There was John Gordon an' Archibold,An' a yerl's twin sons war they;Quhan they war are an' twenty year auldThey 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' hell."
"An' quhat for that, Archie Gordon, I pray?Quhat ill hae I dune to thee?""Twa-faced loon, ye sail rue this dayThe 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 brawI' the roarin win' yestreen;An' I sat in her bower till the gloamin sta'Licht-fittit 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 shiftit wi' fendin feet;An' the blude ran doon, till the grun a' rounLike 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 abuneIs roupin for his ain.
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 LandHe'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 sinLay cowerin in his breist.
A mile frae the shore o' the Deid SeaThe army haltit ae nicht;Lord Archie was waukrife, an' oot gaed heA 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' scum o' the deid shore gleamtAn' glintit 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' ayeIntil en'less dule an' smert,To sleep a' nicht like a bairn again,An' cule my burnin hert!"
Oot frae ahint a muckle staneCam a voice like a huddy craw's:"Behaud there, Archibold Gordon!" it said,"Behaud—ye hae ower gude cause!"
"I'll say quhat I like," quod Archibold,"Be ye ghaist or deevil or quhat!""Tak tent, lord Archie, gien ye be wise—The tit winna even the tat!"
Lord Archibold leuch wi' a loud ha, ha,Eerisome, grousum to hear:"A bonny bargain auld Cloots wad hae,It has ilka faut but fear!"
"Dune, lord Archibold?" craikit the voice;"Dune, Belzie!" cried he again.—The gray banes glimmert, the white saut shimmert—Lord Archie was him lane.
Back he gaed straught, by the glowerin mune,An' doun in his plaid he lay,An' soun' he sleepit.—A ghaist-like manSat by his heid quhill the day.
An' quhanever he moanit or turnit him roun,Or his broo gae token o' plycht,The waukin man i' the sleepin man's lugWud rown a murgeon o' micht.
An' the glint o' a smile wud quaver athortThe sleepin cheek sae broun,An' a tear atween the ee-lids wud stert,An' whiles rin fairly doun.
An' aye by his lair sat the ghaist-like man,He watchit his sleep a' nicht;An' in mail rust-broun, wi' his visorne doun,Rade at his knee i' the fecht.
Nor anis nor twyis the horn-helmit chielSaved him frae deidly dad;An' Archie said, "Gien this be the deilHe's no sac black as he's ca'd."
But wat ye fu' weel it wasna the deilThat tuik lord Archie's pairt,But his twin-brother John he thoucht deid an' gone,Wi' luve like a lowe in his hert.
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-brounWas 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 starkQuhaur the daylicht comesna to see!"
Lord Archibold dochtna speik a wordFor his hert was like a stane;He turnt him awa—an' the huddy crawWas 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 lieAnce mair wi' my body-twin."
Up she brade, but awa he gaedStraucht 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' ArchiboldWi' a hert-upheavin mane,"I wad pit my soul i' yer wastit corpTo 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 gerseAs up the armour rase:—
"Soul ye hae nane to ca' yer ainAn' 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 stootAn' 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.
"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 costGien 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 fairYe 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 passBy rowin 't i' the true!
The trouth is this: I dochtna bideTo hear yer bonnie nameWhaur lawless mous war openit wideWi' 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 garMe 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 sairAt 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 heapO' drift aboot her faul'd.
She rase fu' air; the warl lay fairAnd 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 thowThe 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 laneTo speir aboot her Johnnie.
Half ower, she cam intil a lairO' 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 hertLay 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 graveWhaur the ae lock gouden lay;But on Elsie's hingin heid the laveWas afore the barley gray.
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 SoulsWhan the bodiless gang aboot;And it's open hoose we keep the nichtFor 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 stillWar 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 cheirThe 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 heardSound o' the deid nor quick.
Whan the gray cock crew, she heard on the flureThe 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 sideShe 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 faceLike the mune on a water wan.
And ilka nicht atween Sancts and SoulsShe 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 hooseAye steekin dure and dure.Whan the goud cock crew, quaiet as a mooseShe cam creepin ower the flure.
Mair wan grew her face, and her smile mair sweetQuhill 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 seaWhan the sun himsel is awa.
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 menWha 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 scytheSwing 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 liethI' 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 breistieGrows warm wi' my sang,And ilk crumpled-up beastieKens no to think lang.
Up here the sun sings, butHe only shines there!Ye haena nae wings, butCome up on a prayer.
The man sings:
Ye wee daurin cratur,Ye rant and ye singLike an oye o' auld NaturTa'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 dauditAnd ca'd me a fule:I'm nearhan' persuauditTo gang to your schule!
For, birdie, I'm thinkinYe ken mair nor me—Gien ye haena been drinkin,And sing as ye see.
Ye maun hae a sicht 'atSees gay and far ben,And a hert, for the micht o' 't,Wad sair for nine men!
There's somebody's been tilRoun saft to ye whaSaid birdies are seen til,And e'en whan they fa'!
The rich man sat in his father's seat—Purple an' linen, an' a'thing fine!The puir man lay at his yett i' the street—Sairs an' tatters, an' weary pine!
To the rich man's table ilk dainty comes,Mony a morsel gaed frae't, or fell;The puir man fain wud hae dined on the crumbs,But whether he got them I canna tell.
Servants prood, saft-fittit, an' stoot,Stan by the rich man's curtained doors;Maisterless dogs 'at rin abootCam to the puir man an' lickit his sores.
The rich man deeit, an' they buried him gran',In linen fine his body they wrap;But the angels tuik up the beggar man,An' layit him doun in Abraham's lap.
The guid upo' this side, the ill upo' that—Sic was the rich man's waesome fa'!But his brithers they eat, an' they drink, an' they chat,An' carena a strae for their Father's ha'!
The trowth's the trowth, think what ye will;An' some they kenna what they wad be at;But the beggar man thoucht he did no that ill,Wi' the dogs o' this side, the angels o' that!
Stately, lang-robit, an' steppin at ease,The rich men gaed up the temple ha';Hasty, an' grippin her twa baubees,The widow cam efter, booit an' sma'.
Their goud rang lood as it fell, an' layYallow an' glintin, bonnie an' braw;But the fowk roun the Maister h'ard him sayThe puir body's baubees was mair nor it a'.
Doon frae Jerus'lem a traveller tookThe laigh road to Jericho;It had an ill name an' mony a crook,It was lang an' unco how.
Oot cam the robbers, an' fell o' the man,An' knockit him o' the heid,Took a' whauron they couth lay their han',An' left him nakit for deid.
By cam a minister o' the kirk:"A sair mishanter!" he cried;"Wha kens whaur the villains may lirk!I s' haud to the ither side!"
By cam an elder o' the kirk;Like a young horse he shied:"Fie! here's a bonnie mornin's wark!"An' he spangt to the ither side.
By cam ane gaed to the wrang kirk;Douce he trottit alang."Puir body!" he cried, an' wi' a yerkAff o' his cuddy he sprang.
He ran to the body, an' turnt it ower:"There's life i' the man!" he cried.Hewasna ane to stan an' glower,Nor hand to the ither side!
He doctort his oons, an' heised him thenTo the back o' the beastie douce;An' he heild him on till, twa weary men,They wan to the half-way hoose.
He ten'd him a' nicht, an' o' the morn did say,"Lan'lord, latna him lack;Here's auchteen pence!—an' ony mair ootlayI'll sattle 't as I come back."
Sae tak til ye, neibours; read aricht the word;It's a portion o' God's ain spell!"Wha is my neibour?" speirna the Lord,But, "Am I a neibour?" yersel.
Ance was a woman wha's hert was gret;Her love was sae dumb it was 'maist a grief;She brak the box—it's tellt o' her yet—The bonny box for her hert's relief.
Ane was there wha's tale's but brief,Yet was ower lang, the gait he cawed;He luikit a man, and was but a thief,Michty the gear to grip and hand.
"What guid," he cried, "sic a boxfu to blaud?Wilfu waste I couth never beir!It micht hae been sellt for ten poun, I wad—Sellt for ten poun, and gien to the puir!"
Savin he was, but for love o' the gear;Carefu he was, but a' for himsel;He carried the bag to his hert sae nearWhat fell i' the ane i' the ither fell.
And the strings o' his hert hingit doun to hell,They war pu'd sae ticht aboot the mou;And hence it comes that I hae to tellThe warst ill tale that ever was true.
The hert that's greedy maun mischief brew,And the deils pu'd the strings doon yon'er in hell;And he sauld, or the agein mune was new,For thirty shillins the Maister himsel!
Gear i' the hert it's a canker fell:Brithers, latna the siller ben!Troth, gien ye du, I warn ye ye'll sellThe verra Maister or ever ye ken!
The Lord gaed wi' a crood o' menThrou Jericho the bonny;'Twas ill the Son o' Man to kenMang sons o' men sae mony:
The wee bit son o' man ZacchayTo 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 guidThere 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 sinHis grace he never scantit.
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 wrangIt'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 spuneAnd tak yer fair share o' the drink;Gien ye dinna, I wadna won'er but suneYe micht 'maist begin to think!
"Neist, luik efter yer liver; that's the placeWhaur 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 careTo yer best freen, Doctor Death.
"He'll no distress ye: as quaiet's a catHe 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'sverbum sat—I hae preacht it mony's the year:Whaur there's naething ava to be frictit atThere'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 keekIntil yer wee mistaks.
"But nor ben there's naebody thereFrae the yird to the farthest spark;Ye'll rub the knees o' yer breeks to the bareAfore 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 againIt'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.
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 awaWhaur the bairns come hame, an' the wives they bide,An' God is the father o' a'!
Jocky an' Jeamy an' Tammy oot thereA' 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 awaWhaur the bairns come hame, an' the wives they bide,An' God is the father o' a'!
"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 wileMy wee things oot o' her eggs."
An' aye &c.
"The mistress is plenty for that same gearThough 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 fainAs to lift the muckle sneck!
An' aye &c.
An' ye wudna draw ae bairnie backFrae the arms o' the bonny manThough 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.
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 bowlTill the wine o' the kingdom fill ye up.
Conscience-glass,Mirror the en'less All in thee;Melt the boundered and make it passInto 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.
"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 airtsAn' o' a' the pairts,In herts—Whan the tane to the tither says, Na,An' the north win' begins to blaw."
I'm a puir man I grant,But I am weel neiboured;And nane shall me dauntThough 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 the simmer plaidOwer 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 sentOot aneth the firmament—Ilka ane its story has;Ilka ane began an' was;Ilka ane fell quaiet an' muteWhan its angel wark was oot:First gaed are oot throu the mirkWhan the maker gan to work;Ower it gaed an' ower the sea,An' the warl begud to be.Mony are has come an' ganeSin' the time there was but ane:Ane was grit an' strong, an' rentRocks an' muntains as it wentAfore the Lord, his trumpeter,Waukin up the prophet's ear;Ane was like a stepping sounI' the mulberry taps abune—Them the Lord's ain steps did swing,Walkin on afore his king;Ane lay dune like scoldit pupAt his feet, an' gatna up—Whan the word the Maister spakDrave the wull-cat billows back;Ane gaed frae his lips, an' dangTo the yird the sodger thrang;Ane comes frae his hert to mineIlka day to mak it fine.Breath o' God, eh! come an' blawFrae my hert ilk fog awa;Wauk me up an' mak me strang,Fill my hert wi' mony a sang,Frae my lips again to stertFillin sails o' mony a hert,Blawin them ower seas dividinTo the only place to bide in.
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 greitinI'stead o' gaein to him!I'll step oot like ane sure o' a meetin,I'll travel an' rin to him.
The water ran doon frae the heich hope-heid,Wi' a Rin, burnie, rin;It wimpled, an' waggled, an' sang a screedO' nonsense, an' wadna blinWi' 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-heidWi' 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 raseWi' a Rin, burnie, rin;Wear'ly clim'in up weary waysThere was but a drap to fa' in,Sae laith did that burnie rin.
Twa wee bit miles frae the heich hope-heidWi' its Rin, burnie, rin,Doon creepit a cowerin streakie o' reid,An' it meltit awa withinThe 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 gaedWi' 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.
The warl it's dottit wi' hamesAs thick as gowans o' the green,Aye bonnier ilk ane nor the laveTo him wha there opent his een.
An' mony an' bonny's the hameThat lies neth auld Scotlan's crests,Her hills an' her mountains they are the sidesO' a muckle nest o' nests.
His lies i' the dip o' a muirWi' 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 auldStan up i' the gloamin paleWi' the line o' a gran' sierra drawnOn the lift as sharp's wi' a nail.
But whether by ingle-neukOn a creepie ye sookit yer thumb,Dreamin, an' watchin the blue peat-reekWamle oot up the muckle lum,
Or yer wee feet sank i' the furAfore 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 sameWhether 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 ayontAbune the stars an' the suns.
For o' a' the hames there's a hameHerty an' warm an' wide,Whaur a' that maks hame ower the big roun earthGangs til its hame to bide.
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 heatCam 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 foreWha was and wha is and will be evermore.
Lord, I'm an auld man,An' I'm deein!An' do what I canI canna help beinSome feart at the thoucht!I'm no what I oucht!An' thou art sae gran',Me but an auld man!
I haena gotten muckleGuid o' the warld;Though siller a puckleThegither 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 bodyCoudna haud on here,Puttin cloddy to cloddyTill he had a bit lan' here!—But eh I'm forgettinWhaur the tide's settin!It'll pusion my prayerTill it's no worth a hair!
It's awfu, it's awfuTo think 'at I'm gaeinWhaur 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 tilWhat 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 nameWha my lang life-timeWud 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 tellOn him 'at maun sell!
Oh that my probationHad lain i' some regionWhaur was less considerationFor gear mixt wi' religion!It's the mixin the twa'At jist ruins a'!That kirk's the deil's placeWhaur 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 stairsI'm sayin my prayers:—Lord, lat the auld loonConfess 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 awaWhaur'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 JohnOh, lat me atone—An' to mair I cud nameGien I'd time to tak blame!
I hae wullt a' my gearTo my cousin Lippit:She needs 't no a hair,An' wud haud it grippit!But I'm thinkin 't 'll be betterTo gie 't a bit scatterWhaur it winna cankerBut mak a bit anchor!
Noo I s'try to sit looseTo 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 theeWha was broken for me,But to thee, Lord, sae gran',Can flee an auld man!
"What maks ye sae canty, granny dear?Has some kin' body been for ye to speir?Ye luik as smilin an' fain an' willinAs 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 lipsI'm aye like to sing whan anither sun dips.
"For the time, wee laddie, the time grows langSin' I saw the man wha's sicht was my sang—Yer gran'father, that's—an' the sun's last glimSays 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 amainWhan ugly auld fowk 'ill be bonny again.
"For there isane—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 faceTil mak me like him in a' 'at's ca'd grace.
"But what I am like I carena a straeSae lang as I'mhis, an' whathewud hae!Be ye a guid man, John, an' ae day ye'll kenWhat maks granny canty yont four score an' ten."
A lang-backit, spilgie, fuistit auld carlGangs a' nicht rakin athort the warlWi' 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 bareLichts 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!
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' heukCarena 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 bedWhaur 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, 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 scantyRoun ye efter I'm awa:Yon kirkyard has happin plentyClose aside me, green an' braw!
An' abune there's room for mony;'Twasna made for ane or twa,But was aye for a' an' onyCountin 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 gatherFor 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!
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 hitchinWi a lang tow o' sapphire notes!
Ay, yer sang's the sang o' an angelFor a sinfu' thrapple no meet,Like the pipes til a heavenly braingelWhaur 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!
The stars are steady abune;I' the water they flichter and flee;But, steady aye, luikin doonThey 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 gloaminMy hert's like a sponge that's fillit wi' gall;My soul's like a bodiless ghaist sent a roaminI' 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.