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

THE TWA GORDONS

I

 
There was John Gordon an' Archibold,
An' a yerl's twin sons war they;
Quhan they war are an' twenty year auld
They 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 day
The 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 braw
I' 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' roun
  Like 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 abune
  Is roupin for his ain.
 

II

 
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 Land
  He'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 sin
  Lay cowerin in his breist.
 
 
A mile frae the shore o' the Deid Sea
  The army haltit ae nicht;
Lord Archie was waukrife, an' oot gaed he
  A 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 gleamt
  An' 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' aye
  Intil en'less dule an' smert,
To sleep a' nicht like a bairn again,
  An' cule my burnin hert!"
 
 
Oot frae ahint a muckle stane
  Cam 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 man
  Sat 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 lug
  Wud rown a murgeon o' micht.
 
 
An' the glint o' a smile wud quaver athort
  The 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 chiel
  Saved him frae deidly dad;
An' Archie said, "Gien this be the deil
  He's no sac black as he's ca'd."
 
 
But wat ye fu' weel it wasna the deil
  That tuik lord Archie's pairt,
But his twin-brother John he thoucht deid an' gone,
  Wi' luve like a lowe in his hert.
 

III

 
Hame cam lord Archibold, weary wicht,
  Hame til his ain countree;
An' he cried, quhan his castle rase in sicht,
  "Noo Christ me sain an' see!"
 
 
He turnit him roun: the man in rust-broun
  Was gane, he saw nocht quhair!
At the ha' door he lichtit him doun,
  Lady Margaret met him there.
 
 
Reid, reid war her een, but hie was her mien,
  An' her words war sharp an' sair:
"Welcome, Archie, to dule an' tene,
  An' welcome ye s' get nae mair!
 
 
Quhaur is yer twin, lord Archibold,
  That lay i' my body wi' thee?
I miss my mark gien he liesna stark
  Quhaur the daylicht comesna to see!"
 
 
Lord Archibold dochtna speik a word
  For his hert was like a stane;
He turnt him awa—an' the huddy craw
  Was roupin for his ain.
 
 
"Quhaur are ye gaein, lord Archie," she said,
  "Wi' yer lips sae white an' thin?"
"Mother, gude-bye! I'm gaein to lie
  Ance mair wi' my body-twin."
 
 
Up she brade, but awa he gaed
  Straucht for the corbie-tree;
For quhaur he had slain he thoucht to slay,
  An' cast him doon an' dee.
 
 
"God guide us!" he cried wi' gastit rair,
  "Has he lien there ever sin' syne?"
An' he thoucht he saw the banes, pykit an' bare,
  Throu the cracks o' his harness shine.
 
 
"Oh Johnnie! my brither!" quo' Archibold
  Wi' a hert-upheavin mane,
"I wad pit my soul i' yer wastit corp
  To see ye alive again!"
 
 
"Haud ye there!" quod a voice frae oot the helm,
  "A man suld heed quhat he says!"
An' the closin joints grippit an' tore the gerse
As up the armour rase:—
 
 
"Soul ye hae nane to ca' yer ain
  An' its time to hand yer jaw!
The sleep it was thine, an' the soul it is mine:
  Deil Archie, come awa!"
 
 
"Auld Hornie," quo' Archie, "twa words to that:
  My burnin hert burns on;
An' the sleep, weel I wat, was nae reek frae thy pat,
  For aye I was dreamin o' John!
 
 
"But I carena a plack for a soul sae black—
  Wae's me 'at my mither bore me!
Put fire i' my breist an' fire at my back,
  But ae minute set Johnnie afore me!"
 
 
The gantlets grippit the helm sae stoot
  An' liftit frae chin an' broo:
An' Johnnie himsel keekit smilin oot:—
  "O Archie, I hae ye noo!
 
 
"O' yer wee bit brod I was little the waur,
  I crap awa my lane;
An' never a deevil cam ye nar,
  'Cep ye coont yer Johnnie ane!"
 
 
Quhare quhylum his brither Johnnie lay,
  Fell Archie upon his knees;
The words he said I dinna say,
  But I'm sure they warna lees.
 

THE LAST WOOIN

 
"O lat me in, my bonny lass!
  It's a lang road ower the hill,
And the flauchterin snaw begud to fa'
  On the brig ayont the mill!"
 
 
"Here's nae change-hoose, John Munro!"
  "I'll ken that to my cost
Gien ye gar me tak the hill the nicht,
  Wi' snaw o' the back o' frost!
 
 
But tell me, lass, what's my offence."
  "Weel ken ye! At the fair
Ye lichtlied me! Ay, twasna ance!—
  Ye needna come nae mair!"
 
 
"I lichtlied ye?"—"Ay, ower the glass!"
  "Foul-fa' the ill-faured mou
'At made the leein word to pass
  By rowin 't i' the true!
 
 
The trouth is this: I dochtna bide
  To hear yer bonnie name
Whaur lawless mous war openit wide
  Wi' ill-tongued scoff and blame;
 
 
And what I said was: 'Hoot, lat sit!
  She's but a bairn, the lass!'
It turnt the spait o' words a bit,
  And loot yer fair name pass."
 
 
"Thank ye for naething, John Munro!
  My name it needna hide;
It's no a drucken sough wud gar
  Me turn my heid aside!"
 
 
"O Elsie, lassie, be yersel!
  The snaw-stour's driftin thrang!
O tak me in, the win' 's sae snell,
  And in an hour I'll gang."
 
 
"I downa pay ye guid for ill,
  Ye heedna fause and true!
Gang back to Katie at the mill—
  She loos sic like as you!"
 
 
He turnt his fit; she heardna mair.
  The lift was like to fa';
And Elsie's hert grew grit and sair
  At sicht o' the drivin snaw.
 
 
She laid her doon, but no to sleep,
  Her verra hert was cauld;
And the sheets war like a frozen heap
  O' drift aboot her faul'd.
 
 
She rase fu' air; the warl lay fair
  And still in its windin-sheet;
At door-cheek, or at winnock-lug,
  Was never a mark o' feet!
 
 
She crap for days aboot the hoose,
  Dull-futtit and hert-sair,
Aye keekin oot like a hungert moose—
  But Johnnie was na there!
 
 
Lang or the spring begoud to thow
  The waesome, sick-faced snaw,
Her hert was saft a' throu and throu,
  Her pride had ta'en a fa'.
 
 
And whan the wreaths war halflins gane,
  And the sun was blinkin bonnie,
Oot ower the hill she wud gang her lane
  To speir aboot her Johnnie.
 
 
Half ower, she cam intil a lair
  O' snaw and slush and weet:
The Lord hae mercy! what's that there?
  It was Johnnie at her feet.
 
 
Aneth the snaw his heid was smorit,
  But his breist was maistly bare,
And twixt his richt ban' and his hert
  Lay a lock o' gouden hair.
 
 
The warm win' blew, the blackcock flew,
  The lerrick muntit the skies;
The burnie ran, and a baein began,
  But Johnnie wudna rise.
 
 
The sun was clear, the lift was blue,
  The winter was awa;
Up cam the green gerse plentifu,
  The better for the snaw;
 
 
And warm it happit Johnnie's grave
  Whaur the ae lock gouden lay;
But on Elsie's hingin heid the lave
  Was afore the barley gray.
 

HALLOWEEN

 
Sweep up the flure, Janet;
  Put on anither peat.
It's a lown and a starry nicht, Janet,
  And nowther cauld nor weet.
 
 
It's the nicht atween the Sancts and Souls
  Whan the bodiless gang aboot;
And it's open hoose we keep the nicht
  For ony that may be oot.
 
 
Set the cheirs back to the wa', Janet;
  Mak ready for quaiet fowk.
Hae a'thing as clean as a windin-sheet:
  They comena ilka ook.
 
 
There's a spale upo' the flure, Janet,
  And there's a rowan-berry!
Sweep them intil the fire, Janet,
  Or they'll neither come nor tarry.
 
 
Syne set open the outer dure—
  Wide open for wha kens wha?
As ye come ben to your bed, Janet,
  Set baith dures to the wa'.
 
 
She set the cheirs back to the wa',
  But ane that was o' the birk;
She sweepit the flure, but left the spale—
  A lang spale o' the aik.
 
 
The nicht was lown; the stars sae still
  War glintin doon the sky;
The souls crap oot o' their mooly graves,
  A' dank wi' lyin by.
 
 
They faund the dure wide to the wa',
  And the peats blawn rosy reid:
They war shuneless feet gaed in and oot,
  Nor clampit as they gaed.
 
 
The mither she keekit but the hoose,
  Saw what she ill could say;
Quakin she slidit doon by Janet,
  And gaspin a whilie she lay.
 
 
There's are o' them sittin afore the fire!
  Ye wudna hearken to me!
Janet, ye left a cheir by the fire,
  Whaur I tauld ye nae cheir suld be!
 
 
Janet she smilit in her minnie's face:
  She had brunt the roden reid,
But she left aneth the birken cheir
  The spale frae a coffin-lid!
 
 
Saft she rase and gaed but the hoose,
  And ilka dure did steik.
Three hours gaed by, and her minnie heard
  Sound o' the deid nor quick.
 
 
Whan the gray cock crew, she heard on the flure
  The fa' o' shuneless feet;
Whan the rud cock crew, she heard the dure,
  And a sough o' win' and weet.
 
 
Whan the goud cock crew, Janet cam back;
  Her face it was gray o' ble;
Wi' starin een, at her mither's side
  She lay doon like a bairn to dee.
 
 
Her white lips hadna a word to lat fa'
  Mair nor the soulless deid;
Seven lang days and nights she lay,
  And never a word she said.
 
 
Syne suddent, as oot o' a sleep, she brade,
  Smilin richt winsumly;
And she spak, but her word it was far and strayit,
  Like a whisper come ower the sea.
 
 
And never again did they hear her lauch,
  Nor ever a tear doun ran;
But a smile aye flittit aboot her face
  Like the mune on a water wan.
 
 
And ilka nicht atween Sancts and Souls
  She laid the dures to the wa',
Blew up the fire, and set the cheir,
  And loot the spale doon fa'.
 
 
And at midnicht she gaed but the hoose
  Aye steekin dure and dure.
Whan the goud cock crew, quaiet as a moose
  She cam creepin ower the flure.
 
 
Mair wan grew her face, and her smile mair sweet
  Quhill the seventh Halloweve:
Her mother she heard the shuneless feet,
  Said—She'll be ben belyve!
 
 
She camna ben. Her minnie rase—
  For fear she 'maist cudna stan;
She grippit the wa', and but she gaed,
  For the goud cock lang had crawn.
 
 
There sat Janet upo' the birk cheir,
  White as the day did daw;
But her smile was a sunglint left on the sea
  Whan the sun himsel is awa.
 

THE LAVEROCK

The Man says:

 
Laverock i' the lift,
Hae ye nae sang-thrift,
'At ye scatter 't sae heigh, and lat it a' drift?
    Wasterfu laverock!
 
 
Dinna ye ken
'At ye hing ower men
Wha haena a sang or a penny to spen?
    Hertless laverock!
 
 
But up there you,
I' the bow o' the blue,
Haud skirlin on as gien a' war new!
    Toom-heidit laverock!
 
 
Haith, ye're ower blythe!
I see a great scythe
Swing whaur yer nestie lies, doon i' the lythe,
    Liltin laverock!
 
 
Eh, sic a soun!
Birdie, come doun,
Ye're fey to sing sic a merry tune!
    Gowkit laverock!
 
 
Come to yer nest;
Yer wife's sair prest,
She's clean worn oot wi' duin her best!
    Rovin laverock!
 
 
Winna ye haud?
Ye're surely mad!
Is there naebody there to gie ye a dad,
    Menseless laverock?
 
 
Come doon and conform,
Pyke an honest worm,
And hap yer bairns frae the comin storm,
    Spendrife laverock!
 

The Bird sings:

 
    My nestie it lieth
    I' the how o' a ban';
    The swing o' the scythe
    'Ill miss 't by a span.
 
 
    The lift it's sae cheery!
    The win' it's sae free!
    I hing ower my dearie,
    And sing 'cause I see.
 
 
    My wifie's wee breistie
    Grows warm wi' my sang,
    And ilk crumpled-up beastie
    Kens no to think lang.
 
 
    Up here the sun sings, but
    He only shines there!
    Ye haena nae wings, but
    Come up on a prayer.
 

The man sings:

 
    Ye wee daurin cratur,
    Ye rant and ye sing
    Like an oye o' auld Natur
    Ta'en hame by the king!
 
 
    Ye wee feathert priestie,
    Yer bells i' yer thro't,
    Yer altar yer breistie,
    Yer mitre forgot—
 
 
    Offerin and Aaron,
    Ye burn hert and brain;
    And dertin and daurin,
    Flee back to yer ain!
 
 
    Ye wee minor prophet,
    It's 'maist my belief
    'At I'm doon in Tophet,
    And you abune grief!
 
 
    Ye've deavt me and daudit
    And ca'd me a fule:
    I'm nearhan' persuaudit
    To gang to your schule!
 
 
    For, birdie, I'm thinkin
    Ye ken mair nor me—
    Gien ye haena been drinkin,
    And sing as ye see.
 
 
    Ye maun hae a sicht 'at
    Sees gay and far ben,
    And a hert, for the micht o' 't,
    Wad sair for nine men!
 
 
There's somebody's been til
Roun saft to ye wha
Said birdies are seen til,
And e'en whan they fa'!