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

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