The stars are spinning their threads,And the clouds are the dust that flies,And the suns are weaving them upFor the day when the sleepers arise.
The ocean in music rolls,The gems are turning to eyes,And the trees are gathering soulsFor the day when the sleepers arise.
The weepers are learning to smile,And laughter to glean the sighs,And hearts to bury their care and guileFor the day when the sleepers arise.
Oh, the dews and the moths and the daisy-red,The larks and the glimmers and flows!The lilies and sparrows and daily bread,And the something that nobody knows!
Great-hearted child, thy very beingThe Son,Who know'st the hearts of all us prodigals;—For who is prodigal but he who has goneFar from the true to heart it with the false?—Who, who but thou, that, from the animals',Know'st all the hearts, up to the Father's own,Can tell what it would be to be alone!
Alone! No father!—At the very thoughtThou, the eternal light, wast once aghast;A death in death for thee it almost wrought!But thou didst haste, about to breathe thy last,And call'dst outFatherere thy spirit passed,Exhausted in fulfilling not any vow,But doing his will who greater is than thou.
That we might know him, thou didst come and live;That we might find him, thou didst come and die;The son-heart, brother, thy son-being give—We too would love the father perfectly,And to his bosom go back with the cry,Father, into thy hands I give the heartWhich left thee but to learn how good thou art!
There are but two in all the universe—The father and his children—not a third;Nor, all the weary time, fell any curse!Not once dropped from its nest an unfledged birdBut thou wast with it! Never sorrow stirredBut a love-pull it was upon the chainThat draws the children to the father again!
O Jesus Christ, babe, man, eternal son,Take pity! we are poor where thou art rich:Our hearts are small; and yet there is not oneIn all thy father's noisy nursery which,Merry, or mourning in its narrow niche,Needs not thy father's heart, this very now,With all his being's being, even as thou!
I do not know thy final will,It is too good for me to know:Thou willest that I mercy show,That I take heed and do no ill,That I the needy warm and fill,Nor stones at any sinner throw;But I know not thy final will—It is too good for me to know.
I know thy love unspeakable—For love's sake able to send woe!To find thine own thou lost didst go,And wouldst for men thy blood yet spill!—How should I know thy final will,Godwise too good for me to know!
O Lord, I cannot but believeThe birds do sing thy praises then, when they sing to one another,And they are lying seed-sown land when the winter makes them grieve,Their little bosoms breeding songs for the summer to unsmother!
If thou hadst finished me, O Lord,Nor left out of me part of that great gift that goes to singing,I sure had known the meaning high of the songster's praising word,Had known upon what thoughts of thee his pearly talk he was stringing!
I should have read the wisdom hidIn the storm-inspired melody of thy thrush's bosom solemn:I should not then have understood what thy free spirit didTo make the lark-soprano mount like to a geyser-column!
I think I almost understandThy owl, his muffled swiftness, moon-round eyes, and intoned hooting;I think I could take up the part of a night-owl in the land,With yellow moon and starry things day-dreamers all confuting.
But 'mong thy creatures that do singPerhaps of all I likest am to the housetop-haunting sparrow,That flies brief, sudden flights upon a dumpy, fluttering wing,And chirps thy praises from a throat that's very short and narrow.
But if thy sparrow praise thee wellBy singing well thy song, nor letting noisy traffic quell it,It may be that, in some remote and leafy heavenly dell,He may with a trumpet-throat awake, and a trumpet-song to swell it!
A thousand houses of poesy stand around me everywhere;They fill the earth and they fill my thought, they are in and above theair;But to-night they have shut their doors, they have shut their shiningwindows fair,And I am left in a desert world, with an aching as if of care.
Cannot I break some little nut and get at the poetry in it?Cannot I break the shining egg of some all but hatched heavenly linnet?Cannot I find some beauty-worm, and its moony cocoon-silk spin it?Cannot I find my all but lost day in the rich content of a minute?
I will sit me down, all aching and tired, in the midst of thisnever-unclosingOf door or window that makes it look as if truth herself were dozing;I will sit me down and make me a tent, call it poetizing or prosing,Of what may be lying within my reach, things at my poor disposing!
Now what is nearest?—My conscious self. Here I sit quiet and say:"Lo, I myself am already a house of poetry solemn and gay!But, alas, the windows are shut, all shut: 'tis a cold and foggy day,And I have not now the light to see what is in me the same alway!"
Nay, rather I'll say: "I am a nut in the hard and frozen ground;Above is the damp and frozen air, the cold blue sky all round;And the power of a leafy and branchy tree is in me crushed and boundTill the summer come and set it free from the grave-clothesin which it is wound!"
But I bethink me of something better!—something better, yea best!"I am lying a voiceless, featherless thing in God's own perfect nest;And the voice and the song are growing within me, slowly lifting mybreast;And his wide night-wings are closed about me, for his sun is down in thewest!"
Doors and windows, tents and grave-clothes, winters and eggs and seeds,Ye shall all be opened and broken and torn; ye are but to serve my needs!On the will of the Father all lovely things are strung like a string ofbeadsFor his heart to give the obedient child that the will of the fatherheeds.
I shall be satisfiedWith the seeing of thy face.When I awake, wide-eyed,I shall be satisfiedWith what this life did hide,The one supernal grace!I shall be satisfiedWith the seeing of thy face.
Every time would have its songIf the heart were right,Seeing Love all tender-strongFills the day and night.
Weary drop the hands of PrayerCalling out for peace;Love always and everywhereSings and does not cease.
Fear, the caitiff, through the nightSilent peers about;Love comes singing with a lightAnd doth cast him out.
Hate and Guile and Wrath and DoubtNever try to sing;If they did, oh, what a routAnguished ears would sting!
Pride indeed will sometimes aimAt the finer speech,But the best that he can frameIs a peacock-screech.
Greed will also sometimes try:Happiness he hunts!But his dwelling is a sty,And his tones are grunts.
Faith will sometimes raise a songSoaring up to heaven,Then she will be silent long,And will weep at even.
Hope has many a gladsome noteNow and then to pipe;But, alas, he has the throatOf a bird unripe.
Often Joy a stave will startWhich the welkin rends,But it always breaks athwart,And untimely ends.
Grief, who still for death doth long,Always self-abhorred,Has but one low, troubled song,I am sorry, Lord.
But Love singeth in the vault.Singeth on the stair;Even for Sorrow will not halt,Singeth everywhere.
For the great Love everywhereOver all doth glow;Draws his birds up trough the air,Tends his birds below.
And with songs ascending sheerLove-born Love replies,SingingFatherin his earWhere she bleeding lies.
Therefore, if my heart were rightI should sing out clear,Sing aloud both day and nightEvery month in the year!
A dim, vague shrinking haunts my soul,My spirit bodeth ill—As some far-off restraining bankHad burst, and waters, many a rank,Were marching on my hill;
As if I had no fire withinFor thoughts to sit about;As if I had no flax to spin,No lamp to lure the good things inAnd keep the bad things out.
The wind, south-west, raves in the pinesThat guard my cottage round;The sea-waves fall in stormy linesBelow the sandy cliffs and chines,And swell the roaring sound.
The misty air, the bellowing windNot often trouble me;The storm that's outside of the mindDoth oftener wake my heart to findMore peace and liberty.
Why is not such my fate to-night?Chance is not lord of things!Man were indeed a hapless wightThings, thoughts occurring as they might—Chaotic wallowings!
The man of moods might merely sayAs by the fire he sat,"I am low spirited to-day;I must do something, work or play,Lest care should kill the cat!"
Not such my saw: I was not meantTo be the sport of things!The mood has meaning and intent,And my dull heart is humbly bentTo have the truth it brings.
This sense of needed shelter round,This frequent mental startShow what a poor life mine were found,To what a dead self I were bound,How feeble were my heart,
If I who think did stand aloneCentre to what I thought,A brain within a box of bone,A king on a deserted throne,A something that was nought!
A being without power to be,Or any power to cease;Whom objects but compelled to see,Whose trouble was a windblown sea,A windless sea his peace!
This very sadness makes me thinkHow readily I mightBe driven to reason's farthest brink,Then over it, and sudden sinkIn ghastly waves of night.
It makes me know when I am glad'Tis thy strength makes me strong;But for thy bliss I should be sad,But for thy reason should be mad,But for thy right be wrong.
Around me spreads no empty waste,No lordless host of things;My restlessness but seeks thy rest;My little good doth seek thy best,My needs thy ministerings.
'Tis this, this only makes me safe—I am, immediate,Of one that lives; I am no waifThat haggard waters toss and chafe,But of a royal fate,
The born-child of a Power that livesBecause it will and can,A Love whose slightest motion gives,A Freedom that forever strivesTo liberate his Man.
I live not on the circling air,Live not by daily food;I live not even by thinkings fair,I hold my very being thereWhere God is pondering good.
Because God lives I live; becauseHe thinks, I also think;I am dependent on no lawsBut on himself, and without pause;Between us hangs no link.
The man that lives he knows not howMay well fear any mouse!I should be trembling this same nowIf I did think, my Father, thouWast nowhere in the house!
O Father, lift me on thine arm,And hold me close to thee;Lift me into thy breathing warm,Then cast me, and I fear no harm,Into creation's sea!
In his arms thy silly lamb,Lo, he gathers to his breast!See, thou sadly bleating dam,See him lift thy silly lamb!Hear it cry, "How blest I am!Here is love, and love is rest!"In his arms thy silly lambSee him gather to his breast!
I say! hey! cousin there! I mustn't call you brother!Yet you have a tail behind, and I have another!You pull, and I pull, though we don't pull together:You have less hardship, and I have more weather!
Your legs are long, mine are short; I am lean, you are fatter;Your step is bold and free, mine goes pitter-patter;Your head is in the air, and mine hangs down like lead—But then my two great ears are so heavy on my head!
You need not whisk your stump, nor turn away your nose;Poor donkeys ain't so stupid as rich horses may suppose!I could feed in any manger just as well as you,Though I don't despise a thistle—with sauce of dust and dew!
T'other day a bishop's cob stopped before me in a lane,With a tail as broad as oil-cake, and a close-clipped hoggy mane;I stood sideways to the hedge, but he did not want to pass,And he was so full of corn he didn't care about the grass.
Quoth the cob, "You are a donkey of a most peculiar breed!You've just eaten up a thistle that was going fast to seed!If you had but let it be, you might have raised a crop!To many a coming dinner you have put a sad stop!"
I told him I was hungry, and to leave one of tenWould have spoiled my best dinner, the one I wanted then.Said the cob, "Iought to know the truth about dinners,Idon't eat on roadsides like poor tramping sinners!"
"Why don't you take it easy? You are working much too hard!In the shafts you'll die one day, if you're not upon your guard!Have pity on your friends: work seems to you delectable,But believe me such a cart—excuse me—'s not respectable!"
I told him I must trot in the shafts where I was put,Nor look round at the cart, but set foremost my best foot;Itwasrather rickety, and the axle wanted oil,But I always slept at night with the deep sleep of toil!
"All very fine," he said, "to wag your ears and parley,And pretend you quite despise my bellyfuls of barley!But with blows and with starving, and with labour over-hard,By spurs! a week will see you in the knacker's yard."
I thanked him for his counsel, and said I thought I'd take it, really,If he'd spare me half a feed out of four feeds daily.He tossed his head at that: "Now don't be cheeky!" said he;"When I find I'm getting fat, I'll think of you: keep steady."
"Good-bye!" I said—and say, for you are such another!Why, now I look at you, I see you are his brother!Yes, thank you for your kick: 'twas all that you could spare,For, sure, they clip and singe you very, very bare!
My cart it is upsets you! but in that cart behindThere's no dirt or rubbish, no bags of gold or wind!There's potatoes there, and wine, and corn, and mustard-seed,And a good can of milk, and some honey too, indeed!
Few blows I get, some hay, and of water many a draught:I tell you he's no coster that sits upon my shaft!And for the knacker's yard—that's not my destined bed:No donkey ever yet saw himself there lying dead.
Strait is the path? He means we must not roam?Yes; but the strait path leads into a boundless home.
Close her eyes: she must not peep!Let her little puds go slack;Slide away far into sleep:Sis will watch till she comes back!
Mother's knitting at the door,Waiting till the kettle sings;When the kettle's song is o'erShe will set the bright tea-things.
Father's busy making hayIn the meadow by the brook,Not so very far away—Close its peeps, it needn't look!
God is round us everywhere—Sees the scythe glitter and rip;Watches baby gone somewhere;Sees how mother's fingers skip!
Sleep, dear baby; sleep outright:Mother's sitting just behind:Father's only out of sight;God is round us like the wind.
Sweep and sweep and sweep the floor,Sweep the dust, pick up the pin;Make it clean from fire to door,Clean for father to come in!
Mother said that God goes sweeping,Looking, sweeping with a broom,All the time that we are sleeping,For a shilling in the room:
Did he drop it out of glory,Walking far above the birds?Or did parson make the storyFor the thinking afterwards?
If I were the swept-for shillingI would hearken through the gloom;Roll out fast, and fall down willingRight before the sweeping broom!
This is the way we wash the clo'esFree from dirt and smoke and clay!Through and through the water flows,Carries Ugly right away!
This is the way we bleach the clo'es:Lay them out upon the green;Through and through the sunshine goes,Makes them white as well as clean!
This is the way we dry the clo'es:Hang them on the bushes about;Through and through the soft wind blows,Draws and drives the wetness out!
Water, sun, and windy airMake the clothes clean, white, and sweetLay them now in lavenderFor the Sunday, folded neat!
Dark, as if it would not tell,Lies the water, still and cool:Dip the bucket in the well,Lift it from the precious pool!
Up it comes all brown and dim,Telling of the twilight sweet:As it rises to the brimSee the sun and water meet!
See the friends each other hail!"Here you are!" cries Master Sun;Mistress Water from the pailFlashes back, alive with fun!
Have you not a tale to tell,Water, as I take you home?Tell me of the hidden wellWhence you, first of all, did come.
Of it you have kept some flavourThrough long paths of darkling strife:Water all has still a savourOf the primal well of life!
Could you show the lovely wayBack and up through sea and skyTo that well? Oh, happy day,I would drink, and never die!
Jesus sits there on its brinkAll the world's great thirst to slake,Offering every one to drinkWho will only come and take!
Lord of wells and waters all,Lord of rains and dewy beads,Unto thee my thirst doth callFor the thing thou know'st it needs!
Come home, water sweet and cool,Gift of God thou always art!Spring up, Well more beautiful,Rise in mine straight from his heart.
Wash the window; rub it dry;Make the ray-door clean and bright:He who lords it in the skyLoves on cottage floors to light!
Looking over sea and beck,Mountain-forest, orchard-bloom,He can spy the smallest speckAnywhere about the room!
See how bright his torch is blazingIn the heart of mother's store!Strange! I never saw him gazingSo into that press before!
Ah, I see!—the wooden paneIn the window, dull and dead,Father called its loss a gain,And a glass one put instead!
What a difference it makes!How it melts the filmy gloom!What a little more it takesMuch to brighten up a room!
There I spy a dusty streak!There a corner not quite clean!There a cobweb! There the sneakOf a spider, watching keen!
Lord of suns, and eyes that see,Shine into me, see and show;Leave no darksome spot in meWhere thou dost not shining go.
Fill my spirit full of eyes,Doors of light in every part;Open windows to the skiesThat no moth corrupt my heart.
Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out!You stareIn the airAs if cryingBeware,Always looking what I am about:I hate to be watched; I will blow you out!"
The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon.So, deepOn a heapOf clouds, to sleepDown lay the Wind, and slumbered soon,Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon!"
He turned in his bed: she was there again!On highIn the skyWith her one ghost-eyeThe Moon shone white and alive and plain:Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again!"
The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew slim."With my sledgeAnd my wedgeI have knocked off her edge!I will blow," said the Wind, "right fierce and grim,And the creature will soon be slimmer than slim!"
He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread."One puffMore's enoughTo blow her to snuff!One good puff more where the last was bred,And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go that thread!"
He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone.In the airNowhereWas a moonbeam bare;Larger and nearer the shy stars shone:Sure and certain the Moon was gone!
The Wind he took to his revels once more;On downAnd in town,A merry-mad clown,He leaped and holloed with whistle and roar—When there was that glimmering thread once more!
He flew in a rage—he danced and blew;But in vainWas the painOf his bursting brain,For still the Moon-scrap the broader grewThe more that he swelled his big cheeks and blew.
Slowly she grew—till she filled the night,And shoneOn her throneIn the sky aloneA matchless, wonderful, silvery light,Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night.
Said the Wind, "What a marvel of power am I!With my breath,In good faith,I blew her to death!—First blew her away right out of the sky,Then blew her in: what a strength am I!"
But the Moon she knew nought of the silly affair;For, highIn the skyWith her one white eye,Motionless miles above the air,She never had heard the great Wind blare.
A harebell hung her wilful head:"I am tired, so tired! I wish I was dead."
She hung her head in the mossy dell:"If all were over, then all were well!"
The Wind he heard, and was pitiful,And waved her about to make her cool.
"Wind, you are rough!" said the dainty Bell;"Leave me alone—I am not well."
The Wind, at the word of the drooping dame,Sighed to himself and ceased in shame.
"I am hot, so hot!" she moaned and said;"I am withering up; I wish I was dead!"
Then the Sun he pitied her woeful case,And drew a thick veil over his face.
"Cloud go away, and don't be rude,"She said; "I do not see why you should!"
The Cloud withdrew. Then the Harebell cried,"I am faint, so faint!—and no water beside!"
The Dew came down its millionfold path:She murmured, "I did not want a bath!"
The Dew went up; the Wind softly crept;The Night came down, and the Harebell slept.
A boy ran past in the morning gray,Plucked the Harebell, and threw her away.
The Harebell shivered, and sighed, "Oh! oh!I am faint indeed! Come, dear Wind, blow."
The Wind blew gently, and did not speak.She thanked him kindly, but grew more weak.
"Sun, dear Sun, I am cold!" she said.He shone; but lower she drooped her head.
"O Rain, I am withering! all the blueIs fading out of me!—come, please do!"
The Rain came down as fast as he could,But for all his good will he could do her no good.
She shuddered and shrivelled, and moaning said,"Thank you all kindly!" and then she was dead.
Let us hope, let us hope when she comes next yearShe'll be simple and sweet! But I fear, I fear!
I was very coldIn the summer weather;The sun shone all his gold,But I was very cold—Alas, we were grown old,Love and I together!Oh, but I was coldIn the summer weather!
Sudden I grew warmerThough the brooks were frozen:"Truly, scorn did harm her!"I said, and I grew warmer;"Better men the charmerKnows at least a dozen!"I said, and I grew warmerThough the brooks were frozen.
Spring sits on her nest,Daisies and white clover;And my heart at restLies in the spring's young nest:My love she loves me best,And the frost is over!Spring sits on her nest,Daisies and white clover!
The stars cleave the sky.Yet for us they rest,And their race-course highIs a shining nest!
The hours hurry on.But where is thy flight,Soft pavilionOf motionless night?
Earth gives up her treesTo the holy air;They live in the breeze;They are saints at prayer!
Summer night, come from God,On your beauty, I see,A still wave has flowedOf eternity!
No bird can sing in tune but that the LordSits throned in equity above the heaven,And holds the righteous balance always even;No heart can true response to love affordWherein from one to eight not every chordIs yet attuned by the spirits seven:For tuneful no bird sings but that the LordIs throned in equity above high heaven.
Oh heart, by wrong unfilial scathed and scored,And from thy humble throne with mazedness driven,Take courage: when thy wrongs thou hast forgiven,Thy rights in love thy God will see restored:No bird could sing in tune but that the LordSits throned in equity above the heaven.
Out of the gulf into the glory,Father, my soul cries out to be lifted.Dark is the woof of my dismal story,Thorough thy sun-warp stormily drifted!—Out of the gulf into the glory,Lift me, and save my story.
I have done many things merely shameful;I am a man ashamed, my father!My life is ashamed and broken and blameful—The broken and blameful, oh, cleanse and gather!Heartily shame me, Lord, of the shameful!To my judge I flee with my blameful.
Saviour, at peace in thy perfect purity,Think what it is, not to be pure!Strong in thy love's essential security,Think upon those who are never secure.Full fill my soul with the light of thy purity:Fold me in love's security.
O Father, O Brother, my heart is sore aching!Help it to ache as much as is needful;Is it you cleansing me, mending, remaking,Dear potter-hands, so tender and heedful?Sick of my past, of my own self aching—Hurt on, dear hands, with your making.
Proud of the form thou hadst given thy vessel,Proud of myself, I forgot my donor;Down in the dust I began to nestle,Poured thee no wine, and drank deep of dishonour!Lord, thou hast broken, thou mendest thy vessel!In the dust of thy glory I nestle.
THE CONSOLER: ON AN ENGRAVING OF SCHEFFER'SChristus Consolator.
What human form is this? what form divine?And who are these that gaze upon his faceMild, beautiful, and full of heavenly grace,With whose reflected light the gazers shine?Saviour, who does not know it to be thine?Who does not long to fill a gazer's place?And yet there is no time, there is no spaceTo keep away thy servants from thy shrine!Here if we kneel, and watch with faithful eyes,Thou art not too far for faithful eyes to see,Thou art not too far to turn and look on me,To speak to me, and to receive my sighs.Therefore for ever I forget the skies,And find an everlasting Sun in thee.
Oh let us never leave that happy throng!From that low attitude of love not cease!In all the world there is no other peace,In all the world no other shield from wrong.But chiefly, Saviour, for thy feet we long—For no vain quiet, for no pride's increase—But that, being weak, and Thou divinely strong,Us from our hateful selves thou mayst release.We wander from thy fold's free holy air,Forget thy looks, and take our fill of sin!But if thou keep us evermore within,We never surely can forget thee there—Breathing thy breath, thy white robe given to wear,And loving thee for all thou diedst to win!
To speak of him in language of our own,Is not for us too daringly to try;But, Saviour, we can read thy historyUpon the faces round thy humble throne;And as the flower among the grass makes knownWhat summer suns have warmed it from the sky,As every human smile and human sighIs witness that we do not live alone,So in that company—in those sweet tears,The first-born of a rugged melted heart,In those gaunt chains for ever torn apart,And in the words that weeping mother hears,We read the story of two thousand years,And know thee somewhat, Saviour, as thou art.
I cannot write old verses here,Dead things a thousand years away,When all the life of the young yearIs in the summer day.
The roses make the world so sweet,The bees, the birds have such a tune,There's such a light and such a heatAnd such a joy this June,
One must expand one's heart with praise,And make the memory secureOf sunshine and the woodland daysAnd summer twilights pure.
Oh listen rather! Nature's songComes from the waters, beating tides,Green-margined rivers, and the throngOf streams on mountain-sides.
So fair those water-spirits are,Such happy strength their music fills,Our joy shall be to wander farAnd find them on the hills.
A fresh young voice that sings to meSo often many a simple thing,Should surely not unanswered beBy all that I can sing.
Dear voice, be happy every wayA thousand changing tones among,From little child's unfinished layTo angel's perfect song.
In dewy woods—fair, soft, and greenLike morning woods are childhood's bower—Be like the voice of brook unseenAmong the stones and flowers;
A joyful voice though born so low,And making all its neighbours glad;Sweet, hidden, constant in its flowEven when the winds are sad.
So, strengthen in a peaceful home,And daily deeper meanings bear;And when life's wildernesses comeBe brave and faithful there.
Try all the glorious magic range,Worship, forgive, console, rejoice,Until the last and sweetest change—So live and grow, dear voice.
ComeHome.
Annie she's dowie, and Willie he's wae:What can be the matter wi' siccan a twae,For Annie she's fair as the first o' the day,And Willie he's honest and stalwart and gay?
Oh, the tane has a daddy is poor and is proud,And the tither a minnie that cleiks at the goud '.They lo'ed are anither, and said their say,But the daddy and minnie hae partit the twae!
O lassie ayont the hill,Come ower the tap o' the hill,Come ower the tap wi' the breeze o' the hill,Bidena ayont the hill!I'm needin ye sair the nicht,For I'm tired and sick o' mysel.A body's sel 's the sairest weicht:O lassie, come ower the hill!
Gien a body could be a thoucht o' grace,And no a sel ava!I'm sick o' my heid and my ban's and my face,O' my thouchts and mysel and a';
I'm sick o' the warl' and a';The win' gangs by wi' a hiss;Throu my starin een the sunbeams fa'But my weary hert they miss!O lassie ayont the hill,Come ower the tap o' the hill,Come ower the tap wi' the breeze o' the hill,Bidena ayont the hill! &c.
For gien I but saw yer bonnie heid,And the sunlicht o' yer hair,The ghaist o' mysel wud fa' doun deid,I wud be mysel nae mair.I wud be mysel nae mair,Filled o' the sole remeid,Slain by the arrows o' licht frae yer hair,Killed by yer body and heid!O lassie ayont the hill, &c.
My sel micht wauk up at the saft fitfa'O' my bonnie departin dame;But gien she lo'ed me ever sae sma'I micht bide it—the weary same!Noo, sick o' my body and nameWhan it lifts its upsettin heid,I turn frae the cla'es that cover my frameAs gien they war roun the deid.O lassie ayont the hill, &c.
But gien ye lo'ed me as I lo'e youI wud ring my ain deid knell;The spectre wud melt, shot through and throughWi' the shine o' your sunny sel!By the shine o' yer sunny sel,By the licht aneth yer brooI wud dee to mysel, ring my ain deid-bell,And live again in you!
O lassie ayont the hill,Come ower the tap o' the hill,Come ower the tap wi' the breeze o' the hill,For I want ye sair the nicht!I'm needin ye sair the nicht,For I'm tired and sick o' mysel.A body's sel 's the sairest weicht:O lassie, come ower the hill!
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the yorlin sings,Wi' a clip o' the sunshine atween his wings;Whaur the birks are a' straikit wi' fair munelicht,And the brume hings its lamps by day and by nicht;Whaur the burnie comes trottin ower shingle and staneLiltin bonny havers til 'tsel its lane;And the sliddery troot wi' ae soop o' its tailIs ahint the green weed's dark swingin veil!Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur I sang as I sawThe yorlin, the brume, and the burnie, and a'!
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the primroses won,Luikin oot o' their leaves like wee sons o' the sun;Whaur the wild roses hing like flickers o' flame,And fa' at the touch wi' a dainty shame;Whaur the bee swings ower the white-clovery sod,And the butterfly flits like a stray thoucht o' God;Whaur, like arrow shot frae life's unseen bow,The dragon-fly burns the sunlicht throu!Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur I sang to seeThe rose and the primrose, the draigon and bee!
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the mune luiks doonAs gien she war hearin a soughless tune,Whan the flooers and the birdies are a' asleep,And the verra burnie gangs creepy-creep;Whaur the corn-craik craiks i' the lang-heidit rye,And the nicht is the safter for his rouch cry;Whaur the win' wud fain lie doon on the slope,And the gloamin waukens the high-reachin hope!Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur, silent, I feltThe mune and the darkness baith into me melt!
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the sun luiks inSayin, "Here awa, there awa, hand awa, Sin!"Sayin darkness and sorrow a' work for the licht,And the will o' God was the hert o' the nicht;Whaur the laverock hings hie, on his ain sang borne,Wi' bird-shout and tirralee hailin the morn;Whaur my hert ran ower wi' the lusome blissThat, come winter, come weather, nocht gaed amiss!Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the sun luikit inSayin, "Here awa, there awa, hand awa, Sin!"
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur aft I wud lie,Wi' Jeanie aside me sae sweet and sae shy;Whaur the starry gowans wi' rose-dippit tipsWar as white as her cheek and as reid as her lips;Whaur she spread her gowd hert till she saw that I saw,Syne fauldit it up and gied me it a';Whaur o' sunlicht and munelicht she was the queen,For baith war but middlin withoot my Jean!Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur aft I wud lie,Wi' Jeanie aside me sae sweet and sae shy!
Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the kirkyard liesA' day and a' nicht luikin up to the skies;Whaur the sheep wauken up i' the simmer nicht,Tak a bite and lie doon, and await the licht;Whaur the psalms roll ower the grassy heaps;Whaur the win' comes and moans, and the rain comes and weeps;Whaur my Jeanie's no lyin in a' the lair,For she's up and awa up the angels' stair!Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the kirkyard lies,Whaur the stars luik doon, and the nicht-wind sighs!
I like ye weel upo Sundays, Nannie,I' yer goon and yer ribbons and a';But I like ye better on Mondays, Nannie,Whan ye're no sae buskit and braw.
For whan we're sittin sae douce, Nannie,Wi' the lave o' the worshippin fowk,That aneth the haly hoose, Nannie,Ye micht hear a moudiwarp howk,
Itwillcome into my heid, Nannie,O' yer braws ye are thinkin a wee;No alane o' the Bible-seed, Nannie,Nor the minister nor me!
Syne hame athort the green, Nannie,Ye gang wi' a toss o' yer chin;And there walks a shadow atween 's, Nannie,A dark ane though it be thin!
But noo, whan I see ye gang, Nannie,Eident at what's to be dune,Liltin a haiveless sang, Nannie,I wud kiss yer verra shune!
Wi' yer silken net on yer hair, Nannie,I' yer bonnie blue petticoat,Wi' yer kin'ly arms a' bare, Nannie,On yer ilka motion I doat.
For, oh, but ye're canty and free, Nannie,Airy o' hert and o' fit!A star-beam glents frae yer ee, Nannie—O' yersel ye're no thinkin a bit!
Fillin the cogue frae the coo, Nannie,Skimmin the yallow ream,Pourin awa the het broo, Nannie,Lichtin the lampie's leme,
Turnin or steppin alang, Nannie,Liftin and layin doon,Settin richt what's aye gaein wrang, Nannie,Yer motion's baith dance and tune!
I' the hoose ye're a licht and a law, Nannie,A servan like him 'at's abune:Oh, a woman's bonniest o' a', Nannie,Doin whatmaunbe dune!
Cled i' yer Sunday claes, Nannie,Fair kythe ye to mony an ee;But cled i' yer ilka-day's, Nannie,Ye draw the hert frae me!
"Bonny lassie, rosy lassie,Ken ye what is care?Had ye ever a thought, lassie,Made yer hertie sair?"
Johnnie said it, Johnnie seekinSicht o' Mally's face,Keekin i' the hedge o' hollyFor a thinner place.
"Na," said Mally, pawky smilin,"Nought o' care ken I;Gien I meet the gruesome carline,I s' hand weel ootby!"
"Lang be licht o' hert, Mally,As o' fut and ban'!Lang be ready wi' sic answerTo ony speirin man!"
"Ay, the men 'll aye be speirin!Troth, it's naething new!There's yersel wi' queston, queston—And there's mair like you!"
"Deed ye wadna mock me, Mally,Wi' yer lauchin ee,Gien ye saw the thing aye muvinI' the hert o' me!"
"Troth, I'm no sae pryin, laddie,Yon's no my concern!Jist as sune I wud gang speirinWhat's intil yon cairn!"
"Still and on, there's ae thing, Mally,Yont yer help, my doo—That's to haud my hert frae lo'inAt the hert o' you!"
Johnnie turned and left her,Listit for the war;In a year cam limpinHame wi' mony a scar.
Wha was that was sittinOn the brae, sae still?Worn and wan and altert,Could it be hersel?
Cled in black, her eelidsReid wi' greitin sair—Was she wife and widowIn a towmond bare?
Mally's hert played wallop,Kenned him or he spak:"Are ye no deid, Johnnie?Is't yersel come back?"
"Are ye wife or widow?Tell me in a breath;Lanely life is fearsome,Waur nor ony death!"
"Wha cud be a widowWife was never nane?Noo, gien ye will hae me,Noo I will be ane!"
Crutch awa he flang it,Clean forgot his hairms,Cudna stan' withoot it,Fell in Mally's airms.
Whan Andrew frae Strathbogie gaedThe lift was lowerin dreary,The sun he wadna raise his heid,The win' blew laich and eerie.In's pooch he had a plack or twa—I vow he hadna mony,Yet Andrew like a linty sang,For Lizzie was sae bonny!O Lizzie, Lizzie, bonny lassie!Bonny, saucy hizzy!What richt had ye to luik at meAnd drive me daft and dizzy?
Whan Andrew to Strathbogie camThe sun was shinin rarely;He rade a horse that pranced and sprang—I vow he sat him fairly!And he had gowd to spen' and spare,And a hert as true as ony;But his luik was doon, his sigh was sair,For Lizzie was sae bonny!O Lizzie, Lizzie, bonny hizzy!Aih, the sunlicht weary!Ye're straucht and rare—ye're fause though fair!—Hech, auld John Armstrong's deary!
Ane by ane they gang awa;The getherer gethers grit and sma':Ane by ane maks ane and a'!
Aye whan ane sets doon the cupAne ahint maun tak it up:A' thegither they will sup!
Golden-heidit, ripe, and strang,Shorn will be the hairst or lang:Syne begins a better sang!
As I was walkin on the strand,I spied ane auld man sitOn ane auld black rock; and aye the wavesCam washin up its fit.His lips they gaed as gien they wad lilt,But o' liltin, wae's me, was nane!He spak but an owercome, dreary and dreigh,A burden wha's sang was gane:"Robbie and Jeanie war twa bonnie bairns;They playt thegither i' the gloamin's hush:Up cam the tide and the mune and the sterns,And pairtit the twa wi' a glint and a gush."
"What can the auld man mean," quod I,"Sittin o' the auld black rock?The tide creeps up wi' a moan and a cry,And a hiss 'maist like a mock!The words he mutters maun be the en'O' some weary auld-warl' sang—A deid thing floatin aboot in his brain,'At the tide 'ill no lat gang!""Robbie and Jeanie war twa bonnie bairns;They playt thegither i' the gloamin's hush:Up cam the tide and the mune and the sterns,And pairtit the twa wi' a glint and a gush."
"Hoo pairtit it them, auld man?" I said;"Was't the sea cam up ower strang?Oh, gien thegither the twa o' them gaedTheir pairtin wasna lang!Or was are ta'en, and the ither left—Ane to sing, are to greit?It's sair, I ken, to be sae bereft—But there's the tide at yer feet!""Robbie and Jeanie war twa bonnie bairns,And they playt thegither i' the gloamin's hush:Up cam the tide and the mune and the sterns,And pairtit the twa wi' a glint and a gush."
"Was't the sea o' space wi' its storm o' timeThat wadna lat things bide?But Death's a diver frae heavenly climeSeekin ye neth its tide,And ye'll gaze again in ither's ee,Far abune space and time!"Never ae word he answered me,But changed a wee his rime:"Robbie and Jeanie war twa bonnie bairns,And they playt thegither upo' the shore;Up cam the tide and the mune and the sterns,And pairtit the twa for evermore."
"May be, auld man, 'twas the tide o' changeThat crap atween the twa?Hech! that's a droonin fearsome strange,Waur, waur nor are and a'!"He said nae mair. I luikit, and sawHis lips they couldna gang:Death, the diver, had ta'en him awa,To gie him a new auld sang.Robbie and Jeanie war twa bonnie bairns,And they playt thegither upo' the shore:Up cam the tide and the mune and the sterns,And souft them awa throu a mirksome door!
There cam a man to oor toon-en',And a waesome carl was he,Snipie-nebbit, and crookit-mou'd,And gleyt o' a blinterin ee.Muckle he spied, and muckle he spak,But the owercome o' his sang,Whatever it said, was aye the same:—There's nane o' ye a' but's wrang!Ye're a' wrang, and a' wrang,And a'thegither a' wrang:There's no a man aboot the toonBut's a'thegither a' wrang.
That's no the gait to fire the breid,Nor yet to brew the yill;That's no the gait to haud the pleuch,Nor yet to ca the mill;That's no the gait to milk the coo,Nor yet to spean the calf,Nor yet to tramp the girnel-meal—Ye kenna yer wark by half!Ye're a' wrang, &c.
The minister wasna fit to prayAnd lat alane to preach;He nowther had the gift o' graceNor yet the gift o' speech!He mind't him o' Balaäm's ass,Wi' a differ we micht ken:The Lord he opened the ass's mou,The minister opened's ain!He was a' wrang, and a' wrang,And a'thegither a' wrang;There wasna a man aboot the toonBut was a'thegither a' wrang!
The puir precentor couldna sing,He gruntit like a swine;The verra elders couldna passThe ladles til his min'.And for the rulin' elder's graceIt wasna worth a horn;He didna half uncurse the meat,Nor pray for mair the morn!He was a' wrang, &c.
And aye he gied his nose a thraw,And aye he crook't his mou;And aye he cockit up his eeAnd said, Tak tent the noo!We snichert hint oor loof, my man,But never said him nay;As gien he had been a prophet, man,We loot him say his say:Ye're a' wrang, &c.
Quo oor gudeman: The crater's daft!Heard ye ever sic a claik?Lat's see gien he can turn a ban',Or only luik and craik!It's true we maunna lippin til him—He's fairly crack wi' pride,But he maun live—we canna kill him!Gien he can work, he s' bide.He was a' wrang, and a' wrang,And a'thegither a' wrang;There, troth, the gudeman o' the toonWas a'thegither a' wrang!
Quo he, It's but a laddie's turn,But best the first be a sma' thing:There's a' thae weyds to gether and burn,And he's the man for a' thing!—We yokit for the far hill-moss,There was peats to cast and ca;O' 's company we thoucht na loss,'Twas peace till gloamin-fa'!We war a' wrang, and a' wrang,And a'thegither a' wrang;There wasna man aboot the toonBut was a'thegither a' wrang!
For, losh, or it was denner-timeThe toon was in a low!The reek rase up as it had beenFrae Sodom-flames, I vow.We lowst and rade like mad, for byreAnd ruck bleezt a' thegither,As gien the deil had broucht the fireFrae's hell to mak anither!'Twas a' wrang, and a' wrang,And a'thegither a' wrang,Stick and strae aboot the placeWas a'thegither a' wrang!
And luikin on, ban's neth his tails,The waesome carl stude;To see him wagglin at thae tails'Maist drave 's a' fairly wud.Ain wite! he cried; I tauld ye sae!Ye're a' wrang to the last:What gart ye burn thae deevilich weydsWhan the win' blew frae the wast!Ye're a' wrang, and a' wrang,And a'thegither a' wrang;There's no a man i' this fule warlBut's a'thegither a' wrang!
Up cam the tide wi' a burst and a whush,And back gaed the stanes wi' a whurr;The king's son walkit i' the evenin hush,To hear the sea murmur and murr.
Straucht ower the water slade frae the muneA glimmer o' cauld weet licht;Ane o' her horns rase the water abune,And lampit across the nicht.
Quhat's that, and that, far oot i' the gray,The laich mune bobbin afore?It's the bonny sea-maidens at their play—Haud awa, king's son, frae the shore.
Ae rock stude up like an auld aik-root,The king's son he steppit ahin';The bonny sea-maidens cam gambolin oot,Kaimin their hair to the win'.
O merry their lauch whan they fan the warm san',For the lichtsome reel sae meet!Ilk are flang her kaim frae her pearly ban',And tuik til her pearly feet.
But are, wha's beauty was dream and spell,Her kaim on the rock she cuist;Her back was scarce turnt whan the munelicht shellWas lyin i' the prince's breist!
The cluds grew grim as he watched their game,Th' win' blew up an angry tune;Ane efter are tuik up her kaim,And seaward gaed dancin doon.
But are, wi' hair like the mune in a clud,Was left by the rock her lane;Wi' flittin ban's, like a priest's, she stude,'Maist veiled in a rush o' rain.
She spied the prince, she sank at his feet,And lay like a wreath o' snawMeltin awa i' the win' and weetO' a wastin wastlin thaw.
He liftit her, trimlin wi' houp and dreid,And hame wi' his prize he gaed,And laid her doon, like a witherin weed,Saft on a gowden bed.
A' that nicht, and a' day the neist,She never liftit heid;Quaiet lay the sea, and quaiet lay her breist,And quaiet lay the kirkyard-deid.
But quhan at the gloamin a sea-breeze keenBlew intil the glimsome room,Like twa settin stars she opened her een,And the sea-flooer began to bloom.
And she saw the prince kneelin at her bed,And afore the mune was new,Careless and cauld she was wooed and wed—But a winsome wife she grew.
And a' gaed weel till their bairn was born,And syne she cudna sleep;She wud rise at midnicht, and wan'er till morn,Hark-harkin the sough o' the deep.
Ae nicht whan the win' gaed ravin aboot,And the winnocks war speckled wi' faem,Frae room to room she strayt in and oot,And she spied her pearly kaim.
She twined up her hair wi' eager ban's,And in wi' the rainbow kaim!She's oot, and she's aff ower the shinin san'sAnd awa til her moanin hame!
The prince he startit whaur he lay,He waukit, and was himlane!He soucht far intil the mornin gray,But his bonny sea-wife was gane!
And ever and aye, i' the mirk or the mune,Whan the win' blew saft frae the sea,The sad shore up and the sad shore doonBy the lanely rock paced he.
But never again on the sands to playCam the maids o' the merry, cauld sea;He heard them lauch far oot i' the bay,But hert-alane gaed he.
The wind it blew, and the ship it flew,And it was "Hey for hame!"But up an' cried the skipper til his crew,"Haud her oot ower the saut sea faem."
Syne up an' spak the angry king:"Haud on for Dumferline!"Quo' the skipper, "My lord, this maunna be—I'm king on this boat o' mine!"
He tuik the helm intil his han',He left the shore un'er the lee;Syne croodit sail, an', east an' south,Stude awa richt oot to sea.
Quo' the king, "Leise-majesty, I trow!Here lies some ill-set plan!'Bout ship!" Quo' the skipper, "Yer grace forgetsYe are king but o' the lan'!"
Oot he heild to the open seaQuhill the north wind flaughtered an' fell;Syne the east had a bitter word to sayThat waukent a watery hell.
He turnt her heid intil the north:Quo' the nobles, "He s' droon, by the mass!"Quo' the skipper, "Haud afif yer lady-ban'sOr ye'll never see the Bass."
The king creepit down the cabin-stairTo drink the gude French wine;An' up cam his dochter, the princess fair,An' luikit ower the brine.
She turnt her face to the drivin snaw,To the snaw but and the weet;It claucht her snood, an' awa like a dudHer hair drave oot i' the sleet.
She turnt her face frae the drivin win'—"Quhat's that aheid?" quo' she.The skipper he threw himsel frae the win'An' he brayt the helm alee.
"Put to yer han', my lady fair!Haud up her heid!" quo' he;"Gien she dinna face the win' a wee mairIt's faurweel to you an' me!"
To the tiller the lady she laid her han',An' the ship brayt her cheek to the blast;They joukit the berg, but her quarter scraped,An' they luikit at ither aghast.
Quo' the skipper, "Ye are a lady fair,An' a princess gran' to see,But war ye a beggar, a man wud sailTo the hell i' yer company!"
She liftit a pale an' a queenly face,Her een flashed, an' syne they swam:"An' what for no to the hevin?" she says,An' she turnt awa frae him.
Bot she tuik na her han' frae the gude ship's helmTill the day begouth to daw;An' the skipper he spak, but what was saidIt 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-stairWi' wan face an' bluidshot ee.
Laigh loutit the skipper upo' the deck;"Stan' up, stan' up," quo' the king;"Ye're an honest loun—an' beg me a boonQuhan 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' abootThey 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 loutit on his knee;The king his blade he drew:Quo' the king, "Noo mynt ye to centre me!I'm aboordmyvessel noo!
"Gien I hadna been yer verra gude lordI wud hae thrawn yer neck!Bot—ye wha loutit 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 kingJalousin 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 faceHe 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 bladeAn' 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 pierCam 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!Luiknahimi' the angry face—A monarch's anither thing!"
"I lout to my father for his graceLow 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 spreadAnd 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 sailProod intil the Port o' Death?