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

I KEN SOMETHING

What gars ye sing sae, birdie,   As gien ye war lord o' the lift? On breid ye're an unco sma' lairdie,   But in hicht ye've a kingly gift! A' ye hae to coont yersel rich in   'S a wee mawn o' glory-motes! The whilk to the throne ye're aye hitchin   Wi a lang tow o' sapphire notes! Ay, yer sang's the sang o' an angel   For a sinfu' thrapple no meet, Like the pipes til a heavenly braingel   Whaur they dance their herts intil their feet! But though ye canna behaud, birdie,   Ye needna gar a'thing wheesht! I'm noucht but a hirplin herdie,   But I hae a sang i' my breist! Len' me yer throat to sing throu,   Len' me yer wings to gang hie, And I'll sing ye a sang a laverock to cow,   And for bliss to gar him dee!

MIRLS

The stars are steady abune;   I' the water they flichter and flee; But, steady aye, luikin doon   They ken theirsels i' the sea. A' licht, and clear, and free,   God, thou shinest abune; Yet luik, and see thysel in me,   Aye on me luikin doon. * * * * * Throu the heather an' how gaed the creepin thing, But abune was the waff o' an angel's wing. * * * * * Hither an' thither, here an' awa, Into the dub ye maunna fa'; Oot o' the dub wad ye come wi' speed, Ye maun lift yer han's abune yer heid. * * * * * Whaur's nor sun nor mune, Laigh things come abune. * * * * * My thouchts are like worms in a starless gloamin   My hert's like a sponge that's fillit wi' gall; My soul's like a bodiless ghaist sent a roamin   I' the haar an' the mirk till the trumpet call. Lord, turn ilk worm til a butterflee,   Wring oot my hert, an' fill 't frae thy ain; My soul syne in patience its weird will dree,   An' luik for the mornin throu the rain. THE END

1

In a lovely garden walking   Two lovers went hand in hand; Two wan, worn figures, talking   They sat in the flowery land. On the cheek they kissed one another,   On the mouth with sweet refrain; Fast held they each the other,   And were young and well again. Two little bells rang shrilly—   The dream went with the hour: She lay in the cloister stilly,   He far in the dungeon-tower! From Uhland.