The Poetical Works of George MacDonald (Parables)
Home - George MacDonald - The Poetical Works of George MacDonald (Parables)V.--THE COORSE CRATUR.
The Lord gaed wi' a crood o' men
Throu Jericho the bonny; 'Twas ill the Son o' Man to ken
Mang sons o' men sae mony:
The wee bit son o' man Zacchay
To see the Maister seekit; He speilt a fig-tree, bauld an' shy,
An' sae his shortness ekit.
But as he thoucht to see his back,
Roun turnt the haill face til 'im, Up luikit straucht, an' til 'im spak--
His hert gaed like to kill 'im.
"Come doun, Zacchay; bestir yersel;
This nicht I want a lodgin." Like a ripe aipple 'maist he fell,
Nor needit ony nudgin.
But up amang the unco guid
There rase a murmurin won'er: "This is a deemis want o' heed,
The man's a special sinner!"
Up spak Zacchay, his hert ableeze:
"Half mine, the puir, Lord, hae it; Gien oucht I've taen by ony lees,
Fourfauld again I pay it!"
Then Jesus said, "This is a man!
His hoose I'm here to save it; He's are o' Abraham's ain clan,
An' siclike has behavit!
I cam the lost to seek an' win."--
Zacchay was are he wantit: To ony man that left his sin
His grace he never scantit.
THE DEIL'S FORHOOIT HIS AIN.
The Deil's forhooit his ain, his ain! The Deil's forhooit his ain! His bairns are greitin in ilka neuk, For the Deil's forhooit his ain.
The Deil he tuik his stick and his hat,
And his yallow gluves on he drew: "The coal's sae dear, and the preachin sae flat.
And I canna be aye wi' you!"
The Deil's, &c.
"But I'll gie ye my blessin afore I gang,
Wi' jist ae word o' advice; And gien onything efter that gaes wrang
It'll be yer ain wull and ch'ice!
"Noo hark: There's diseases gaein aboot,
Whiles are, and whiles a' thegither! Ane's ca'd Repentance--haith, hand it oot!
It comes wi' a change o' weather.
"For that, see aye 'at ye're gude at the spune
And tak yer fair share o' the drink; Gien ye dinna, I wadna won'er but sune
Ye micht 'maist begin to think!
"Neist, luik efter yer liver; that's the place
Whaur Conscience gars ye fin'! Some fowk has mair o' 't, and some has less--
It comes o' breedin in.
"But there's waur nor diseases gaein aboot,
There's a heap o' fair-spoken lees; And there's naething i' natur, in or oot,
'At waur with the health agrees.
"There's what they ca' Faith, 'at wad aye be fain;
And Houp that glowers, and tynes a'; And Love, that never yet faund its ain,
But aye turnt its face to the wa'.
"And Trouth--the sough o' a sickly win';
And Richt--what needna be; And Beauty--nae deeper nor the skin;
And Blude--that's naething but bree.
"But there's ae gran' doctor for a' and mair--
For diseases and lees in a breath:-- My bairns, I lea' ye wi'oot a care
To yer best freen, Doctor Death.
"He'll no distress ye: as quaiet's a cat
He grips ye, and a'thing's ower; There's naething mair 'at ye wad be at,
There's never a sweet nor sour!
"They ca' 't a sleep, but it's better bliss,
For ye wauken up no more; They ca' 't a mansion--and sae it is,
And the coffin-lid's the door!
"Jist ae word mair---and it's verbum sat--
I hae preacht it mony's the year: Whaur there's naething ava to be frictit at
There's naething ava to fear.
"I dinna say 'at there isna a hell--
To lee wad be a disgrace! I bide there whan I'm at hame mysel,
And it's no sic a byous ill place!
"Ye see yon blue thing they ca' the lift?
It's but hell turnt upside doun, A whummilt bossie, whiles fou o' drift,
And whiles o' a rumlin soun!
"Lat auld wives tell their tales i' the reek,
Men hae to du wi' fac's: There's naebody there to watch, and keek
Intil yer wee mistaks.
"But nor ben there's naebody there
Frae the yird to the farthest spark; Ye'll rub the knees o' yer breeks to the bare
Afore ye'll pray ye a sark!
"Sae fare ye weel, my bonny men,
And weel may ye thrive and the! Gien I dinna see ye some time again
It'll be 'at ye're no to see."
He cockit his hat ower ane o' his cheeks,
And awa wi' a halt and a spang-- For his tail was doun ae leg o' his breeks,
And his butes war a half ower lang.
The Deil's forhooit his ain, his ain! The Deil's forhooit his ain! His bairns are greitin in ilka neuk, For the Deil's forhooit his ain.
THE AULD FISHER.
There was an auld fisher, he sat by the wa',
An' luikit oot ower the sea; The bairnies war playin, he smil't on them a',
But the tear stude in his e'e.
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' God is the father o' a'!
Jocky an' Jeamy an' Tammy oot there
A' i' the boatie gaed doon; An' I'm ower auld to fish ony mair,
Sae I hinna the chance to droon!
An' it's--oh to win awa, awa! &c.
An' Jeannie she grat to ease her hert,
An' she easit hersel awa; But I'm ower auld for the tears to stert,
An' sae the sighs maun blaw.
An' it's--oh to win awa, awa! &c.
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' God 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 feck, 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-glass,
Mirror the en'less All in thee; Melt the boundered and make it pass
Into the tideless, shoreless 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 tither 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' 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,
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.