The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume Ii Part 68

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' G.o.d 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 f.e.c.k, 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-gla.s.s, Mirror the en'less All in thee; Melt the boundered and make it pa.s.s Into the tideless, sh.o.r.eless 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 t.i.ther says, Na, 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' G.o.d, 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!