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

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.

THE LAST WOOIN

"O lat me in, my bonny lass!   It's a lang road ower the hill, And the flauchterin snaw begud to fa'   On the brig ayont the mill!" "Here's nae change-hoose, John Munro!"   "I'll ken that to my cost Gien ye gar me tak the hill the nicht,   Wi' snaw o' the back o' frost! But tell me, lass, what's my offence."   "Weel ken ye! At the fair Ye lichtlied me! Ay, twasna ance!—   Ye needna come nae mair!" "I lichtlied ye?"—"Ay, ower the glass!"   "Foul-fa' the ill-faured mou 'At made the leein word to pass   By rowin 't i' the true! The trouth is this: I dochtna bide   To hear yer bonnie name Whaur lawless mous war openit wide   Wi' ill-tongued scoff and blame; And what I said was: 'Hoot, lat sit!   She's but a bairn, the lass!' It turnt the spait o' words a bit,   And loot yer fair name pass." "Thank ye for naething, John Munro!   My name it needna hide; It's no a drucken sough wud gar   Me turn my heid aside!" "O Elsie, lassie, be yersel!   The snaw-stour's driftin thrang! O tak me in, the win' 's sae snell,   And in an hour I'll gang." "I downa pay ye guid for ill,   Ye heedna fause and true! Gang back to Katie at the mill—   She loos sic like as you!" He turnt his fit; she heardna mair.   The lift was like to fa'; And Elsie's hert grew grit and sair   At sicht o' the drivin snaw. She laid her doon, but no to sleep,   Her verra hert was cauld; And the sheets war like a frozen heap   O' drift aboot her faul'd. She rase fu' air; the warl lay fair   And still in its windin-sheet; At door-cheek, or at winnock-lug,   Was never a mark o' feet! She crap for days aboot the hoose,   Dull-futtit and hert-sair, Aye keekin oot like a hungert moose—   But Johnnie was na there! Lang or the spring begoud to thow   The waesome, sick-faced snaw, Her hert was saft a' throu and throu,   Her pride had ta'en a fa'. And whan the wreaths war halflins gane,   And the sun was blinkin bonnie, Oot ower the hill she wud gang her lane   To speir aboot her Johnnie. Half ower, she cam intil a lair   O' snaw and slush and weet: The Lord hae mercy! what's that there?   It was Johnnie at her feet. Aneth the snaw his heid was smorit,   But his breist was maistly bare, And twixt his richt ban' and his hert   Lay a lock o' gouden hair. The warm win' blew, the blackcock flew,   The lerrick muntit the skies; The burnie ran, and a baein began,   But Johnnie wudna rise. The sun was clear, the lift was blue,   The winter was awa; Up cam the green gerse plentifu,   The better for the snaw; And warm it happit Johnnie's grave   Whaur the ae lock gouden lay; But on Elsie's hingin heid the lave   Was afore the barley gray.

HALLOWEEN

Sweep up the flure, Janet;   Put on anither peat. It's a lown and a starry nicht, Janet,   And nowther cauld nor weet. It's the nicht atween the Sancts and Souls   Whan the bodiless gang aboot; And it's open hoose we keep the nicht   For ony that may be oot. Set the cheirs back to the wa', Janet;   Mak ready for quaiet fowk. Hae a'thing as clean as a windin-sheet:   They comena ilka ook. There's a spale upo' the flure, Janet,   And there's a rowan-berry! Sweep them intil the fire, Janet,   Or they'll neither come nor tarry. Syne set open the outer dure—   Wide open for wha kens wha? As ye come ben to your bed, Janet,   Set baith dures to the wa'. She set the cheirs back to the wa',   But ane that was o' the birk; She sweepit the flure, but left the spale—   A lang spale o' the aik. The nicht was lown; the stars sae still   War glintin doon the sky; The souls crap oot o' their mooly graves,   A' dank wi' lyin by. They faund the dure wide to the wa',   And the peats blawn rosy reid: They war shuneless feet gaed in and oot,   Nor clampit as they gaed. The mither she keekit but the hoose,   Saw what she ill could say; Quakin she slidit doon by Janet,   And gaspin a whilie she lay. There's are o' them sittin afore the fire!   Ye wudna hearken to me! Janet, ye left a cheir by the fire,   Whaur I tauld ye nae cheir suld be! Janet she smilit in her minnie's face:   She had brunt the roden reid, But she left aneth the birken cheir   The spale frae a coffin-lid! Saft she rase and gaed but the hoose,   And ilka dure did steik. Three hours gaed by, and her minnie heard   Sound o' the deid nor quick. Whan the gray cock crew, she heard on the flure   The fa' o' shuneless feet; Whan the rud cock crew, she heard the dure,   And a sough o' win' and weet. Whan the goud cock crew, Janet cam back;   Her face it was gray o' ble; Wi' starin een, at her mither's side   She lay doon like a bairn to dee. Her white lips hadna a word to lat fa'   Mair nor the soulless deid; Seven lang days and nights she lay,   And never a word she said. Syne suddent, as oot o' a sleep, she brade,   Smilin richt winsumly; And she spak, but her word it was far and strayit,   Like a whisper come ower the sea. And never again did they hear her lauch,   Nor ever a tear doun ran; But a smile aye flittit aboot her face   Like the mune on a water wan. And ilka nicht atween Sancts and Souls   She laid the dures to the wa', Blew up the fire, and set the cheir,   And loot the spale doon fa'. And at midnicht she gaed but the hoose   Aye steekin dure and dure. Whan the goud cock crew, quaiet as a moose   She cam creepin ower the flure. Mair wan grew her face, and her smile mair sweet   Quhill the seventh Halloweve: Her mother she heard the shuneless feet,   Said—She'll be ben belyve! She camna ben. Her minnie rase—   For fear she 'maist cudna stan; She grippit the wa', and but she gaed,   For the goud cock lang had crawn. There sat Janet upo' the birk cheir,   White as the day did daw; But her smile was a sunglint left on the sea   Whan the sun himsel is awa.

THE LAVEROCK

The Man says:

Laverock i' the lift, Hae ye nae sang-thrift, 'At ye scatter 't sae heigh, and lat it a' drift?     Wasterfu laverock! Dinna ye ken 'At ye hing ower men Wha haena a sang or a penny to spen?     Hertless laverock! But up there you, I' the bow o' the blue, Haud skirlin on as gien a' war new!     Toom-heidit laverock! Haith, ye're ower blythe! I see a great scythe Swing whaur yer nestie lies, doon i' the lythe,     Liltin laverock! Eh, sic a soun! Birdie, come doun, Ye're fey to sing sic a merry tune!     Gowkit laverock! Come to yer nest; Yer wife's sair prest, She's clean worn oot wi' duin her best!     Rovin laverock! Winna ye haud? Ye're surely mad! Is there naebody there to gie ye a dad,     Menseless laverock? Come doon and conform, Pyke an honest worm, And hap yer bairns frae the comin storm,     Spendrife laverock!

The Bird sings: