The poetical works of George MacDonald - BestLightNovel.com
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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 s.h.i.+nes 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'!
_G.o.dLY BALLANTS_.
I.--THIS SIDE AN' THAT.
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-fitt.i.t, an' stoot, Stan by the rich man's curtained doors; Maisterless dogs 'at rin aboot Cam 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!
II.--THE TWA BAUBEES.
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' lay Yallow an' glintin, bonnie an' braw; But the fowk roun the Maister h'ard him say The puir body's baubees was mair nor it a'.
III.--WHA'S MY NEIBOUR?
Doon frae Jerus'lem a traveller took The 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 s.h.i.+ed: "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 trott.i.t alang.
"Puir body!" he cried, an' wi' a yerk Aff o' his cuddy he sprang.
He ran to the body, an' turnt it ower: "There's life i' the man!" he cried.
_He_ wasna ane to stan an' glower, Nor hand to the ither side!
He doctort his oons, an' heised him then To 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 ootlay I'll sattle 't as I come back."
Sae tak til ye, neibours; read aricht the word; It's a portion o' G.o.d's ain spell!
"Wha is my neibour?" speirna the Lord, But, "Am I a neibour?" yersel.
IV.--HIM WI' THE BAG.
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 near What fell i' the ane i' the ither fell.
And the strings o' his hert hingit doun to h.e.l.l, They war pu'd sae ticht aboot the mou; And hence it comes that I hae to tell The warst ill tale that ever was true.
