The Poetical Works of George MacDonald (Parables)
Home - George MacDonald - The Poetical Works of George MacDonald (Parables)III.
Hame cam lord Archibold, weary wicht,
Hame til his ain countree; An' he cried, quhan his castle rase in sicht,
"Noo Christ me sain an' see!"
He turnit him roun: the man in rust-broun
Was gane, he saw nocht quhair! At the ha' door he lichtit him doun,
Lady Margaret met him there.
Reid, reid war her een, but hie was her mien,
An' her words war sharp an' sair: "Welcome, Archie, to dule an' tene,
An' welcome ye s' get nae mair!
Quhaur is yer twin, lord Archibold,
That lay i' my body wi' thee? I miss my mark gien he liesna stark
Quhaur the daylicht comesna to see!"
Lord Archibold dochtna speik a word
For his hert was like a stane; He turnt him awa--an' the huddy craw
Was roupin for his ain.
"Quhaur are ye gaein, lord Archie," she said,
"Wi' yer lips sae white an' thin?" "Mother, gude-bye! I'm gaein to lie
Ance mair wi' my body-twin."
Up she brade, but awa he gaed
Straucht for the corbie-tree; For quhaur he had slain he thoucht to slay,
An' cast him doon an' dee.
"God guide us!" he cried wi' gastit rair,
"Has he lien there ever sin' syne?" An' he thoucht he saw the banes, pykit an' bare,
Throu the cracks o' his harness shine.
"Oh Johnnie! my brither!" quo' Archibold
Wi' a hert-upheavin mane, "I wad pit my soul i' yer wastit corp
To see ye alive again!"
"Haud ye there!" quod a voice frae oot the helm,
"A man suld heed quhat he says!" An' the closin joints grippit an' tore the gerse As up the armour rase:--
"Soul ye hae nane to ca' yer ain
An' its time to hand yer jaw! The sleep it was thine, an' the soul it is mine:
Deil Archie, come awa!"
"Auld Hornie," quo' Archie, "twa words to that:
My burnin hert burns on; An' the sleep, weel I wat, was nae reek frae thy pat,
For aye I was dreamin o' John!
"But I carena a plack for a soul sae black--
Wae's me 'at my mither bore me! Put fire i' my breist an' fire at my back,
But ae minute set Johnnie afore me!"
The gantlets grippit the helm sae stoot
An' liftit frae chin an' broo: An' Johnnie himsel keekit smilin oot:--
"O Archie, I hae ye noo!
"O' yer wee bit brod I was little the waur,
I crap awa my lane; An' never a deevil cam ye nar,
'Cep ye coont yer Johnnie ane!"
Quhare quhylum his brither Johnnie lay,
Fell Archie upon his knees; The words he said I dinna say,
But I'm sure they warna lees.
THE LAST WOOIN.
"O lat me in, my bonny lass!
It's a lang road ower the hill, And the flauchterin snaw begud to fa'
On the brig ayont the mill!"
"Here's nae change-hoose, John Munro!"
"I'll ken that to my cost Gien ye gar me tak the hill the nicht,
Wi' snaw o' the back o' frost!
But tell me, lass, what's my offence."
"Weel ken ye! At the fair Ye lichtlied me! Ay, twasna ance!--
Ye needna come nae mair!"
"I lichtlied ye?"--"Ay, ower the glass!"
"Foul-fa' the ill-faured mou 'At made the leein word to pass
By rowin 't i' the true!
The trouth is this: I dochtna bide
To hear yer bonnie name Whaur lawless mous war openit wide
Wi' ill-tongued scoff and blame;
And what I said was: 'Hoot, lat sit!
She's but a bairn, the lass!' It turnt the spait o' words a bit,
And loot yer fair name pass."
"Thank ye for naething, John Munro!
My name it needna hide; It's no a drucken sough wud gar
Me turn my heid aside!"
"O Elsie, lassie, be yersel!
The snaw-stour's driftin thrang! O tak me in, the win' 's sae snell,
And in an hour I'll gang."
"I downa pay ye guid for ill,
Ye heedna fause and true! Gang back to Katie at the mill--
She loos sic like as you!"
He turnt his fit; she heardna mair.
The lift was like to fa'; And Elsie's hert grew grit and sair
At sicht o' the drivin snaw.
She laid her doon, but no to sleep,
Her verra hert was cauld; And the sheets war like a frozen heap
O' drift aboot her faul'd.
She rase fu' air; the warl lay fair
And still in its windin-sheet; At door-cheek, or at winnock-lug,
Was never a mark o' feet!
She crap for days aboot the hoose,
Dull-futtit and hert-sair, Aye keekin oot like a hungert moose--
But Johnnie was na there!
Lang or the spring begoud to thow
The waesome, sick-faced snaw, Her hert was saft a' throu and throu,
Her pride had ta'en a fa'.
And whan the wreaths war halflins gane,
And the sun was blinkin bonnie, Oot ower the hill she wud gang her lane
To speir aboot her Johnnie.
Half ower, she cam intil a lair
O' snaw and slush and weet: The Lord hae mercy! what's that there?
It was Johnnie at her feet.
Aneth the snaw his heid was smorit,
But his breist was maistly bare, And twixt his richt ban' and his hert
Lay a lock o' gouden hair.
The warm win' blew, the blackcock flew,
The lerrick muntit the skies; The burnie ran, and a baein began,
But Johnnie wudna rise.
The sun was clear, the lift was blue,
The winter was awa; Up cam the green gerse plentifu,
The better for the snaw;
And warm it happit Johnnie's grave
Whaur the ae lock gouden lay; But on Elsie's hingin heid the lave
Was afore the barley gray.
HALLOWEEN.
Sweep up the flure, Janet;
Put on anither peat. It's a lown and a starry nicht, Janet,
And nowther cauld nor weet.
It's the nicht atween the Sancts and Souls
Whan the bodiless gang aboot; And it's open hoose we keep the nicht
For ony that may be oot.
Set the cheirs back to the wa', Janet;
Mak ready for quaiet fowk. Hae a'thing as clean as a windin-sheet:
They comena ilka ook.
There's a spale upo' the flure, Janet,
And there's a rowan-berry! Sweep them intil the fire, Janet,
Or they'll neither come nor tarry.
Syne set open the outer dure--
Wide open for wha kens wha? As ye come ben to your bed, Janet,
Set baith dures to the wa'.
She set the cheirs back to the wa',
But ane that was o' the birk; She sweepit the flure, but left the spale--
A lang spale o' the aik.
The nicht was lown; the stars sae still
War glintin doon the sky; The souls crap oot o' their mooly graves,
A' dank wi' lyin by.
They faund the dure wide to the wa',
And the peats blawn rosy reid: They war shuneless feet gaed in and oot,
Nor clampit as they gaed.
The mither she keekit but the hoose,
Saw what she ill could say; Quakin she slidit doon by Janet,
And gaspin a whilie she lay.
There's are o' them sittin afore the fire!
Ye wudna hearken to me! Janet, ye left a cheir by the fire,
Whaur I tauld ye nae cheir suld be!
Janet she smilit in her minnie's face:
She had brunt the roden reid, But she left aneth the birken cheir
The spale frae a coffin-lid!
Saft she rase and gaed but the hoose,
And ilka dure did steik. Three hours gaed by, and her minnie heard
Sound o' the deid nor quick.
Whan the gray cock crew, she heard on the flure
The fa' o' shuneless feet; Whan the rud cock crew, she heard the dure,
And a sough o' win' and weet.
Whan the goud cock crew, Janet cam back;
Her face it was gray o' ble; Wi' starin een, at her mither's side
She lay doon like a bairn to dee.
Her white lips hadna a word to lat fa'
Mair nor the soulless deid; Seven lang days and nights she lay,
And never a word she said.
Syne suddent, as oot o' a sleep, she brade,
Smilin richt winsumly; And she spak, but her word it was far and strayit,
Like a whisper come ower the sea.
And never again did they hear her lauch,
Nor ever a tear doun ran; But a smile aye flittit aboot her face
Like the mune on a water wan.
And ilka nicht atween Sancts and Souls
She laid the dures to the wa', Blew up the fire, and set the cheir,
And loot the spale doon fa'.
And at midnicht she gaed but the hoose
Aye steekin dure and dure. Whan the goud cock crew, quaiet as a moose
She cam creepin ower the flure.
Mair wan grew her face, and her smile mair sweet
Quhill the seventh Halloweve: Her mother she heard the shuneless feet,
Said--She'll be ben belyve!
She camna ben. Her minnie rase--
For fear she 'maist cudna stan; She grippit the wa', and but she gaed,
For the goud cock lang had crawn.
There sat Janet upo' the birk cheir,
White as the day did daw; But her smile was a sunglint left on the sea
Whan the sun himsel is awa.
THE LAVEROCK.
The Man says:
Laverock i' the lift,
Hae ye nae sang-thrift,
'At ye scatter 't sae heigh, and lat it a' drift?
Wasterfu laverock!
Dinna ye ken
'At ye hing ower men
Wha haena a sang or a penny to spen?
Hertless laverock!
But up there you,
I' the bow o' the blue,
Haud skirlin on as gien a' war new!
Toom-heidit laverock!
Haith, ye're ower blythe!
I see a great scythe
Swing whaur yer nestie lies, doon i' the lythe,
Liltin laverock!
Eh, sic a soun!
Birdie, come doun,
Ye're fey to sing sic a merry tune!
Gowkit laverock!
Come to yer nest;
Yer wife's sair prest,
She's clean worn oot wi' duin her best!
Rovin laverock!
Winna ye haud?
Ye're surely mad!
Is there naebody there to gie ye a dad,
Menseless laverock?
Come doon and conform,
Pyke an honest worm,
And hap yer bairns frae the comin storm,
Spendrife laverock!
The Bird sings:
My nestie it lieth
I' the how o' a ban';
The swing o' the scythe 'Ill miss 't by a span.The lift it's sae cheery! The win' it's sae free! I hing ower my dearie,
And sing 'cause I see.My wifie's wee breistie Grows warm wi' my sang, And ilk crumpled-up beastie Kens no to think lang.
Up here the sun sings, but He only shines there!
Ye haena nae wings, but Come up on a prayer.
The man sings:
Ye wee daurin cratur,
Ye rant and ye sing
Like an oye o' auld Natur Ta'en hame by the king!Ye wee feathert priestie, Yer bells i' yer thro't, Yer altar yer breistie, Yer mitre forgot--
Offerin and Aaron,
Ye burn hert and brain; And dertin and daurin,
Flee back to yer ain!Ye wee minor prophet,
It's 'maist my belief
'At I'm doon in Tophet, And you abune grief!Ye've deavt me and daudit And ca'd me a fule:
I'm nearhan' persuaudit To gang to your schule!For, birdie, I'm thinkin Ye ken mair nor me--
Gien ye haena been drinkin, And sing as ye see.Ye maun hae a sicht 'at Sees gay and far ben,
And a hert, for the micht o' 't, Wad sair for nine men!
There's somebody's been til
Roun saft to ye wha
Said birdies are seen til,
And e'en whan they fa'!
GODLY BALLANTS.