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

A SANG O' ZION

Ane by ane they gang awa; The getherer gethers grit and sma': Ane by ane maks ane and a'! Aye whan ane sets doon the cup Ane ahint maun tak it up: A' thegither they will sup! Golden-heidit, ripe, and strang, Shorn will be the hairst or lang: Syne begins a better sang!

TIME AND TIDE

  As I was walkin on the strand,     I spied ane auld man sit   On ane auld black rock; and aye the waves     Cam washin up its fit.   His lips they gaed as gien they wad lilt,     But o' liltin, wae's me, was nane!   He spak but an owercome, dreary and dreigh,     A burden wha's sang was gane: "Robbie and Jeanie war twa bonnie bairns;   They playt thegither i' the gloamin's hush: Up cam the tide and the mune and the sterns,   And pairtit the twa wi' a glint and a gush."   "What can the auld man mean," quod I,     "Sittin o' the auld black rock?   The tide creeps up wi' a moan and a cry,     And a hiss 'maist like a mock!   The words he mutters maun be the en'     O' some weary auld-warl' sang—   A deid thing floatin aboot in his brain,     'At the tide 'ill no lat gang!" "Robbie and Jeanie war twa bonnie bairns;   They playt thegither i' the gloamin's hush: Up cam the tide and the mune and the sterns,   And pairtit the twa wi' a glint and a gush."   "Hoo pairtit it them, auld man?" I said;     "Was't the sea cam up ower strang?   Oh, gien thegither the twa o' them gaed     Their pairtin wasna lang!   Or was are ta'en, and the ither left—     Ane to sing, are to greit?   It's sair, I ken, to be sae bereft—     But there's the tide at yer feet!" "Robbie and Jeanie war twa bonnie bairns,   And they playt thegither i' the gloamin's hush: Up cam the tide and the mune and the sterns,   And pairtit the twa wi' a glint and a gush."   "Was't the sea o' space wi' its storm o' time     That wadna lat things bide?   But Death's a diver frae heavenly clime     Seekin ye neth its tide,   And ye'll gaze again in ither's ee,     Far abune space and time!"   Never ae word he answered me,     But changed a wee his rime: "Robbie and Jeanie war twa bonnie bairns,   And they playt thegither upo' the shore; Up cam the tide and the mune and the sterns,   And pairtit the twa for evermore."   "May be, auld man, 'twas the tide o' change     That crap atween the twa?   Hech! that's a droonin fearsome strange,     Waur, waur nor are and a'!"   He said nae mair. I luikit, and saw     His lips they couldna gang:   Death, the diver, had ta'en him awa,     To gie him a new auld sang. Robbie and Jeanie war twa bonnie bairns,   And they playt thegither upo' the shore: Up cam the tide and the mune and the sterns,   And souft them awa throu a mirksome door!

THE WAESOME CARL

There cam a man to oor toon-en',   And a waesome carl was he, Snipie-nebbit, and crookit-mou'd,   And gleyt o' a blinterin ee. Muckle he spied, and muckle he spak,   But the owercome o' his sang, Whatever it said, was aye the same:—   There's nane o' ye a' but's wrang!       Ye're a' wrang, and a' wrang,       And a'thegither a' wrang:       There's no a man aboot the toon       But's a'thegither a' wrang. That's no the gait to fire the breid,   Nor yet to brew the yill; That's no the gait to haud the pleuch,   Nor yet to ca the mill; That's no the gait to milk the coo,   Nor yet to spean the calf, Nor yet to tramp the girnel-meal—   Ye kenna yer wark by half!       Ye're a' wrang, &c. The minister wasna fit to pray   And lat alane to preach; He nowther had the gift o' grace   Nor yet the gift o' speech! He mind't him o' Balaäm's ass,   Wi' a differ we micht ken: The Lord he opened the ass's mou,   The minister opened's ain!       He was a' wrang, and a' wrang,       And a'thegither a' wrang;       There wasna a man aboot the toon       But was a'thegither a' wrang! The puir precentor couldna sing,   He gruntit like a swine; The verra elders couldna pass   The ladles til his min'. And for the rulin' elder's grace   It wasna worth a horn; He didna half uncurse the meat,   Nor pray for mair the morn!       He was a' wrang, &c. And aye he gied his nose a thraw,   And aye he crook't his mou; And aye he cockit up his ee   And said, Tak tent the noo! We snichert hint oor loof, my man,   But never said him nay; As gien he had been a prophet, man,   We loot him say his say:     Ye're a' wrang, &c. Quo oor gudeman: The crater's daft!   Heard ye ever sic a claik? Lat's see gien he can turn a ban',   Or only luik and craik! It's true we maunna lippin til him—   He's fairly crack wi' pride, But he maun live—we canna kill him!   Gien he can work, he s' bide.     He was a' wrang, and a' wrang,     And a'thegither a' wrang;     There, troth, the gudeman o' the toon     Was a'thegither a' wrang! Quo he, It's but a laddie's turn,   But best the first be a sma' thing: There's a' thae weyds to gether and burn,   And he's the man for a' thing!— We yokit for the far hill-moss,   There was peats to cast and ca; O' 's company we thoucht na loss,   'Twas peace till gloamin-fa'!     We war a' wrang, and a' wrang,     And a'thegither a' wrang;     There wasna man aboot the toon     But was a'thegither a' wrang! For, losh, or it was denner-time   The toon was in a low! The reek rase up as it had been   Frae Sodom-flames, I vow. We lowst and rade like mad, for byre   And ruck bleezt a' thegither, As gien the deil had broucht the fire   Frae's hell to mak anither!     'Twas a' wrang, and a' wrang,     And a'thegither a' wrang,     Stick and strae aboot the place     Was a'thegither a' wrang! And luikin on, ban's neth his tails,   The waesome carl stude; To see him wagglin at thae tails   'Maist drave 's a' fairly wud. Ain wite! he cried; I tauld ye sae!   Ye're a' wrang to the last: What gart ye burn thae deevilich weyds   Whan the win' blew frae the wast!     Ye're a' wrang, and a' wrang,     And a'thegither a' wrang;     There's no a man i' this fule warl     But's a'thegither a' wrang!

THE MERMAID

Up cam the tide wi' a burst and a whush,   And back gaed the stanes wi' a whurr; The king's son walkit i' the evenin hush,   To hear the sea murmur and murr. Straucht ower the water slade frae the mune   A glimmer o' cauld weet licht; Ane o' her horns rase the water abune,   And lampit across the nicht. Quhat's that, and that, far oot i' the gray,   The laich mune bobbin afore? It's the bonny sea-maidens at their play—   Haud awa, king's son, frae the shore. Ae rock stude up like an auld aik-root,   The king's son he steppit ahin'; The bonny sea-maidens cam gambolin oot,   Kaimin their hair to the win'. O merry their lauch whan they fan the warm san',   For the lichtsome reel sae meet! Ilk are flang her kaim frae her pearly ban',   And tuik til her pearly feet. But are, wha's beauty was dream and spell,   Her kaim on the rock she cuist; Her back was scarce turnt whan the munelicht shell   Was lyin i' the prince's breist! The cluds grew grim as he watched their game,   Th' win' blew up an angry tune; Ane efter are tuik up her kaim,   And seaward gaed dancin doon. But are, wi' hair like the mune in a clud,   Was left by the rock her lane; Wi' flittin ban's, like a priest's, she stude,   'Maist veiled in a rush o' rain. She spied the prince, she sank at his feet,   And lay like a wreath o' snaw Meltin awa i' the win' and weet   O' a wastin wastlin thaw. He liftit her, trimlin wi' houp and dreid,   And hame wi' his prize he gaed, And laid her doon, like a witherin weed,   Saft on a gowden bed. A' that nicht, and a' day the neist,   She never liftit heid; Quaiet lay the sea, and quaiet lay her breist,   And quaiet lay the kirkyard-deid. But quhan at the gloamin a sea-breeze keen   Blew intil the glimsome room, Like twa settin stars she opened her een,   And the sea-flooer began to bloom. And she saw the prince kneelin at her bed,   And afore the mune was new, Careless and cauld she was wooed and wed—   But a winsome wife she grew. And a' gaed weel till their bairn was born,   And syne she cudna sleep; She wud rise at midnicht, and wan'er till morn,   Hark-harkin the sough o' the deep. Ae nicht whan the win' gaed ravin aboot,   And the winnocks war speckled wi' faem, Frae room to room she strayt in and oot,   And she spied her pearly kaim. She twined up her hair wi' eager ban's,   And in wi' the rainbow kaim! She's oot, and she's aff ower the shinin san's   And awa til her moanin hame! The prince he startit whaur he lay,   He waukit, and was himlane! He soucht far intil the mornin gray,   But his bonny sea-wife was gane! And ever and aye, i' the mirk or the mune,   Whan the win' blew saft frae the sea, The sad shore up and the sad shore doon   By the lanely rock paced he. But never again on the sands to play   Cam the maids o' the merry, cauld sea; He heard them lauch far oot i' the bay,   But hert-alane gaed he.

THE YERL O' WATERYDECK

The wind it blew, and the ship it flew,   And it was "Hey for hame!" But up an' cried the skipper til his crew,   "Haud her oot ower the saut sea faem." Syne up an' spak the angry king:   "Haud on for Dumferline!" Quo' the skipper, "My lord, this maunna be—   I'm king on this boat o' mine!" He tuik the helm intil his han',   He left the shore un'er the lee; Syne croodit sail, an', east an' south,   Stude awa richt oot to sea. Quo' the king, "Leise-majesty, I trow!   Here lies some ill-set plan! 'Bout ship!" Quo' the skipper, "Yer grace forgets   Ye are king but o' the lan'!" Oot he heild to the open sea   Quhill the north wind flaughtered an' fell; Syne the east had a bitter word to say   That waukent a watery hell. He turnt her heid intil the north:   Quo' the nobles, "He s' droon, by the mass!" Quo' the skipper, "Haud afif yer lady-ban's   Or ye'll never see the Bass." The king creepit down the cabin-stair   To drink the gude French wine; An' up cam his dochter, the princess fair,   An' luikit ower the brine. She turnt her face to the drivin snaw,   To the snaw but and the weet; It claucht her snood, an' awa like a dud   Her hair drave oot i' the sleet. She turnt her face frae the drivin win'—   "Quhat's that aheid?" quo' she. The skipper he threw himsel frae the win'   An' he brayt the helm alee. "Put to yer han', my lady fair!   Haud up her heid!" quo' he; "Gien she dinna face the win' a wee mair   It's faurweel to you an' me!" To the tiller the lady she laid her han',   An' the ship brayt her cheek to the blast; They joukit the berg, but her quarter scraped,   An' they luikit at ither aghast. Quo' the skipper, "Ye are a lady fair,   An' a princess gran' to see, But war ye a beggar, a man wud sail   To the hell i' yer company!" She liftit a pale an' a queenly face,   Her een flashed, an' syne they swam: "An' what for no to the hevin?" she says,   An' she turnt awa frae him. Bot she tuik na her han' frae the gude ship's helm   Till the day begouth to daw; An' the skipper he spak, but what was said   It was said atween them twa. An' syne the gude ship she lay to,   Wi' Scotlan' hyne un'er the lee; An' the king cam up the cabin-stair   Wi' wan face an' bluidshot ee. Laigh loutit the skipper upo' the deck;   "Stan' up, stan' up," quo' the king; "Ye're an honest loun—an' beg me a boon   Quhan ye gie me back this ring." Lowne blew the win'; the stars cam oot;   The ship turnt frae the north; An' or ever the sun was up an' aboot   They war intil the firth o' Forth. Quhan the gude ship lay at the pier-heid,   And the king stude steady o' the lan',— "Doon wi' ye, skipper—doon!" he said,   "Hoo daur ye afore me stan'!" The skipper he loutit on his knee;   The king his blade he drew: Quo' the king, "Noo mynt ye to centre me!   I'm aboord my vessel noo! "Gien I hadna been yer verra gude lord   I wud hae thrawn yer neck! Bot—ye wha loutit Skipper o' Doon,   Rise up Yerl o' Waterydeck." The skipper he rasena: "Yer Grace is great,   Yer wull it can heize or ding: Wi' ae wee word ye hae made me a yerl—   Wi' anither mak me a king." "I canna mak ye a king," quo' he,   "The Lord alane can do that! I snowk leise-majesty, my man!   Quhat the Sathan wad ye be at?" Glowert at the skipper the doutsum king   Jalousin aneth his croon; Quo' the skipper, "Here is yer Grace's ring—   An' yer dochter is my boon!" The black blude shot intil the king's face   He wasna bonny to see: "The rascal skipper! he lichtlies oor grace!—   Gar hang him heigh on yon tree." Up sprang the skipper an' aboord his ship,   Cleikit up a bytin blade An' hackit at the cable that held her to the pier,   An' thoucht it 'maist ower weel made. The king he blew shill in a siller whustle;   An' tramp, tramp, doon the pier Cam twenty men on twenty horses,   Clankin wi' spur an' spear. At the king's fute fell his dochter fair:   "His life ye wadna spill!" "Ye daur stan' twixt my hert an' my hate?"   "I daur, wi' a richt gude will!" "Ye was aye to yer faither a thrawart bairn,   But, my lady, here stan's the king! Luikna him i' the angry face—   A monarch's anither thing!" "I lout to my father for his grace   Low on my bendit knee; But I stan' an' luik the king i' the face,   For the skipper is king o' me!" She turnt, she sprang upo' the deck,   The cable splashed i' the Forth, Her wings sae braid the gude ship spread   And flew east, an' syne flew north. Now was not this a king's dochter—   A lady that feared no skaith? A woman wi' quhilk a man micht sail   Prood intil the Port o' Death?

THE TWA GORDONS

I There was John Gordon an' Archibold, An' a yerl's twin sons war they; Quhan they war are an' twenty year auld They fell oot on their ae birthday. "Turn ye, John Gordon, nae brither to me! Turn ye, fause an' fell! Or doon ye s' gang, as black as a lee, To the muckle deevil o' hell." "An' quhat for that, Archie Gordon, I pray? Quhat ill hae I dune to thee?" "Twa-faced loon, ye sail rue this day The answer I'm gauin to gie! "For it'll be roucher nor lady Janet's, An' loud i' the braid daylicht; An' the wa' to speil is my iron mail, No her castle-wa' by nicht!" "I speilt the wa' o' her castle braw I' the roarin win' yestreen; An' I sat in her bower till the gloamin sta' Licht-fittit ahint the mune." "Turn ye, John Gordon—the twasum we s' twin! Turn ye, an' haud yer ain; For ane sall lie on a cauld weet bed— An' I downa curse again!" "O Archie, Janet is my true love— notna speir leave o' thee!" "Gien that be true, the deevil's a sanct, An' ye are no tellin a lee!" Their suerds they drew, an' the fire-flauchts flew,   An' they shiftit wi' fendin feet; An' the blude ran doon, till the grun a' roun   Like a verra bog was weet. "O Archie, I hae gotten a cauld supper—   O' steel, but shortest grace! Ae grip o' yer han' afore ye gang!   An' turn me upo' my face." But he's turnit himsel upon his heel,   An' wordless awa he's gane; An' the corbie-craw i' the aik abune   Is roupin for his ain. II Lady Margaret, her hert richt gret,   Luiks ower the castle wa'; Lord Archibold rides oot at the yett,   Ahint him his merry men a'. Wi' a' his band, to the Holy Land   He's boune wi' merry din, His shouther's doss a Christ's cross,   In his breist an ugsome sin. But the cross it brunt him like the fire.   Its burnin never ceast; It brunt in an' in, to win at the sin   Lay cowerin in his breist. A mile frae the shore o' the Deid Sea   The army haltit ae nicht; Lord Archie was waukrife, an' oot gaed he   A walkin i' the munelicht. Dour-like he gaed, wi' doon-hingin heid,   Quhill he cam, by the licht o' the mune, Quhaur michty stanes lay scattert like sheep,   An' ance they worshipt Mahoun. The scruff an' scum o' the deid shore gleamt   An' glintit a sauty gray; The banes o' the deid stack oot o' its bed,   The sea lickit them as they lay. He sat him doon on a sunken stane,   An' he sighit sae dreary an' deep: "I can thole ohn grutten, lyin awauk,   But he comes whan I'm asleep! "I wud gie my soul for ever an' aye   Intil en'less dule an' smert, To sleep a' nicht like a bairn again,   An' cule my burnin hert!" Oot frae ahint a muckle stane   Cam a voice like a huddy craw's: "Behaud there, Archibold Gordon!" it said,   "Behaud—ye hae ower gude cause!" "I'll say quhat I like," quod Archibold,   "Be ye ghaist or deevil or quhat!" "Tak tent, lord Archie, gien ye be wise—   The tit winna even the tat!" Lord Archibold leuch wi' a loud ha, ha,   Eerisome, grousum to hear: "A bonny bargain auld Cloots wad hae,   It has ilka faut but fear!" "Dune, lord Archibold?" craikit the voice;   "Dune, Belzie!" cried he again.— The gray banes glimmert, the white saut shimmert—   Lord Archie was him lane. Back he gaed straught, by the glowerin mune,   An' doun in his plaid he lay, An' soun' he sleepit.—A ghaist-like man   Sat by his heid quhill the day. An' quhanever he moanit or turnit him roun,   Or his broo gae token o' plycht, The waukin man i' the sleepin man's lug   Wud rown a murgeon o' micht. An' the glint o' a smile wud quaver athort   The sleepin cheek sae broun, An' a tear atween the ee-lids wud stert,   An' whiles rin fairly doun. An' aye by his lair sat the ghaist-like man,   He watchit his sleep a' nicht; An' in mail rust-broun, wi' his visorne doun,   Rade at his knee i' the fecht. Nor anis nor twyis the horn-helmit chiel   Saved him frae deidly dad; An' Archie said, "Gien this be the deil   He's no sac black as he's ca'd." But wat ye fu' weel it wasna the deil   That tuik lord Archie's pairt, But his twin-brother John he thoucht deid an' gone,   Wi' luve like a lowe in his hert. III Hame cam lord Archibold, weary wicht,   Hame til his ain countree; An' he cried, quhan his castle rase in sicht,   "Noo Christ me sain an' see!" He turnit him roun: the man in rust-broun   Was gane, he saw nocht quhair! At the ha' door he lichtit him doun,   Lady Margaret met him there. Reid, reid war her een, but hie was her mien,   An' her words war sharp an' sair: "Welcome, Archie, to dule an' tene,   An' welcome ye s' get nae mair! Quhaur is yer twin, lord Archibold,   That lay i' my body wi' thee? I miss my mark gien he liesna stark   Quhaur the daylicht comesna to see!" Lord Archibold dochtna speik a word   For his hert was like a stane; He turnt him awa—an' the huddy craw   Was roupin for his ain. "Quhaur are ye gaein, lord Archie," she said,   "Wi' yer lips sae white an' thin?" "Mother, gude-bye! I'm gaein to lie   Ance mair wi' my body-twin." Up she brade, but awa he gaed   Straucht for the corbie-tree; For quhaur he had slain he thoucht to slay,   An' cast him doon an' dee. "God guide us!" he cried wi' gastit rair,   "Has he lien there ever sin' syne?" An' he thoucht he saw the banes, pykit an' bare,   Throu the cracks o' his harness shine. "Oh Johnnie! my brither!" quo' Archibold   Wi' a hert-upheavin mane, "I wad pit my soul i' yer wastit corp   To see ye alive again!" "Haud ye there!" quod a voice frae oot the helm,   "A man suld heed quhat he says!" An' the closin joints grippit an' tore the gerse As up the armour rase:— "Soul ye hae nane to ca' yer ain   An' its time to hand yer jaw! The sleep it was thine, an' the soul it is mine:   Deil Archie, come awa!" "Auld Hornie," quo' Archie, "twa words to that:   My burnin hert burns on; An' the sleep, weel I wat, was nae reek frae thy pat,   For aye I was dreamin o' John! "But I carena a plack for a soul sae black—   Wae's me 'at my mither bore me! Put fire i' my breist an' fire at my back,   But ae minute set Johnnie afore me!" The gantlets grippit the helm sae stoot   An' liftit frae chin an' broo: An' Johnnie himsel keekit smilin oot:—   "O Archie, I hae ye noo! "O' yer wee bit brod I was little the waur,   I crap awa my lane; An' never a deevil cam ye nar,   'Cep ye coont yer Johnnie ane!" Quhare quhylum his brither Johnnie lay,   Fell Archie upon his knees; The words he said I dinna say,   But I'm sure they warna lees.