The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume Ii Part 63

Bot she tuik na her han' frae the gude ship's helm Till the day begouth to daw; An' the skipper he spak, but what was said It was said atween them twa.

An' syne the gude ship she lay to, Wi' Scotlan' hyne un'er the lee; An' the king cam up the cabin-stair Wi' wan face an' bluidshot ee.

Laigh lout.i.t the skipper upo' the deck; "Stan' up, stan' up," quo' the king; "Ye're an honest loun--an' beg me a boon Quhan ye gie me back this ring."

Lowne blew the win'; the stars cam oot; The ship turnt frae the north; An' or ever the sun was up an' aboot They war intil the firth o' Forth.

Quhan the gude ship lay at the pier-heid, And the king stude steady o' the lan',-- "Doon wi' ye, skipper--doon!" he said, "Hoo daur ye afore me stan'!"

The skipper he lout.i.t on his knee; The king his blade he drew: Quo' the king, "Noo mynt ye to centre me!

I'm aboord _my_ vessel noo!

"Gien I hadna been yer verra gude lord I wud hae thrawn yer neck!

Bot--ye wha lout.i.t Skipper o' Doon, Rise up Yerl o' Waterydeck."

The skipper he rasena: "Yer Grace is great, Yer wull it can heize or ding: Wi' ae wee word ye hae made me a yerl-- Wi' anither mak me a king."

"I canna mak ye a king," quo' he, "The Lord alane can do that!

I snowk leise-majesty, my man!

Quhat the Sathan wad ye be at?"

Glowert at the skipper the doutsum king Jalousin aneth his croon; Quo' the skipper, "Here is yer Grace's ring-- An' yer dochter is my boon!"

The black blude shot intil the king's face He wasna bonny to see: "The rascal skipper! he lichtlies oor grace!-- Gar hang him heigh on yon tree."

Up sprang the skipper an' aboord his ship, Cleikit up a bytin blade An' hackit at the cable that held her to the pier, An' thoucht it 'maist ower weel made.

The king he blew shill in a siller whustle; An' tramp, tramp, doon the pier Cam twenty men on twenty horses, Clankin wi' spur an' spear.

At the king's fute fell his dochter fair: "His life ye wadna spill!"

"Ye daur stan' twixt my hert an' my hate?"

"I daur, wi' a richt gude will!"

"Ye was aye to yer faither a thrawart bairn, But, my lady, here stan's the king!

Luikna _him_ i' the angry face-- A monarch's anither thing!"

"I lout to my father for his grace Low on my bendit knee; But I stan' an' luik the king i' the face, For the skipper is king o' me!"

She turnt, she sprang upo' the deck, The cable splashed i' the Forth, Her wings sae braid the gude ship spread And flew east, an' syne flew north.

Now was not this a king's dochter-- A lady that feared no skaith?

A woman wi' quhilk a man micht sail Prood intil the Port o' Death?

_THE TWA GORDONS_.

I.

There was John Gordon an' Archibold, An' a yerl's twin sons war they; Quhan they war are an' twenty year auld They fell oot on their ae birthday.

"Turn ye, John Gordon, nae brither to me!

Turn ye, fause an' fell!

Or doon ye s' gang, as black as a lee, To the muckle deevil o' h.e.l.l."

"An' quhat for that, Archie Gordon, I pray?

Quhat ill hae I dune to thee?"

"Twa-faced loon, ye sail rue this day The answer I'm gauin to gie!

"For it'll be roucher nor lady Janet's, An' loud i' the braid daylicht; An' the wa' to speil is my iron mail, No her castle-wa' by nicht!"

"I speilt the wa' o' her castle braw I' the roarin win' yestreen; An' I sat in her bower till the gloamin sta'

Licht-fitt.i.t ahint the mune."

"Turn ye, John Gordon--the twasum we s' twin!

Turn ye, an' haud yer ain; For ane sall lie on a cauld weet bed-- An' I downa curse again!"

"O Archie, Janet is my true love-- notna speir leave o' thee!"

"Gien that be true, the deevil's a sanct, An' ye are no tellin a lee!"

Their suerds they drew, an' the fire-flauchts flew, An' they shift.i.t wi' fendin feet; An' the blude ran doon, till the grun a' roun Like a verra bog was weet.

"O Archie, I hae gotten a cauld supper-- O' steel, but shortest grace!

Ae grip o' yer han' afore ye gang!

An' turn me upo' my face."

But he's turnit himsel upon his heel, An' wordless awa he's gane; An' the corbie-craw i' the aik abune Is roupin for his ain.

II.

Lady Margaret, her hert richt gret, Luiks ower the castle wa'; Lord Archibold rides oot at the yett, 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 sh.o.r.e o' the Deid Sea The army halt.i.t 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' sc.u.m o' the deid sh.o.r.e gleamt An' glint.i.t 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!"