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

'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,