

The servant sat cross-legged on the carpet and unrolled a scroll. “On the third day of the tenth month, fifty shekels of wheat and thirty flagons of wine and a hundred measures of corn and sixty sheep and twelve oxen were bought for the palace for the price of three hundred two and forty pieces of silver. On the fourth day of the tenth month, the merchant, Teresh, paid seventy pieces of silver to the merchant, Bigthan, for false dealings. On the fifth day of the tenth month, the doorkeeper, Mordecai, reported suspicions of an assassination of the king. On the-“

“Wait! Read that part again…about the doorkeeper.” 

“The doorkeeper, Mordecai, reported suspicions of an assassination of the king.”

The king sat up and stared at the servant. “Has this man been rewarded for his bravery and faithfulness? He has saved my life. Why haven’t I been told of this before?”

The servant unrolled one parchment after another looking for a record of a reward given to the doorkeeper Mordecai, but there was none.

“I must do something to show my respect to this man. What would be the best way?” 

The king of Persia lay down upon his royal bed and finally fell asleep, thinking of the doorkeeper who saved his life.

~ ~ ~

Haman, the chief of the princes of Persia, was happy. Early in the morning, he strutted to the palace with a smug grin. Was he not promoted above all of the other counselors, a guest at the king’s table? Was he not the greatest man in all of Persia besides the king? 

As he passed the chamberlains, doorkeepers, and guards, they all bowed their faces to the ground—except one—Mordecai. Haman sneered at the brave man. Soon—soon he would have his revenge on this one Jew who refused to bow to him! The gallows were finished. The workers had labored all night. Soon his enemy would be gone. He only needed the king’s signature and it would be done!

Haman’s stomping footsteps echoed in the stone hallways. Mutters and growls rumbled from his lips. “Arrogantstiffneckedstubbornignorantfoolishrebelliouspigheaded…” As he lifted his hand to the door to the king’s chambers, it opened. A servant, leaving the room with a tray of silver bowls, turned to announce Haman’s arrival.

The king motioned the prince inside. “Haman! You’re just the person I need to help me with an important matter.”

Haman bowed, pleased by this obvious request of the king. “Anything for you, O king!”

“My most trusted advisor, what shall I do for the man I delight to honor?” 

Haman stood and smiled. He strutted around the room with his head high and shoulders thrown back. “For the man whom the king delights to honor, let the royal cloak be placed on his shoulders and the king’s crown on his head. Let this man be put on the king’s horse and be led up and down throughout the city by one of the most noble princes, proclaiming to everyone that the king delights in honoring this man.” 

“Yes! Yes! Wonderful!” The king clapped his hands and removed his crown and cloak. “Make haste! Take these and put them on Mordecai, the doorkeeper. Put him on my strongest horse and proclaim throughout the city that this is the man the king delights to honor.”

Wanderin' in the Gloamin'

Wanderin' in the Gloamin' 

Twixt day and night, ‘tis dreamin’ time,

When e’re the sun is hangin’ low,

And the rosy skies are glowin’

I ramble long over hill and dale

And wish upon the evening star

When I’m wanderin’ in the gloamin’.

The meadowlark chirps its lullabye

To springtime lambs and wild conies,

And o’er the purple heather bloomin’.

I hold a blossom to my nose,

Reminds me of my true love’s breath

As we’re wanderin’ in the gloamin’.

A soft wind tosses my auburn curls;

My flushed cheeks, it now caresses,

Across the moors, warm wind blowin’;

It carries th’air of the salty spray,

The same that brings my true love home,

To be wanderin’ in the gloamin’

Me thinks I hear my true love’s voice;

He promised oft, he’d marry me;

“Someday,” he sighed, “I’ll be returnin’.”

Tis not my name upon his lips,

But the steady wash against the shore,

Neath me wanderin’ in the gloamin’.

I gaze beyond the farthest isles

And shade my eyes against the glint

Mid white-capped waves a-billowin’;

My achin’ heart, it pines and yearns,

I cannae spy my true love’s craft,

As I’m wanderin’ in the gloamin’

Darkness threatens o’er the eastern sky,

Stinging drops mingle wi’ my tears;

Light from yonder window beckn’in’;

“I’ll ne’er forget, nor give up hope;

Goodnight, my love,” I whisper low,

“I’ll be wanderin’ in the gloamin’”