The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 2

NANNIE BRAW

 
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,
 
 
It will come 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 what maun be 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!
 

OWER THE HEDGE

I

 
"Bonny lassie, rosy lassie,
  Ken ye what is care?
Had ye ever a thought, lassie,
  Made yer hertie sair?"
 
 
Johnnie said it, Johnnie seekin
  Sicht o' Mally's face,
Keekin i' the hedge o' holly
  For 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 answer
  To 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 muvin
  I' the hert o' me!"
 
 
"Troth, I'm no sae pryin, laddie,
  Yon's no my concern!
Jist as sune I wud gang speirin
  What'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'in
  At the hert o' you!"
 

II

 
Johnnie turned and left her,
  Listit for the war;
In a year cam limpin
  Hame wi' mony a scar.
 
 
Wha was that was sittin
  On the brae, sae still?
Worn and wan and altert,
  Could it be hersel?
 
 
Cled in black, her eelids
  Reid wi' greitin sair—
Was she wife and widow
  In 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 widow
  Wife 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.
 

GAEIN AND COMIN

 
Whan Andrew frae Strathbogie gaed
  The 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 me
    And drive me daft and dizzy?
 
 
Whan Andrew to Strathbogie cam
  The 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!
 

A SANG O' ZION

 
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 cup
Ane 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!
 

TIME AND TIDE

 
  As I was walkin on the strand,
    I spied ane auld man sit
  On ane auld black rock; and aye the waves
    Cam 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 gaed
    Their 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' time
    That wadna lat things bide?
  But Death's a diver frae heavenly clime
    Seekin 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' change
    That crap atween the twa?
  Hech! that's a droonin fearsome strange,
    Waur, waur nor are and a'!"
  He said nae mair. I luikit, and saw
    His 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!
 

THE WAESOME CARL

 
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 toon
      But'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 pray
  And lat alane to preach;
He nowther had the gift o' grace
  Nor 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 toon
      But was a'thegither a' wrang!
 
 
The puir precentor couldna sing,
  He gruntit like a swine;
The verra elders couldna pass
  The ladles til his min'.
And for the rulin' elder's grace
  It 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 ee
  And 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 toon
    Was 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 toon
    But was a'thegither a' wrang!
 
 
For, losh, or it was denner-time
  The toon was in a low!
The reek rase up as it had been
  Frae Sodom-flames, I vow.
We lowst and rade like mad, for byre
  And ruck bleezt a' thegither,
As gien the deil had broucht the fire
  Frae's hell to mak anither!
    'Twas a' wrang, and a' wrang,
    And a'thegither a' wrang,
    Stick and strae aboot the place
    Was 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 weyds
  Whan 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 warl
    But's a'thegither a' wrang!
 

THE MERMAID

 
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 mune
  A 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 shell
  Was 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' snaw
Meltin awa i' the win' and weet
  O' 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 keen
  Blew 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's
  And 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 doon
  By the lanely rock paced he.
 
 
But never again on the sands to play
  Cam the maids o' the merry, cauld sea;
He heard them lauch far oot i' the bay,
  But hert-alane gaed he.
 

THE YERL O' WATERYDECK

 
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 forgets
  Ye are king but o' the lan'!"
 
 
Oot he heild to the open sea
  Quhill the north wind flaughtered an' fell;
Syne the east had a bitter word to say
  That 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's
  Or ye'll never see the Bass."
 
 
The king creepit down the cabin-stair
  To 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 dud
  Her 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 mair
  It'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 sail
  To 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 helm
  Till the day begouth to daw;
An' the skipper he spak, but what was said
  It 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-stair
  Wi' 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 boon
  Quhan 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' aboot
  They 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 aboord my vessel noo!
 
 
"Gien I hadna been yer verra gude lord
  I 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 king
  Jalousin 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 face
  He 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 blade
An' 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 pier
Cam 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!
Luikna him i' the angry face—
  A monarch's anither thing!"
 
 
"I lout to my father for his grace
  Low 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 spread
  And 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 sail
  Prood intil the Port o' Death?