copy to Ireland. The old lady's sole bequest to posterity has since

appeared in the Christmas edition of the News Magazine of the North

Ireland Association for Mental Health.

A slide presentation has also been made based on her simple, but

eloquent, poem. And this little old Scottish lady, with nothing

left to give to the world, is now the author of this "anonymous" poem

winging across the Internet:

Crabby Old Woman

What do you see, nurses?

What do you see?

What are you thinking, When you're looking at me?

A crabby old woman, Not very wise, Uncertain of habit, With faraway

eye.

Who dribbles her food, And makes no reply, When you say in a loud

voice, "I do wish you'd try !"

Who seems not to notice, The things that you do, And forever is

losing, A stocking or shoe?

Who, resisting or not, Lets you do as you will, With bathing and

feeding, The long day to fill?

Is that what you're thinking?

Is that what you see?

Then open your eyes, nurse, You're not looking at me!

I'll tell you who I am, As I sit here so still, As I do at your

bidding, As I eat at your will.

I'm a small child of ten, With a father and mother, Brothers and

sisters, Who love one another.

A young girl of sixteen, With wings on her feet, Dreaming that soon

now, A lover she'll meet.

A bride soon at twenty, My heart gives a leap, Remembering the vows,

That I promised to keep.

At twenty-five now, I have young of my own, Who need me to guide,

And a secure happy home.

A woman of thirty, My young now grown fast, Bound to each other,

With ties that should last.

At forty, my young sons, Have grown and are gone, But my man's beside

me, To see I don't mourn.

At fifty once more, Babies play round my knee, Again we know children,

My loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me, My husband is dead, I look at the future, I

shudder with dread.

For my young are all rearing, Young of their own, And I think of the

years, And the love that I've known.

I'm now an old woman, And nature is cruel, 'Tis jest to make old age,

Look like a fool.

The body, it crumbles, Grace and vigor depart, There is now a stone,

Where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass, A young girl still dwells, And now and

again, My battered heart swells.

I remember the joys, I remember the pain, And I'm loving and living,

Life over again.

I think of the years, All too few, gone too fast, And accept the stark

fact, That nothing can last.

So open your eyes, people, Open and see, Not a crabby old woman;

Look closer - see ME ! !

Remember this poem when you next meet an old person who you might

brush aside without looking at the young soul within. We will all, one

day, be there, too.

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