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

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,
But to thee, Lord, sae gran',
Can flee an auld man!
 

GRANNY CANTY

 
"What maks ye sae canty, granny dear?
Has some kin' body been for ye to speir?
Ye luik as smilin an' fain an' willin
As gien ye had fun a bonny shillin!"
 
 
"Ye think I luik canty, my bonny man,
Sittin watchin the last o' the sun sae gran'?
Weel, an' I'm thinkin ye're no that wrang,
For 'deed i' my hert there's a wordless sang!
 
 
"Ken ye the meanin o' canty, my dow?
It's bein i' the humour o' singin, I trow!
An' though nae sang ever crosses my lips
I'm aye like to sing whan anither sun dips.
 
 
"For the time, wee laddie, the time grows lang
Sin' I saw the man wha's sicht was my sang—
Yer gran'father, that's—an' the sun's last glim
Says aye to me, 'Lass, ye're a mile nearer him!
 
 
"For he's hame afore me, an' lang's the road!
He fain at my side wud hae timed his plod,
But, eh, he was sent for, an' hurried awa!
Noo, I'm thinkin he's harkin to hear my fit-fa'."
 
 
"But, grannie, yer face is sae lirkit an' thin,
Wi' a doun-luikin nose an' an up-luikin chin,
An' a mou clumpit up oot o' sicht atween,
Like the witherin half o' an auld weary mune!"
 
 
"Hoot, laddie, ye needna glower yersel blin'!
The body 'at loos, sees far throu the skin;
An', believe me or no, the hoor's comin amain
Whan ugly auld fowk 'ill be bonny again.
 
 
"For there is ane—an' it's no my dear man,
Though I loo him as nane but a wife's hert can—
The joy o' beholdin wha's gran' lovely face
Til mak me like him in a' 'at's ca'd grace.
 
 
"But what I am like I carena a strae
Sae lang as I'm his, an' what he wud hae!
Be ye a guid man, John, an' ae day ye'll ken
What maks granny canty yont four score an' ten."
 

TIME

 
A lang-backit, spilgie, fuistit auld carl
Gangs a' nicht rakin athort the warl
Wi' a pock on his back, luikin hungry an' lean,
His crook-fingert han' aye followin his e'en:
He gathers up a'thing that canna but fa'—
Intil his bag wi' 't, an' on, an' awa!
Soot an' snaw! soot an' snaw!—
Intil his bag wi' 't, an' on, an' awa!
 
 
But whan he comes to the wa' o' the warl,
Spangs up it, like lang-leggit spidder, the carl;
Up gangs his pock wi' him, humpit ahin,
For naething fa's oot 'at ance he pat in;
Syne he warstles doon ootside the flamin wa',
His bag 'maist the deith o' him, pangt like a ba';
Soot an' snaw! soot an' snaw!
His bag 'maist throttlin him, pangt like a ba'!
 
 
Doon he draps weary upon a laigh rock,
Flingin aside him his muckle-mou'd pock:
An' there he sits, his heid in his han',
Like a broken-hertit, despairin man;
Him air his pock no bonny, na, na!
Him an' his pock an ugsome twa!
Soot an' snaw! soot an' snaw!
Him an' his pock an ugsome twa!
 
 
But sune 's the first ray o' the sunshine bare
Lichts on the carl, what see ye there?
An angel set on eternity's brink,
Wi' e'en to gar the sun himsel blink;
By his side a glintin, glimmerin urn,
Furth frae wha's mou rins a liltin burn:—
Soot an' snaw! soot an' snaw!
The dirt o' the warl rins in glory awa!
 

WHAT THE AULD FOWK ARE THINKIN

 
The bairns i' their beds, worn oot wi' nae wark,
  Are sleepin, nor ever an eelid winkin;
The auld fowk lie still wi' their een starin stark,
  An' the mirk pang-fou o' the things they are thinkin.
 
 
Whan oot o' ilk corner the bairnies they keek,
  Lauchin an' daffin, airms loosin an' linkin,
The auld fowk they watch frae the warm ingle-cheek,
  But the bairns little think what the auld fowk are thinkin.
 
 
Whan the auld fowk sit quaiet at the reet o' a stook,
  I' the sunlicht their washt een blinterin an' blinkin,
Fowk scythin, or bin'in, or shearin wi' heuk
  Carena a strae what the auld fowk are thinkin.
 
 
At the kirk, whan the minister's dreich an' dry,
  His fardens as gien they war gowd guineas chinkin,
An' the young fowk are noddin, or fidgetin sly,
  Naebody kens what the auld fowk are thinkin.
 
 
Whan the young fowk are greitin aboot the bed
  Whaur like water throu san' the auld life is sinkin,
An' some wud say the last word was said,
  The auld fowk smile, an' ken what they're thinkin.
 

GREITNA, FATHER

 
Greitna, father, that I'm gauin,
  For fu' well ye ken the gaet;
I' the winter, corn ye're sawin,
  I' the hairst again ye hae't.
 
 
I'm gauin hame to see my mither;
  She'll be weel acquant or this!
Sair we'll muse at ane anither
  'Tween the auld word an' new kiss!
 
 
Love I'm doobtin may be scanty
  Roun ye efter I'm awa:
Yon kirkyard has happin plenty
  Close aside me, green an' braw!
 
 
An' abune there's room for mony;
  'Twasna made for ane or twa,
But was aye for a' an' ony
  Countin love the best ava.
 
 
There nane less ye'll be my father;
  Auld names we'll nor tyne nor spare!
A' my sonship I maun gather
  For the Son is king up there.
 
 
Greitna, father, that I'm gauin,
  For ye ken fu' well the gaet!
Here, in winter, cast yer sawin,
  There, in hairst, again ye hae't!
 

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