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

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.


HAME .

The warl it's dottit wi' hames
As thick as gowans o' the green, Aye bonnier ilk ane nor the lave
To him wha there opent his een.

An' mony an' bonny's the hame
That lies neth auld Scotlan's crests, Her hills an' her mountains they are the sides
O' a muckle nest o' nests.

His lies i' the dip o' a muir
Wi' a twa three elder trees, A lanely cot wi' a sough o' win',
An' a simmer bum o' bees;

An' mine in a bloomin strath,
Wi' a river rowin by, Wi' the green corn glintin i' the sun,
An' a lowin o' the kye;

An' yours whaur the chimleys auld
Stan up i' the gloamin pale Wi' the line o' a gran' sierra drawn
On the lift as sharp's wi' a nail.

But whether by ingle-neuk
On a creepie ye sookit yer thumb, Dreamin, an' watchin the blue peat-reek
Wamle oot up the muckle lum,

Or yer wee feet sank i' the fur
Afore a bleezin hearth, Wi' the curtains drawn, shuttin oot the toon-
Aberdeen, Auld Reekie, or Perth,

It's a naething, nor here nor there;
Leal Scots are a'ane thegither! Ilk ane has a hame, an' it's a' the same
Whether in clover or heather!

An' the hert aye turns to the hame-
That's whaur oor ain folk wons; An' gien hame binna hame, the hert bauds ayont
Abune the stars an' the suns.

For o' a' the hames there's a hame
Herty an' warm an' wide, Whaur a' that maks hame ower the big roun earth
Gangs til its hame to bide.


THE SANG O' THE AULD FOWK.

Doon cam the sunbeams, and up gaed the stour, As we spangt ower the road at ten mile the hoor, The horse wasna timmer, the cart wasna strae, And little cared we for the burn or the brae.

We war young, and the hert in's was strang i' the loup, And deeper in yet was the courage and houp; The sun was gey aft in a clood, but the heat Cam throu, and dried saftly the doon fa'en weet.

Noo, the horsie's some tired, but the road's nae sae lang; The sun comes na oot, but he's no in a fang: The nicht's comin on, but hame's no far awa; We hae come a far road, but hae payit for a'.

For ane has been wi' us-and sometimes 'maist seen, Wha's cared for us better nor a' oor four e'en; He's cared for the horsie, the man, and the wife, And we're gaein hame to him for the rest o' oor life.

Doon comes the water, and up gangs nae stour; We creep ower the road at twa mile the hoor; But oor herts they are canty, for ane's to the fore Wha was and wha is and will be evermore.


THE AULD MAN'S PRAYER

Lord, I'm an auld man,
An' I'm deein! An' do what I can
I canna help bein Some feart at the thoucht! I'm no what I oucht! An' thou art sae gran', Me but an auld man!

I haena gotten muckle
Guid o' the warld; Though siller a puckle
Thegither I hae harlt, Noo I maun be rid o' 't, The ill an' the guid o' 't! An' I wud-I s' no back frae 't- Rather put til 't nor tak frae 't!

It's a pity a body
Coudna haud on here, Puttin cloddy to cloddy
Till he had a bit lan' here!- But eh I'm forgettin Whaur the tide's settin! It'll pusion my prayer Till it's no worth a hair!

It's awfu, it's awfu
To think 'at I'm gaein Whaur a' 's ower wi' the lawfu,
Whaur's an en' til a' haein! It's gruesome to en' The thing 'at ye ken, An' gang to begin til What ye canna see intil!

Thou may weel turn awa,
Lord, an' say it's a shame 'At noo I suld ca'
On thy licht-giein name Wha my lang life-time Wud no see a stime! An' the fac' there's no fleein- But hae pity-I'm deein!

I'm thine ain efter a'-
The waur shame I'm nae better! Dinna sen' me awa,
Dinna curse a puir cratur! I never jist cheatit- I own I defeatit, Gart his poverty tell On him 'at maun sell!

Oh that my probation
Had lain i' some region Whaur was less consideration
For gear mixt wi' religion! It's the mixin the twa 'At jist ruins a'! That kirk's the deil's place Whaur gear glorifees grace!

I hae learnt nought but ae thing
'At life's but a span! I hae warslet for naething!
I hae noucht i' my han'! At the fut o' the stairs I'm sayin my prayers:- Lord, lat the auld loon Confess an' lie doon.

I hae been an ill man-
Micht hae made a guid dog! I could rin though no stan-
Micht hae won throu a bog! But 't was ower easy gaein, An' I set me to playin! Dinna sen' me awa Whaur's no licht ava!

Forgie me an' hap me!
I hae been a sharp thorn. But, oh, dinna drap me!
I'll be coothie the morn! To my brither John Oh, lat me atone- An' to mair I cud name Gien I'd time to tak blame!

I hae wullt a' my gear
To my cousin Lippit: She needs 't no a hair,
An' wud haud it grippit! But I'm thinkin 't 'll be better To gie 't a bit scatter Whaur it winna canker But mak a bit anchor!

Noo I s'try to sit loose
To the warld an' its thrang! Lord, come intil my hoose,
For Sathan sall gang! Awa here I sen' him- Oh, haud the hoose agane him, Or thou kens what he'll daur- He'll be back wi' seven waur!

Lord, I knock at thy yett!
I hear the dog yowlin! Lang latna me wait-
My conscience is growlin! Whaur but to thee Wha was broken for me,