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

    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'!

THE HERD AND THE MAVIS

"What gars ye sing," said the herd-laddie,   "What gars ye sing sae lood?" "To tice them oot o' the yerd, laddie,   The worms for my daily food."       An' aye he sang, an' better he sang,         An' the worms creepit in an' oot;       An' ane he tuik, an' twa he loot gang,         An' still he carolled stoot. "It's no for the worms, sir," said the herd;   "They comena for your sang!" "Think ye sae, sir?" answered the bird,   "Maybe ye're no i' the wrang!" But aye &c. "Sing ye young Sorrow to beguile,   Or to gie auld Fear the flegs?" "Na," quo' the mavis, "I sing to wile   My wee things oot o' her eggs." An' aye &c. "The mistress is plenty for that same gear   Though ye sangna air nor late!" "I wud draw the deid frae the moul sae drear.   An' open the kirkyard-gate." An' aye &c. "Better ye sing nor a burn i' the mune,   Nor a wave ower san' that flows, Nor a win' wi' the glintin stars abune,   An' aneth the roses in rows; An' aye &c. But a better sang it wud tak nor yer ain,   Though ye hae o' notes a feck, To mak the auld Barebanes there sae fain   As to lift the muckle sneck! An' aye &c. An' ye wudna draw ae bairnie back   Frae the arms o' the bonny man Though its minnie was greitin alas an' alack,   An' her cries to the bairnie wan! An' aye &c. An' I'll speir ye nae mair, sir," said the herd,   "I fear what ye micht say neist!" "I doobt ye wud won'er, sir," said the bird,   "To see the thouchts i' my breist!"       An' aye he sang, an' better he sang,         An' the worms creepit in an' oot;       An' ane he tuik, an' twa he loot gang,         An' still he carolled stoot.

A LOWN NICHT

Rose o' my hert,   Open yer leaves to the lampin mune; Into the curls lat her keek an' dert,   She'll tak the colour but gie ye tune. Buik o' my brain,   Open yer faulds to the starry signs; Lat the e'en o' the holy luik an' strain,   Lat them glimmer an' score atween the lines. Cup o' my soul,   Goud an' diamond an' ruby cup, Ye're noucht ava but a toom dry bowl   Till the wine o' the kingdom fill ye up. Conscience-glass,   Mirror the en'less All in thee; Melt the boundered and make it pass   Into the tideless, shoreless sea. Warl o' my life,   Swing thee roun thy sunny track; Fire an' win' an' water an' strife,   Carry them a' to the glory back.

THE HOME OF DEATH

"Death, whaur do ye bide, auld Death?" "I bide in ilka breath," Quo' Death; "No i' the pyramids, No whaur the wormie rids 'Neth coffin-lids; I bidena whaur life has been, An' whaur's nae mair to be dune." "Death, whaur do ye bide, auld Death?" "Wi' the leevin, to dee 'at are laith," Quo' Death; "Wi' the man an' the wife 'At loo like life, Bot strife; Wi' the bairns 'at hing to their mither, Wi' a' 'at loo ane anither." "Death, whaur do ye bide, auld Death?" "Abune an' aboot an' aneth," Quo' Death; "But o' a' the airts An' o' a' the pairts, In herts— Whan the tane to the tither says, Na, An' the north win' begins to blaw."

TRIOLET

I'm a puir man I grant, But I am weel neiboured; And nane shall me daunt Though a puir man, I grant; For I shall not want— The Lord is my Shepherd! I'm a puir man I grant, But I am weel neiboured!

WIN' THAT 'BLAWS

Win' that blaws the simmer plaid Ower the hie hill's shoothers laid, Green wi' gerse, an' reid wi' heather— Welcome wi' yer sowl-like weather! Mony a win' there has been sent Oot aneth the firmament— Ilka ane its story has; Ilka ane began an' was; Ilka ane fell quaiet an' mute Whan its angel wark was oot: First gaed are oot throu the mirk Whan the maker gan to work; Ower it gaed an' ower the sea, An' the warl begud to be. Mony are has come an' gane Sin' the time there was but ane: Ane was grit an' strong, an' rent Rocks an' muntains as it went Afore the Lord, his trumpeter, Waukin up the prophet's ear; Ane was like a stepping soun I' the mulberry taps abune— Them the Lord's ain steps did swing, Walkin on afore his king; Ane lay dune like scoldit pup At his feet, an' gatna up— Whan the word the Maister spak Drave the wull-cat billows back; Ane gaed frae his lips, an' dang To the yird the sodger thrang; Ane comes frae his hert to mine Ilka day to mak it fine. Breath o' God, eh! come an' blaw Frae my hert ilk fog awa; Wauk me up an' mak me strang, Fill my hert wi' mony a sang, Frae my lips again to stert Fillin sails o' mony a hert, Blawin them ower seas dividin To the only place to bide in.

A SONG OF HOPE

I dinna ken what's come ower me!   There's a how whaur ance was a hert! I never luik oot afore me,   An' a cry winna gar me stert; There's naething nae mair to come ower me,   Blaw the win' frae ony airt! For i' yon kirkyard there's a hillock,   A hert whaur ance was a how; An' o' joy there's no left a mealock—   Deid aiss whaur ance was a low! For i' yon kirkyard, i' the hillock,   Lies a seed 'at winna grow. It's my hert 'at hauds up the wee hillie—   That's hoo there's a how i' my breist; It's awa doon there wi' my Willie—   Gaed wi' him whan he was releast; It's doon i' the green-grown hillie,   But I s' be efter it neist! Come awa, nicht an' mornin,   Come ooks, years, a' Time's clan: Ye're welcome: I'm no a bit scornin!   Tak me til him as fest as ye can. Come awa, nicht an' mornin,   Ye are wings o' a michty span! For I ken he's luikin an' waitin,   Luikin aye doon as I clim; An' I'll no hae him see me sit greitin   I'stead o' gaein to him! I'll step oot like ane sure o' a meetin,   I'll travel an' rin to him.

THE BURNIE

The water ran doon frae the heich hope-heid,   Wi' a Rin, burnie, rin; It wimpled, an' waggled, an' sang a screed   O' nonsense, an' wadna blin   Wi' its Rin, burnie, rin. Frae the hert o' the warl, wi' a swirl an' a sway,   An' a Rin, burnie, rin, That water lap clear frae the dark til the day,   An' singin awa did spin,   Wi' its Rin, burnie, rin. Ae wee bit mile frae the heich hope-heid   Wi' its Rin, burnie, rin, Mang her yows an' her lammies the herd-lassie stude,   An' she loot a tear fa' in,   Wi' a Rin, burnie, rin. Frae the hert o' the maiden that tear-drap rase   Wi' a Rin, burnie, rin; Wear'ly clim'in up weary ways   There was but a drap to fa' in,   Sae laith did that burnie rin. Twa wee bit miles frae the heich hope-heid   Wi' its Rin, burnie, rin, Doon creepit a cowerin streakie o' reid,   An' it meltit awa within   The burnie 'at aye did rin. Frae the hert o' a youth cam the tricklin reid,   Wi' its Rin, burnie, rin; It ran an' ran till it left him deid,   An' syne it dried up i' the win':   That burnie nae mair did rin. Whan the wimplin burn that frae three herts gaed   Wi' a Rin, burnie, rin, Cam to the lip o' the sea sae braid,   It curled an' groued wi' pain o' sin—   But it tuik that burnie in.