The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 2

THE FOOLISH HAREBELL

A harebell hung her wilful head: "I am tired, so tired! I wish I was dead." She hung her head in the mossy dell: "If all were over, then all were well!" The Wind he heard, and was pitiful, And waved her about to make her cool. "Wind, you are rough!" said the dainty Bell; "Leave me alone—I am not well." The Wind, at the word of the drooping dame, Sighed to himself and ceased in shame. "I am hot, so hot!" she moaned and said; "I am withering up; I wish I was dead!" Then the Sun he pitied her woeful case, And drew a thick veil over his face. "Cloud go away, and don't be rude," She said; "I do not see why you should!" The Cloud withdrew. Then the Harebell cried, "I am faint, so faint!—and no water beside!" The Dew came down its millionfold path: She murmured, "I did not want a bath!" The Dew went up; the Wind softly crept; The Night came down, and the Harebell slept. A boy ran past in the morning gray, Plucked the Harebell, and threw her away. The Harebell shivered, and sighed, "Oh! oh! I am faint indeed! Come, dear Wind, blow." The Wind blew gently, and did not speak. She thanked him kindly, but grew more weak. "Sun, dear Sun, I am cold!" she said. He shone; but lower she drooped her head. "O Rain, I am withering! all the blue Is fading out of me!—come, please do!" The Rain came down as fast as he could, But for all his good will he could do her no good. She shuddered and shrivelled, and moaning said, "Thank you all kindly!" and then she was dead. Let us hope, let us hope when she comes next year She'll be simple and sweet! But I fear, I fear!

SONG

I was very cold   In the summer weather; The sun shone all his gold, But I was very cold— Alas, we were grown old,   Love and I together! Oh, but I was cold   In the summer weather! Sudden I grew warmer   Though the brooks were frozen: "Truly, scorn did harm her!" I said, and I grew warmer; "Better men the charmer   Knows at least a dozen!" I said, and I grew warmer   Though the brooks were frozen. Spring sits on her nest,   Daisies and white clover; And my heart at rest Lies in the spring's young nest: My love she loves me best,   And the frost is over! Spring sits on her nest,   Daisies and white clover!

AN IMPROVISATION

The stars cleave the sky.   Yet for us they rest, And their race-course high   Is a shining nest! The hours hurry on.   But where is thy flight, Soft pavilion   Of motionless night? Earth gives up her trees   To the holy air; They live in the breeze;   They are saints at prayer! Summer night, come from God,   On your beauty, I see, A still wave has flowed   Of eternity!

EQUITY

No bird can sing in tune but that the Lord Sits throned in equity above the heaven, And holds the righteous balance always even; No heart can true response to love afford Wherein from one to eight not every chord Is yet attuned by the spirits seven: For tuneful no bird sings but that the Lord Is throned in equity above high heaven. Oh heart, by wrong unfilial scathed and scored, And from thy humble throne with mazedness driven, Take courage: when thy wrongs thou hast forgiven, Thy rights in love thy God will see restored: No bird could sing in tune but that the Lord Sits throned in equity above the heaven.

CONTRITION

Out of the gulf into the glory,   Father, my soul cries out to be lifted. Dark is the woof of my dismal story,   Thorough thy sun-warp stormily drifted!— Out of the gulf into the glory, Lift me, and save my story. I have done many things merely shameful;   I am a man ashamed, my father! My life is ashamed and broken and blameful—   The broken and blameful, oh, cleanse and gather! Heartily shame me, Lord, of the shameful! To my judge I flee with my blameful. Saviour, at peace in thy perfect purity,   Think what it is, not to be pure! Strong in thy love's essential security,   Think upon those who are never secure. Full fill my soul with the light of thy purity: Fold me in love's security. O Father, O Brother, my heart is sore aching!   Help it to ache as much as is needful; Is it you cleansing me, mending, remaking,   Dear potter-hands, so tender and heedful? Sick of my past, of my own self aching— Hurt on, dear hands, with your making. Proud of the form thou hadst given thy vessel,   Proud of myself, I forgot my donor; Down in the dust I began to nestle,   Poured thee no wine, and drank deep of dishonour! Lord, thou hast broken, thou mendest thy vessel! In the dust of thy glory I nestle. THE CONSOLER: ON AN ENGRAVING OF SCHEFFER'S Christus Consolator I What human form is this? what form divine? And who are these that gaze upon his face Mild, beautiful, and full of heavenly grace, With whose reflected light the gazers shine? Saviour, who does not know it to be thine? Who does not long to fill a gazer's place? And yet there is no time, there is no space To keep away thy servants from thy shrine! Here if we kneel, and watch with faithful eyes, Thou art not too far for faithful eyes to see, Thou art not too far to turn and look on me, To speak to me, and to receive my sighs. Therefore for ever I forget the skies, And find an everlasting Sun in thee. II Oh let us never leave that happy throng! From that low attitude of love not cease! In all the world there is no other peace, In all the world no other shield from wrong. But chiefly, Saviour, for thy feet we long— For no vain quiet, for no pride's increase— But that, being weak, and Thou divinely strong, Us from our hateful selves thou mayst release. We wander from thy fold's free holy air, Forget thy looks, and take our fill of sin! But if thou keep us evermore within, We never surely can forget thee there— Breathing thy breath, thy white robe given to wear, And loving thee for all thou diedst to win! III To speak of him in language of our own, Is not for us too daringly to try; But, Saviour, we can read thy history Upon the faces round thy humble throne; And as the flower among the grass makes known What summer suns have warmed it from the sky, As every human smile and human sigh Is witness that we do not live alone, So in that company—in those sweet tears, The first-born of a rugged melted heart, In those gaunt chains for ever torn apart, And in the words that weeping mother hears, We read the story of two thousand years, And know thee somewhat, Saviour, as thou art.

TO ——

I cannot write old verses here,   Dead things a thousand years away, When all the life of the young year   Is in the summer day. The roses make the world so sweet,   The bees, the birds have such a tune, There's such a light and such a heat   And such a joy this June, One must expand one's heart with praise,   And make the memory secure Of sunshine and the woodland days   And summer twilights pure. Oh listen rather! Nature's song   Comes from the waters, beating tides, Green-margined rivers, and the throng   Of streams on mountain-sides. So fair those water-spirits are,   Such happy strength their music fills, Our joy shall be to wander far   And find them on the hills.

TO A SISTER

A fresh young voice that sings to me So often many a simple thing, Should surely not unanswered be By all that I can sing. Dear voice, be happy every way A thousand changing tones among, From little child's unfinished lay To angel's perfect song. In dewy woods—fair, soft, and green Like morning woods are childhood's bower— Be like the voice of brook unseen Among the stones and flowers; A joyful voice though born so low, And making all its neighbours glad; Sweet, hidden, constant in its flow Even when the winds are sad. So, strengthen in a peaceful home, And daily deeper meanings bear; And when life's wildernesses come Be brave and faithful there. Try all the glorious magic range, Worship, forgive, console, rejoice, Until the last and sweetest change— So live and grow, dear voice.

THE SHORTEST AND SWEETEST OF SONGS

Come Home.

SCOTS SONGS AND BALLADS

ANNIE SHE'S DOWIE

Annie she's dowie, and Willie he's wae: What can be the matter wi' siccan a twae, For Annie she's fair as the first o' the day, And Willie he's honest and stalwart and gay? Oh, the tane has a daddy is poor and is proud, And the tither a minnie that cleiks at the goud '. They lo'ed are anither, and said their say, But the daddy and minnie hae partit the twae!

O LASSIE AYONT THE HILL!

O lassie ayont the hill, Come ower the tap o' the hill, Come ower the tap wi' the breeze o' the hill, Bidena ayont the hill!   I'm needin ye sair the nicht, For I'm tired and sick o' mysel.   A body's sel 's the sairest weicht: O lassie, come ower the hill! Gien a body could be a thoucht o' grace,   And no a sel ava! I'm sick o' my heid and my ban's and my face,   O' my thouchts and mysel and a';   I'm sick o' the warl' and a'; The win' gangs by wi' a hiss;   Throu my starin een the sunbeams fa' But my weary hert they miss!     O lassie ayont the hill,       Come ower the tap o' the hill,     Come ower the tap wi' the breeze o' the hill,       Bidena ayont the hill! &c. For gien I but saw yer bonnie heid,   And the sunlicht o' yer hair, The ghaist o' mysel wud fa' doun deid,   I wud be mysel nae mair.   I wud be mysel nae mair, Filled o' the sole remeid,   Slain by the arrows o' licht frae yer hair, Killed by yer body and heid!     O lassie ayont the hill, &c. My sel micht wauk up at the saft fitfa'   O' my bonnie departin dame; But gien she lo'ed me ever sae sma'   I micht bide it—the weary same!   Noo, sick o' my body and name Whan it lifts its upsettin heid,   I turn frae the cla'es that cover my frame As gien they war roun the deid.     O lassie ayont the hill, &c. But gien ye lo'ed me as I lo'e you   I wud ring my ain deid knell; The spectre wud melt, shot through and through   Wi' the shine o' your sunny sel!   By the shine o' yer sunny sel, By the licht aneth yer broo   I wud dee to mysel, ring my ain deid-bell, And live again in you! O lassie ayont the hill, Come ower the tap o' the hill, Come ower the tap wi' the breeze o' the hill,   For I want ye sair the nicht!   I'm needin ye sair the nicht, For I'm tired and sick o' mysel.   A body's sel 's the sairest weicht: O lassie, come ower the hill!

THE BONNY, BONNY DELL

Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the yorlin sings, Wi' a clip o' the sunshine atween his wings; Whaur the birks are a' straikit wi' fair munelicht, And the brume hings its lamps by day and by nicht; Whaur the burnie comes trottin ower shingle and stane Liltin bonny havers til 'tsel its lane; And the sliddery troot wi' ae soop o' its tail Is ahint the green weed's dark swingin veil! Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur I sang as I saw The yorlin, the brume, and the burnie, and a'! Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the primroses won, Luikin oot o' their leaves like wee sons o' the sun; Whaur the wild roses hing like flickers o' flame, And fa' at the touch wi' a dainty shame; Whaur the bee swings ower the white-clovery sod, And the butterfly flits like a stray thoucht o' God; Whaur, like arrow shot frae life's unseen bow, The dragon-fly burns the sunlicht throu! Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur I sang to see The rose and the primrose, the draigon and bee! Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the mune luiks doon As gien she war hearin a soughless tune, Whan the flooers and the birdies are a' asleep, And the verra burnie gangs creepy-creep; Whaur the corn-craik craiks i' the lang-heidit rye, And the nicht is the safter for his rouch cry; Whaur the win' wud fain lie doon on the slope, And the gloamin waukens the high-reachin hope! Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur, silent, I felt The mune and the darkness baith into me melt! Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the sun luiks in Sayin, "Here awa, there awa, hand awa, Sin!" Sayin darkness and sorrow a' work for the licht, And the will o' God was the hert o' the nicht; Whaur the laverock hings hie, on his ain sang borne, Wi' bird-shout and tirralee hailin the morn; Whaur my hert ran ower wi' the lusome bliss That, come winter, come weather, nocht gaed amiss! Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the sun luikit in Sayin, "Here awa, there awa, hand awa, Sin!" Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur aft I wud lie, Wi' Jeanie aside me sae sweet and sae shy; Whaur the starry gowans wi' rose-dippit tips War as white as her cheek and as reid as her lips; Whaur she spread her gowd hert till she saw that I saw, Syne fauldit it up and gied me it a'; Whaur o' sunlicht and munelicht she was the queen, For baith war but middlin withoot my Jean! Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur aft I wud lie, Wi' Jeanie aside me sae sweet and sae shy! Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the kirkyard lies A' day and a' nicht luikin up to the skies; Whaur the sheep wauken up i' the simmer nicht, Tak a bite and lie doon, and await the licht; Whaur the psalms roll ower the grassy heaps; Whaur the win' comes and moans, and the rain comes and weeps; Whaur my Jeanie's no lyin in a' the lair, For she's up and awa up the angels' stair! Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the kirkyard lies, Whaur the stars luik doon, and the nicht-wind sighs!

NANNIE BRAW

I like ye weel upo Sundays, Nannie,   I' yer goon and yer ribbons and a'; But I like ye better on Mondays, Nannie,   Whan ye're no sae buskit and braw. For whan we're sittin sae douce, Nannie,   Wi' the lave o' the worshippin fowk, That aneth the haly hoose, Nannie,   Ye micht hear a moudiwarp howk, It will come into my heid, Nannie,   O' yer braws ye are thinkin a wee; No alane o' the Bible-seed, Nannie,   Nor the minister nor me! Syne hame athort the green, Nannie,   Ye gang wi' a toss o' yer chin; And there walks a shadow atween 's, Nannie,   A dark ane though it be thin! But noo, whan I see ye gang, Nannie,   Eident at what's to be dune, Liltin a haiveless sang, Nannie,   I wud kiss yer verra shune! Wi' yer silken net on yer hair, Nannie,   I' yer bonnie blue petticoat, Wi' yer kin'ly arms a' bare, Nannie,   On yer ilka motion I doat. For, oh, but ye're canty and free, Nannie,   Airy o' hert and o' fit! A star-beam glents frae yer ee, Nannie—   O' yersel ye're no thinkin a bit! Fillin the cogue frae the coo, Nannie,   Skimmin the yallow ream, Pourin awa the het broo, Nannie,   Lichtin the lampie's leme, Turnin or steppin alang, Nannie,   Liftin and layin doon, Settin richt what's aye gaein wrang, Nannie,   Yer motion's baith dance and tune! I' the hoose ye're a licht and a law, Nannie,   A servan like him 'at's abune: Oh, a woman's bonniest o' a', Nannie,   Doin what maun be dune! Cled i' yer Sunday claes, Nannie,   Fair kythe ye to mony an ee; But cled i' yer ilka-day's, Nannie,   Ye draw the hert frae me!

OWER THE HEDGE

I "Bonny lassie, rosy lassie,   Ken ye what is care? Had ye ever a thought, lassie,   Made yer hertie sair?" Johnnie said it, Johnnie seekin   Sicht o' Mally's face, Keekin i' the hedge o' holly   For a thinner place. "Na," said Mally, pawky smilin,   "Nought o' care ken I; Gien I meet the gruesome carline,   I s' hand weel ootby!" "Lang be licht o' hert, Mally,   As o' fut and ban'! Lang be ready wi' sic answer   To ony speirin man!" "Ay, the men 'll aye be speirin!   Troth, it's naething new! There's yersel wi' queston, queston—   And there's mair like you!" "Deed ye wadna mock me, Mally,   Wi' yer lauchin ee, Gien ye saw the thing aye muvin   I' the hert o' me!" "Troth, I'm no sae pryin, laddie,   Yon's no my concern! Jist as sune I wud gang speirin   What's intil yon cairn!" "Still and on, there's ae thing, Mally,   Yont yer help, my doo— That's to haud my hert frae lo'in   At the hert o' you!" II Johnnie turned and left her,   Listit for the war; In a year cam limpin   Hame wi' mony a scar. Wha was that was sittin   On the brae, sae still? Worn and wan and altert,   Could it be hersel? Cled in black, her eelids   Reid wi' greitin sair— Was she wife and widow   In a towmond bare? Mally's hert played wallop,   Kenned him or he spak: "Are ye no deid, Johnnie?   Is't yersel come back?" "Are ye wife or widow?   Tell me in a breath; Lanely life is fearsome,   Waur nor ony death!" "Wha cud be a widow   Wife was never nane? Noo, gien ye will hae me,   Noo I will be ane!" Crutch awa he flang it,   Clean forgot his hairms, Cudna stan' withoot it,   Fell in Mally's airms.

GAEIN AND COMIN

Whan Andrew frae Strathbogie gaed   The lift was lowerin dreary, The sun he wadna raise his heid,   The win' blew laich and eerie. In's pooch he had a plack or twa—   I vow he hadna mony, Yet Andrew like a linty sang,   For Lizzie was sae bonny!     O Lizzie, Lizzie, bonny lassie!     Bonny, saucy hizzy!     What richt had ye to luik at me     And drive me daft and dizzy? Whan Andrew to Strathbogie cam   The sun was shinin rarely; He rade a horse that pranced and sprang—   I vow he sat him fairly! And he had gowd to spen' and spare,   And a hert as true as ony; But his luik was doon, his sigh was sair,   For Lizzie was sae bonny!     O Lizzie, Lizzie, bonny hizzy!     Aih, the sunlicht weary!     Ye're straucht and rare—ye're fause though fair!—     Hech, auld John Armstrong's deary!