The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume Ii Part 64

"I'll say quhat I like," quod Archibold, "Be ye ghaist or deevil or quhat!"

"Tak tent, lord Archie, gien ye be wise-- The t.i.t 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 s.h.i.+mmert-- 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 licht.i.t 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.

"G.o.d guide us!" he cried wi' gast.i.t rair, "Has he lien there ever sin' syne?"

An' he thoucht he saw the banes, pykit an' bare, Throu the cracks o' his harness s.h.i.+ne.

"Oh Johnnie! my brither!" quo' Archibold Wi' a hert-upheavin mane, "I wad pit my soul i' yer wast.i.t 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' lift.i.t 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 c.r.a.p awa my lane; An' never a deevil cam ye nar, 'Cep ye c.o.o.nt 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 la.s.s!

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, la.s.s, 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 gla.s.s!"

"Foul-fa' the ill-faured mou 'At made the leein word to pa.s.s 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 la.s.s!'

It turnt the spait o' words a bit, And loot yer fair name pa.s.s."

"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, la.s.sie, 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!