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

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:

    My nestie it lieth     I' the how o' a ban';     The swing o' the scythe     'Ill miss 't by a span.     The lift it's sae cheery!     The win' it's sae free!     I hing ower my dearie,     And sing 'cause I see.     My wifie's wee breistie     Grows warm wi' my sang,     And ilk crumpled-up beastie     Kens no to think lang.     Up here the sun sings, but     He only shines there!     Ye haena nae wings, but     Come up on a prayer.

The man sings:

    Ye wee daurin cratur,     Ye rant and ye sing     Like an oye o' auld Natur     Ta'en hame by the king!     Ye wee feathert priestie,     Yer bells i' yer thro't,     Yer altar yer breistie,     Yer mitre forgot—     Offerin and Aaron,     Ye burn hert and brain;     And dertin and daurin,     Flee back to yer ain!     Ye wee minor prophet,     It's 'maist my belief     'At I'm doon in Tophet,     And you abune grief!     Ye've deavt me and daudit     And ca'd me a fule:     I'm nearhan' persuaudit     To gang to your schule!     For, birdie, I'm thinkin     Ye ken mair nor me—     Gien ye haena been drinkin,     And sing as ye see.     Ye maun hae a sicht 'at     Sees gay and far ben,     And a hert, for the micht o' 't,     Wad sair for nine men! There's somebody's been til Roun saft to ye wha Said birdies are seen til, And e'en whan they fa'!

GODLY BALLANTS

I.—THIS SIDE AN' THAT The rich man sat in his father's seat—   Purple an' linen, an' a'thing fine! The puir man lay at his yett i' the street—   Sairs an' tatters, an' weary pine! To the rich man's table ilk dainty comes,   Mony a morsel gaed frae't, or fell; The puir man fain wud hae dined on the crumbs,   But whether he got them I canna tell. Servants prood, saft-fittit, an' stoot,   Stan by the rich man's curtained doors; Maisterless dogs 'at rin aboot   Cam to the puir man an' lickit his sores. The rich man deeit, an' they buried him gran',   In linen fine his body they wrap; But the angels tuik up the beggar man,   An' layit him doun in Abraham's lap. The guid upo' this side, the ill upo' that—   Sic was the rich man's waesome fa'! But his brithers they eat, an' they drink, an' they chat,   An' carena a strae for their Father's ha'! The trowth's the trowth, think what ye will;   An' some they kenna what they wad be at; But the beggar man thoucht he did no that ill,   Wi' the dogs o' this side, the angels o' that! II.—THE TWA BAUBEES Stately, lang-robit, an' steppin at ease,   The rich men gaed up the temple ha'; Hasty, an' grippin her twa baubees, The widow cam efter, booit an' sma'. Their goud rang lood as it fell, an' lay   Yallow an' glintin, bonnie an' braw; But the fowk roun the Maister h'ard him say   The puir body's baubees was mair nor it a'. III.—WHA'S MY NEIBOUR? Doon frae Jerus'lem a traveller took   The laigh road to Jericho; It had an ill name an' mony a crook,   It was lang an' unco how. Oot cam the robbers, an' fell o' the man,   An' knockit him o' the heid, Took a' whauron they couth lay their han',   An' left him nakit for deid. By cam a minister o' the kirk:   "A sair mishanter!" he cried; "Wha kens whaur the villains may lirk!   I s' haud to the ither side!" By cam an elder o' the kirk;   Like a young horse he shied: "Fie! here's a bonnie mornin's wark!"   An' he spangt to the ither side. By cam ane gaed to the wrang kirk;   Douce he trottit alang. "Puir body!" he cried, an' wi' a yerk   Aff o' his cuddy he sprang. He ran to the body, an' turnt it ower:   "There's life i' the man!" he cried. He wasna ane to stan an' glower,   Nor hand to the ither side! He doctort his oons, an' heised him then   To the back o' the beastie douce; An' he heild him on till, twa weary men,   They wan to the half-way hoose. He ten'd him a' nicht, an' o' the morn did say,   "Lan'lord, latna him lack; Here's auchteen pence!—an' ony mair ootlay   I'll sattle 't as I come back." Sae tak til ye, neibours; read aricht the word;   It's a portion o' God's ain spell! "Wha is my neibour?" speirna the Lord,   But, "Am I a neibour?" yersel. IV.—HIM WI' THE BAG Ance was a woman wha's hert was gret;   Her love was sae dumb it was 'maist a grief; She brak the box—it's tellt o' her yet—   The bonny box for her hert's relief. Ane was there wha's tale's but brief,   Yet was ower lang, the gait he cawed; He luikit a man, and was but a thief,   Michty the gear to grip and hand. "What guid," he cried, "sic a boxfu to blaud?   Wilfu waste I couth never beir! It micht hae been sellt for ten poun, I wad—   Sellt for ten poun, and gien to the puir!" Savin he was, but for love o' the gear;   Carefu he was, but a' for himsel; He carried the bag to his hert sae near   What fell i' the ane i' the ither fell. And the strings o' his hert hingit doun to hell,   They war pu'd sae ticht aboot the mou; And hence it comes that I hae to tell   The warst ill tale that ever was true. The hert that's greedy maun mischief brew,   And the deils pu'd the strings doon yon'er in hell; And he sauld, or the agein mune was new,   For thirty shillins the Maister himsel! Gear i' the hert it's a canker fell:   Brithers, latna the siller ben! Troth, gien ye du, I warn ye ye'll sell   The verra Maister or ever ye ken! V.—THE COORSE CRATUR   The Lord gaed wi' a crood o' men     Throu Jericho the bonny;   'Twas ill the Son o' Man to ken     Mang sons o' men sae mony:   The wee bit son o' man Zacchay     To see the Maister seekit;   He speilt a fig-tree, bauld an' shy,     An' sae his shortness ekit.   But as he thoucht to see his back,     Roun turnt the haill face til 'im,   Up luikit straucht, an' til 'im spak—     His hert gaed like to kill 'im.   "Come doun, Zacchay; bestir yersel;     This nicht I want a lodgin."   Like a ripe aipple 'maist he fell,     Nor needit ony nudgin.   But up amang the unco guid     There rase a murmurin won'er:   "This is a deemis want o' heed,     The man's a special sinner!"   Up spak Zacchay, his hert ableeze:     "Half mine, the puir, Lord, hae it;   Gien oucht I've taen by ony lees,     Fourfauld again I pay it!"   Then Jesus said, "This is a man!     His hoose I'm here to save it;   He's are o' Abraham's ain clan,     An' siclike has behavit!   I cam the lost to seek an' win."—     Zacchay was are he wantit:   To ony man that left his sin     His grace he never scantit.

THE DEIL'S FORHOOIT HIS AIN

        The Deil's forhooit his ain, his ain!           The Deil's forhooit his ain!         His bairns are greitin in ilka neuk,           For the Deil's forhooit his ain. The Deil he tuik his stick and his hat,   And his yallow gluves on he drew: "The coal's sae dear, and the preachin sae flat.   And I canna be aye wi' you!" The Deil's, &c. "But I'll gie ye my blessin afore I gang,   Wi' jist ae word o' advice; And gien onything efter that gaes wrang   It'll be yer ain wull and ch'ice! "Noo hark: There's diseases gaein aboot,   Whiles are, and whiles a' thegither! Ane's ca'd Repentance—haith, hand it oot!    It comes wi' a change o' weather. "For that, see aye 'at ye're gude at the spune   And tak yer fair share o' the drink; Gien ye dinna, I wadna won'er but sune   Ye micht 'maist begin to think! "Neist, luik efter yer liver; that's the place   Whaur Conscience gars ye fin'! Some fowk has mair o' 't, and some has less—   It comes o' breedin in. "But there's waur nor diseases gaein aboot,   There's a heap o' fair-spoken lees; And there's naething i' natur, in or oot,   'At waur with the health agrees. "There's what they ca' Faith, 'at wad aye be fain;   And Houp that glowers, and tynes a'; And Love, that never yet faund its ain,   But aye turnt its face to the wa'. "And Trouth—the sough o' a sickly win';   And Richt—what needna be; And Beauty—nae deeper nor the skin;   And Blude—that's naething but bree. "But there's ae gran' doctor for a' and mair—   For diseases and lees in a breath:— My bairns, I lea' ye wi'oot a care   To yer best freen, Doctor Death. "He'll no distress ye: as quaiet's a cat   He grips ye, and a'thing's ower; There's naething mair 'at ye wad be at,   There's never a sweet nor sour! "They ca' 't a sleep, but it's better bliss,   For ye wauken up no more; They ca' 't a mansion—and sae it is,   And the coffin-lid's the door! "Jist ae word mair—-and it's verbum sat—   I hae preacht it mony's the year: Whaur there's naething ava to be frictit at   There's naething ava to fear. "I dinna say 'at there isna a hell—   To lee wad be a disgrace! I bide there whan I'm at hame mysel,   And it's no sic a byous ill place! "Ye see yon blue thing they ca' the lift?   It's but hell turnt upside doun, A whummilt bossie, whiles fou o' drift,   And whiles o' a rumlin soun! "Lat auld wives tell their tales i' the reek,   Men hae to du wi' fac's: There's naebody there to watch, and keek   Intil yer wee mistaks. "But nor ben there's naebody there   Frae the yird to the farthest spark; Ye'll rub the knees o' yer breeks to the bare   Afore ye'll pray ye a sark! "Sae fare ye weel, my bonny men,   And weel may ye thrive and the! Gien I dinna see ye some time again   It'll be 'at ye're no to see." He cockit his hat ower ane o' his cheeks,   And awa wi' a halt and a spang— For his tail was doun ae leg o' his breeks,   And his butes war a half ower lang.           The Deil's forhooit his ain, his ain!             The Deil's forhooit his ain!           His bairns are greitin in ilka neuk,             For the Deil's forhooit his ain.

THE AULD FISHER

There was an auld fisher, he sat by the wa',   An' luikit oot ower the sea; The bairnies war playin, he smil't on them a',   But the tear stude in his e'e.       An' it's—oh to win awa, awa!         An' it's, oh to win awa Whaur the bairns come hame, an' the wives they bide,         An' God is the father o' a'! Jocky an' Jeamy an' Tammy oot there   A' i' the boatie gaed doon; An' I'm ower auld to fish ony mair,   Sae I hinna the chance to droon! An' it's—oh to win awa, awa! &c. An' Jeannie she grat to ease her hert,   An' she easit hersel awa; But I'm ower auld for the tears to stert,   An' sae the sighs maun blaw. An' it's—oh to win awa, awa! &c. Lord, steer me hame whaur my Lord has steerit,   For I'm tired o' life's rockin sea; An' dinna be lang, for I'm growin that fearit   'At I'm ablins ower auld to dee!       An' it's—oh to win awa, awa!         An' it's, oh to win awa Whaur the bairns come hame, an' the wives they bide,         An' God is the father o' a'!