The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes - Volume 2 by George MacDonald (red queen ebook .TXT) 📖

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