O son of man, to right my lot Nought but thy presence can avail; Yet on the road thy wheels are not, Nor on the sea thy sail!

My fancied ways why shouldst thou heed? Thou com'st down thine own secret stair: Com'st down to answer all my need, Yea, every bygone prayer!



FROM NOVALIS.

Uplifted is the stone And all mankind arisen! We are thy very own, We are no more in prison! What bitterest grief can stay Beside thy golden cup, When earth and life give way And with our Lord we sup!

To the marriage Death doth call, The lamps are burning clear, The virgins, ready all, Have for their oil no fear. Would that even now were ringing The distance with thy throng! And that the stars were singing To us a human song!

Courage! for life is hasting To endless life away; The inward fire, unwasting, Transfigures our dull clay! See the stars melting, sinking In life-wine golden-bright! We, of the splendour drinking, Shall grow to stars of light.

Lost, lost are all our losses! Love is for ever free! The full life heaves and tosses Like an unbounded sea! One live, eternal story! One poem high and broad! And sun of all our glory The countenance of God!



WHAT MAN IS THERE OF YOU?

The homely words how often read! How seldom fully known! "Which father of you, asked for bread, Would give his son a stone?"

How oft has bitter tear been shed, And heaved how many a groan, Because thou wouldst not give for bread The thing that was a stone!

How oft the child thou wouldst have fed, Thy gift away has thrown! He prayed, thou heard'st, and gav'st the bread: He cried, "It is a stone!"

Lord, if I ask in doubt and dread Lest I be left to moan, Am I not he who, asked for bread, Would give his son a stone?



O WIND OF GOD.

O wind of God, that blowest in the mind, Blow, blow and wake the gentle spring in me; Blow, swifter blow, a strong warm summer wind, Till all the flowers with eyes come out to see; Blow till the fruit hangs red on every tree, And our high-soaring song-larks meet thy dove— High the imperfect soars, descends the perfect love!

Blow not the less though winter cometh then; Blow, wind of God, blow hither changes keen; Let the spring creep into the ground again, The flowers close all their eyes and not be seen: All lives in thee that ever once hath been! Blow, fill my upper air with icy storms; Breathe cold, O wind of God, and kill my cankerworms.



SHALL THE DEAD PRAISE THEE?

I cannot praise thee. By his instrument The master sits, and moves nor foot nor hand; For see the organ-pipes this, that way bent, Leaning, o'erthrown, like wheat-stalks tempest-fanned!

I well could praise thee for a flower, a dove, But not for life that is not life in me; Not for a being that is less than love— A barren shoal half lifted from a sea!

Unto a land where no wind bloweth ships Thy wind one day will blow me to my own: Rather I'd kiss no more their loving lips Than carry them a heart so poor and prone!

I bless thee, Father, thou art what thou art, That thou dost know thyself what thou dost know— A perfect, simple, tender, rhythmic heart, Beating its blood to all in bounteous flow.

And I can bless thee too for every smart, For every disappointment, ache, and fear; For every hook thou fixest in my heart, For every burning cord that draws me near.

But prayer these wake, not song. Thyself I crave. Come thou, or all thy gifts away I fling. Thou silent, I am but an empty grave: Think to me, Father, and I am a king!

My organ-pipes will then stand up awake, Their life soar, as from smouldering wood the blaze; And swift contending harmonies shall shake Thy windows with a storm of jubilant praise.



A YEAR SONG.

Sighing above, Rustling below, Thorough the woods The winds go. Beneath, dead crowds; Above, life bare; And the besom tempest Sweeps the air: Heart, leave thy woe: Let the dead things go.

Through the brown Gold doth push; Misty green Veils the bush. Here a twitter, There a croak! They are coming— The spring-folk! Heart, be not numb; Let the live things come.

Through the beech The winds go, With gentle speech, Long and slow. The grass is fine, And soft to lie in: The sun doth shine The blue sky in: Heart, be alive; Let the new things thrive.

Round again! Here art thou, A rimy fruit On a bare bough! Winter comes, Winter and snow; And a weary sighing To fall and go! Heart, thy hour shall be; Thy dead will comfort thee.



SONG.

Why do the houses stand When they that built them are gone; When remaineth even of one That lived there and loved and planned Not a face, not an eye, not a hand, Only here and there a bone? Why do the houses stand When they who built them are gone?

Oft in the moonlighted land When the day is overblown, With happy memorial moan Sweet ghosts in a loving band Roam through the houses that stand— For the builders are not gone.



FOR WHERE YOUR TREASURE IS, THERE WILL YOUR HEART BE ALSO.

The miser lay on his lonely bed; Life's candle was burning dim. His heart in an iron chest was hid Under heaps of gold and an iron lid; And whether it were alive or dead It never troubled him.

Slowly out of his body he crept. He said, "I am just the same! Only I want my heart in my breast; I will go and fetch it out of my chest!" Through the dark a darker shadow he leapt, Saying "Hell is a fabled flame!"

He opened the lid. Oh, Hell's own night! His ghost-eyes saw no gold!— Empty and swept! Not a gleam was there! In goes his hand, but the chest is bare! Ghost-fingers, aha! have only might To close, not to clasp and hold!

But his heart he saw, and he made a clutch At the fungous puff-ball of sin: Eaten with moths, and fretted with rust, He grasped a handful of rotten dust, And shrieked, as ghosts may, at the crumbling touch, But hid it his breast within.

And some there are who see him sit Under the church, apart, Counting out coins and coins of gold Heap by heap on the dank death-mould: Alas poor ghost and his sore lack of wit— They breed in the dust of his heart!

Another miser has now his chest, And it hoards wealth more and more; Like ferrets his hands go in and out, Burrowing, tossing the gold about— Nor heed the heart that, gone from his breast, Is the cold heap's bloodless core.

Now wherein differ old ghosts that sit Counting ghost-coins all day From the man who clings with spirit prone To whatever can never be his own? Who will leave the world with not one whit But a heart all eaten away?



THE ASTHMATIC MAN TO THE SATAN THAT BINDS HIM.

Satan, avaunt! Nay, take thine hour, Thou canst not daunt, Thou hast no power; Be welcome to thy nest, Though it be in my breast.

Burrow amain; Dig like a mole; Fill every vein With half-burnt coal; Puff the keen dust about, And all to choke me out.

Fill music's ways With creaking cries, That no loud praise May climb the skies; And on my labouring chest Lay mountains of unrest.

My slumber steep In dreams of haste, That only sleep, No rest, I taste— With stiflings, rimes of rote, And fingers on my throat.

Satan, thy might I do defy; Live core of night I patient lie: A wind comes up the gray Will blow thee clean away.

Christ's angel, Death, All radiant white, With one cold breath Will scare thee quite, And give my lungs an air As fresh as answered prayer.

So, Satan, do Thy worst with me Until the True Shall set me free, And end what he began, By making me a man.



SONG-SERMON.

Lord, what is man That thou art mindful of him! Though in creation's van, Lord, what is man! He wills less than he can, Lets his ideal scoff him! Lord, what is man That thou art mindful of him!



SHADOWS.

All things are shadows of thee, Lord; The sun himself is but thy shade; My spirit is the shadow of thy word, A thing that thou hast said.

Diamonds are shadows of the sun, They gleam as after him they hark: My soul some arrows of thy light hath won. And feebly fights the dark!

All knowledges are broken shades, In gulfs of dark a scattered horde: Together rush the parted glory-grades— Then, lo, thy garment, Lord!

My soul, the shadow, still is light Because the shadow falls from thee; I turn, dull candle, to the centre bright, And home flit shadowy.

Shine, Lord; shine me thy shadow still; The brighter I, the more thy shade! My motion be thy lovely moveless will! My darkness, light delayed!



A WINTER PRAYER.

Come through the gloom of clouded skies, The slow dim rain and fog athwart; Through east winds keen with wrong and lies Come and lift up my hopeless heart.

Come through the sickness and the pain, The sore unrest that tosses still; Through aching dark that hides the gain Come and arouse my fainting will.

Come through the prate of foolish words, The science with no God behind; Through all the pangs of untuned chords Speak wisdom to my shaken mind.

Through all the fears that spirits bow Of what hath been, or may befall, Come down and talk with me, for thou Canst tell me all about them all.

Hear, hear my sad lone heart entreat, Heart of all joy, below, above! Come near and let me kiss thy feet, And name the names of those I love!



SONG OF A POOR PILGRIM.

Roses all the rosy way! Roses to the rosier west Where the roses of the day Cling to night's unrosy breast!

Thou who mak'st the roses, why Give to every leaf a thorn? On thy rosy highway I Still am by thy roses torn!

Pardon! I will not mistake These good thorns that make me fret! Goads to urge me, stings to wake, For my freedom they are set.

Yea, on one steep mountain-side, Climbing to a fancied fold, Roses grasped had let me slide But the thorns did keep their hold.

Out of darkness light is born, Out of weakness make me strong: One glad day will every thorn Break into a rose of song.

Though like sparrow sit thy bird Lonely on the house-top dark, By the rosy dawning stirred Up will soar thy praising lark;

Roses, roses all his song! Roses in a gorgeous feast! Roses in a royal throng, Surging, rosing from the east!



AN EVENING PRAYER.

I am a bubble Upon thy ever-moving, resting sea: Oh, rest me now from tossing, trespass, trouble! Take me down into thee.

Give me thy peace. My heart is aching with unquietness: Oh, make its inharmonious beating cease! Thy hand upon it press.

My Night! my Day! Swift night and day betwixt, my world doth reel: Potter, take not thy hand from off the clay That whirls upon thy wheel.

O Heart, I cry For love and life, pardon and hope and strength! O Father, I am thine; I shall not die, But I shall sleep at length!



SONG-SERMON.

Mercy to thee, O Lord, belongs, For as his work thou giv'st the man. From us, not thee, come all our wrongs; Mercy to thee, O Lord, belongs: With small-cord whips and scorpion thongs Thou lay'st on every ill thy ban. Mercy to thee, O Lord, belongs, For as his work thou giv'st the man.



A DREAM-SONG.

The stars are spinning their threads, And the clouds are the dust that flies, And the suns are weaving them up For the day when the sleepers arise.

The ocean in music rolls, The gems are turning to eyes, And the trees are gathering souls For the day when the sleepers arise.

The weepers are learning to smile, And laughter to glean the sighs, And hearts to bury their care and guile For the day when the sleepers arise.

Oh, the dews and the moths and the daisy-red, The larks and the glimmers and flows! The lilies and sparrows and daily bread, And the something that nobody knows!



CHRISTMAS, 1880.

Great-hearted child, thy very being The Son, Who know'st the hearts of all us prodigals;— For who is prodigal but he who has gone Far from the true to heart it with the false?— Who, who but thou, that, from the animals', Know'st all the hearts, up to the Father's own, Can tell what it would be to be alone!

Alone! No father!—At the very thought Thou, the eternal light, wast once aghast; A death in death for thee it almost wrought! But thou didst haste, about to breathe thy last, And call'dst out Father ere thy spirit passed, Exhausted in fulfilling not any vow, But doing his will who greater is than thou.

That we might know him, thou didst come and live; That we might find him, thou didst come and die; The son-heart, brother, thy son-being give— We too would love the father perfectly, And to his bosom go back with the cry, Father, into thy hands I give the heart Which left thee but to learn how good thou art!

There are but two in all the universe— The father and his children—not a third; Nor, all the weary time, fell any curse! Not once dropped from its nest an unfledged bird But thou wast with it! Never sorrow stirred But a love-pull it was upon the chain That draws the children to the father again!

O Jesus Christ, babe, man, eternal son, Take pity! we are poor where thou art rich: Our hearts are small; and yet there is not one In all thy father's noisy nursery which, Merry, or mourning in its narrow niche, Needs not thy father's heart, this very now, With all his being's being, even as thou!



RONDEL.

I do not know thy final will, It is too good for me to know: Thou willest that I mercy show, That I take heed and do no ill, That I the needy warm and fill, Nor stones at any sinner throw; But I know not thy final will— It is too good for me to know.

I know thy love unspeakable— For love's sake able to send woe! To find thine own thou lost didst go, And wouldst for men thy blood yet spill!— How should I know thy final will, Godwise too good for me to know!



THE SPARROW.

O Lord, I cannot but believe The birds do sing thy praises then, when they sing to one another, And they are lying seed-sown land when the winter makes them grieve, Their little bosoms breeding songs for the summer to unsmother!

If thou hadst finished me, O Lord, Nor left out of me part of that great gift that goes to singing, I sure had known the meaning high of the songster's praising word, Had known upon what thoughts of thee his pearly talk he was stringing!

I should have read the wisdom hid In the storm-inspired melody of thy thrush's bosom solemn: I should not then have understood what thy free spirit did To make the lark-soprano mount like to a geyser-column!

I think I almost understand Thy owl, his muffled swiftness, moon-round eyes, and intoned hooting; I think I could take up the part of a night-owl in the land, With yellow moon and starry things day-dreamers all confuting.

But 'mong thy creatures that do sing Perhaps of all I likest am to the housetop-haunting sparrow, That flies brief, sudden flights upon a dumpy, fluttering wing, And chirps thy praises from a throat that's very short and narrow.

But if thy sparrow praise thee well By singing well thy song, nor letting noisy traffic quell it, It may be that, in some remote and leafy heavenly dell, He may with a trumpet-throat awake, and a trumpet-song to swell it!



DECEMBER 23, 1879.

I.

A thousand houses of poesy stand around me everywhere; They fill the earth and they fill my thought, they are in and above the air; But to-night they have shut their doors, they have shut their shining windows fair, And I am left in a desert world, with an aching as if of care.

II.

Cannot I break some little nut and get at the poetry in it? Cannot I break the shining egg of some all but hatched heavenly linnet? Cannot I find some beauty-worm, and its moony cocoon-silk spin it? Cannot I find my all but lost day in the rich content of a minute?

III.

I will sit me down, all aching and tired, in the midst of this never-unclosing Of door or window that makes it look as if truth herself were dozing; I will sit me down and make me a tent, call it poetizing or prosing, Of what may be lying within my reach, things at my poor disposing!

IV.

Now what is nearest?—My conscious self. Here I sit quiet and say: "Lo, I myself am already a house of poetry solemn and gay! But, alas, the windows are shut, all shut: 'tis a cold and foggy day, And I have not now the light to see what is in me the same alway!"

V.

Nay, rather I'll say: "I am a nut in the hard and frozen ground; Above is the damp and frozen air, the cold blue sky all round; And the power of a leafy and branchy tree is in me crushed and bound Till the summer come and set it free from the grave-clothes in which it is wound!"

VI.

But I bethink me of something better!—something better, yea best! "I am lying a voiceless, featherless thing in God's own perfect nest; And the voice and the song are growing within me, slowly lifting my breast; And his wide night-wings are closed about me, for his sun is down in the west!"

VII.

Doors and windows, tents and grave-clothes, winters and eggs and seeds, Ye shall all be opened and broken and torn; ye are but to serve my needs! On the will of the Father all lovely things are strung like a string of beads For his heart to give the obedient child that the will of the father heeds.



SONG-PRAYER: AFTER KING DAVID.

I shall be satisfied With the seeing of thy face. When I awake, wide-eyed, I shall be satisfied With what this life did hide, The one supernal grace! I shall be satisfied With the seeing of thy face.



DECEMBER 27, 1879

Every time would have its song If the heart were right, Seeing Love all tender-strong Fills the day and night.

Weary drop the hands of Prayer Calling out for peace; Love always and everywhere Sings and does not cease.

Fear, the caitiff, through the night Silent peers about; Love comes singing with a light And doth cast him out.

Hate and Guile and Wrath and Doubt Never try to sing; If they did, oh, what a rout Anguished ears would sting!

Pride indeed will sometimes aim At the finer speech, But the best that he can frame Is a peacock-screech.

Greed will also sometimes try: Happiness he hunts! But his dwelling is a sty, And his tones are grunts.

Faith will sometimes raise a song Soaring up to heaven, Then she will be silent long, And will weep at even.

Hope has many a gladsome note Now and then to pipe; But, alas, he has the throat Of a bird unripe.

Often Joy a stave will start Which the welkin rends, But it always breaks athwart, And untimely ends.

Grief, who still for death doth long, Always self-abhorred, Has but one low, troubled song, I am sorry, Lord.

But Love singeth in the vault. Singeth on the stair; Even for Sorrow will not halt, Singeth everywhere.

For the great Love everywhere Over all doth glow; Draws his birds up trough the air, Tends his birds below.

And with songs ascending sheer Love-born Love replies, Singing Father in his ear Where she bleeding lies.

Therefore, if my heart were right I should sing out clear, Sing aloud both day and night Every month in the year!



SUNDAY,

DECEMBER 28, 1879.

A dim, vague shrinking haunts my soul, My spirit bodeth ill— As some far-off restraining bank Had burst, and waters, many a rank, Were marching on my hill;

As if I had no fire within For thoughts to sit about; As if I had no flax to spin, No lamp to lure the good things in And keep the bad things out.

The wind, south-west, raves in the pines That guard my cottage round; The sea-waves fall in stormy lines Below the sandy cliffs and chines, And swell the roaring sound.

The misty air, the bellowing wind Not often trouble me; The storm that's outside of the mind Doth oftener wake my heart to find More peace and liberty.

Why is not such my fate to-night? Chance is not lord of things! Man were indeed a hapless wight Things, thoughts occurring as they might— Chaotic wallowings!

The man of moods might merely say As by the fire he sat, "I am low spirited to-day; I must do something, work or play, Lest care should kill the cat!"

Not such my saw: I was not meant To be the sport of things! The mood has meaning and intent, And my dull heart is humbly bent To have the truth it brings.

This sense of needed shelter round, This frequent mental start Show what a poor life mine were found, To what a dead self I were bound, How feeble were my heart,

If I who think did stand alone Centre to what I thought, A brain within a box of bone, A king on a deserted throne, A something that was nought!

A being without power to be, Or any power to cease; Whom objects but compelled to see, Whose trouble was a windblown sea, A windless sea his peace!

This very sadness makes me think How readily I might Be driven to reason's farthest brink, Then over it, and sudden sink In ghastly waves of night.

It makes me know when I am glad 'Tis thy strength makes me strong; But for thy bliss I should be sad, But for thy reason should be mad, But for thy right be wrong.

Around me spreads no empty waste, No lordless host of things; My restlessness but seeks thy rest; My little good doth seek thy best, My needs thy ministerings.

'Tis this, this only makes me safe— I am, immediate, Of one that lives; I am no waif That haggard waters toss and chafe, But of a royal fate,

The born-child of a Power that lives Because it will and can, A Love whose slightest motion gives, A Freedom that forever strives To liberate his Man.

I live not on the circling air, Live not by daily food; I live not even by thinkings fair, I hold my very being there Where God is pondering good.

Because God lives I live; because He thinks, I also think; I am dependent on no laws But on himself, and without pause; Between us hangs no link.

The man that lives he knows not how May well fear any mouse! I should be trembling this same now If I did think, my Father, thou Wast nowhere in the house!

O Father, lift me on thine arm, And hold me close to thee; Lift me into thy breathing warm, Then cast me, and I fear no harm, Into creation's sea!



SONG-SERMON.

In his arms thy silly lamb, Lo, he gathers to his breast! See, thou sadly bleating dam, See him lift thy silly lamb! Hear it cry, "How blest I am! Here is love, and love is rest!" In his arms thy silly lamb See him gather to his breast!



THE DONKEY IN THE CART TO THE HORSE IN THE CARRIAGE.

I.

I say! hey! cousin there! I mustn't call you brother! Yet you have a tail behind, and I have another! You pull, and I pull, though we don't pull together: You have less hardship, and I have more weather!

II.

Your legs are long, mine are short; I am lean, you are fatter; Your step is bold and free, mine goes pitter-patter; Your head is in the air, and mine hangs down like lead— But then my two great ears are so heavy on my head!

III.

You need not whisk your stump, nor turn away your nose; Poor donkeys ain't so stupid as rich horses may suppose! I could feed in any manger just as well as you, Though I don't despise a thistle—with sauce of dust and dew!

IV.

T'other day a bishop's cob stopped before me in a lane, With a tail as broad as oil-cake, and a close-clipped hoggy mane; I stood sideways to the hedge, but he did not want to pass, And he was so full of corn he didn't care about the grass.

V.

Quoth the cob, "You are a donkey of a most peculiar breed! You've just eaten up a thistle that was going fast to seed! If you had but let it be, you might have raised a crop! To many a coming dinner you have put a sad stop!"

VI.

I told him I was hungry, and to leave one of ten Would have spoiled my best dinner, the one I wanted then. Said the cob, "I ought to know the truth about dinners, I don't eat on roadsides like poor tramping sinners!"

VII.

"Why don't you take it easy? You are working much too hard! In the shafts you'll die one day, if you're not upon your guard! Have pity on your friends: work seems to you delectable, But believe me such a cart—excuse me—'s not respectable!"

VIII.

I told him I must trot in the shafts where I was put, Nor look round at the cart, but set foremost my best foot; It was rather rickety, and the axle wanted oil, But I always slept at night with the deep sleep of toil!

IX.

"All very fine," he said, "to wag your ears and parley, And pretend you quite despise my bellyfuls of barley! But with blows and with starving, and with labour over-hard, By spurs! a week will see you in the knacker's yard."

X.

I thanked him for his counsel, and said I thought I'd take it, really, If he'd spare me half a feed out of four feeds daily. He tossed his head at that: "Now don't be cheeky!" said he; "When I find I'm getting fat, I'll think of you: keep steady."

XI.

"Good-bye!" I said—and say, for you are such another! Why, now I look at you, I see you are his brother! Yes, thank you for your kick: 'twas all that you could spare, For, sure, they clip and singe you very, very bare!

XII.

My cart it is upsets you! but in that cart behind There's no dirt or rubbish, no bags of gold or wind! There's potatoes there, and wine, and corn, and mustard-seed, And a good can of milk, and some honey too, indeed!

XIII.

Few blows I get, some hay, and of water many a draught: I tell you he's no coster that sits upon my shaft! And for the knacker's yard—that's not my destined bed: No donkey ever yet saw himself there lying dead.



ROOM TO ROAM.

Strait is the path? He means we must not roam? Yes; but the strait path leads into a boundless home.



COTTAGE SONGS.

I.—BY THE CRADLE.

Close her eyes: she must not peep! Let her little puds go slack; Slide away far into sleep: Sis will watch till she comes back!

Mother's knitting at the door, Waiting till the kettle sings; When the kettle's song is o'er She will set the bright tea-things.

Father's busy making hay In the meadow by the brook, Not so very far away— Close its peeps, it needn't look!

God is round us everywhere— Sees the scythe glitter and rip; Watches baby gone somewhere; Sees how mother's fingers skip!

Sleep, dear baby; sleep outright: Mother's sitting just behind: Father's only out of sight; God is round us like the wind.

II.—SWEEPING THE FLOOR.

Sweep and sweep and sweep the floor, Sweep the dust, pick up the pin; Make it clean from fire to door, Clean for father to come in!

Mother said that God goes sweeping, Looking, sweeping with a broom, All the time that we are sleeping, For a shilling in the room:

Did he drop it out of glory, Walking far above the birds? Or did parson make the story For the thinking afterwards?

If I were the swept-for shilling I would hearken through the gloom; Roll out fast, and fall down willing Right before the sweeping broom!

III.—WASHING THE CLOTHES.

This is the way we wash the clo'es Free from dirt and smoke and clay! Through and through the water flows, Carries Ugly right away!

This is the way we bleach the clo'es: Lay them out upon the green; Through and through the sunshine goes, Makes them white as well as clean!

This is the way we dry the clo'es: Hang them on the bushes about; Through and through the soft wind blows, Draws and drives the wetness out!

Water, sun, and windy air Make the clothes clean, white, and sweet Lay them now in lavender For the Sunday, folded neat!

IV.—DRAWING WATER.

Dark, as if it would not tell, Lies the water, still and cool: Dip the bucket in the well, Lift it from the precious pool!

Up it comes all brown and dim, Telling of the twilight sweet: As it rises to the brim See the sun and water meet!

See the friends each other hail! "Here you are!" cries Master Sun; Mistress Water from the pail Flashes back, alive with fun!

Have you not a tale to tell, Water, as I take you home? Tell me of the hidden well Whence you, first of all, did come.

Of it you have kept some flavour Through long paths of darkling strife: Water all has still a savour Of the primal well of life!

Could you show the lovely way Back and up through sea and sky To that well? Oh, happy day, I would drink, and never die!

Jesus sits there on its brink All the world's great thirst to slake, Offering every one to drink Who will only come and take!

Lord of wells and waters all, Lord of rains and dewy beads, Unto thee my thirst doth call For the thing thou know'st it needs!

Come home, water sweet and cool, Gift of God thou always art! Spring up, Well more beautiful, Rise in mine straight from his heart.

V.—CLEANING THE WINDOWS.

Wash the window; rub it dry; Make the ray-door clean and bright: He who lords it in the sky Loves on cottage floors to light!

Looking over sea and beck, Mountain-forest, orchard-bloom, He can spy the smallest speck Anywhere about the room!

See how bright his torch is blazing In the heart of mother's store! Strange! I never saw him gazing So into that press before!

Ah, I see!—the wooden pane In the window, dull and dead, Father called its loss a gain, And a glass one put instead!

What a difference it makes! How it melts the filmy gloom! What a little more it takes Much to brighten up a room!

There I spy a dusty streak! There a corner not quite clean! There a cobweb! There the sneak Of a spider, watching keen!

Lord of suns, and eyes that see, Shine into me, see and show; Leave no darksome spot in me Where thou dost not shining go.

Fill my spirit full of eyes, Doors of light in every part; Open windows to the skies That no moth corrupt my heart.



THE WIND AND THE MOON.

Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out! You stare In the air As if crying Beware, Always looking what I am about: I hate to be watched; I will blow you out!"

The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon. So, deep On a heap Of clouds, to sleep Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon, Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon!"

He turned in his bed: she was there again! On high In the sky With her one ghost-eye The Moon shone white and alive and plain: Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again!"

The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew slim. "With my sledge And my wedge I have knocked off her edge! I will blow," said the Wind, "right fierce and grim, And the creature will soon be slimmer than slim!"

He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread. "One puff More's enough To blow her to snuff! One good puff more where the last was bred, And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go that thread!"

He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone. In the air Nowhere Was a moonbeam bare; Larger and nearer the shy stars shone: Sure and certain the Moon was gone!

The Wind he took to his revels once more; On down And in town, A merry-mad clown, He leaped and holloed with whistle and roar— When there was that glimmering thread once more!

He flew in a rage—he danced and blew; But in vain Was the pain Of his bursting brain, For still the Moon-scrap the broader grew The more that he swelled his big cheeks and blew.

Slowly she grew—till she filled the night, And shone On her throne In the sky alone A matchless, wonderful, silvery light, Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night.

Said the Wind, "What a marvel of power am I! With my breath, In good faith, I blew her to death!— First blew her away right out of the sky, Then blew her in: what a strength am I!"

But the Moon she knew nought of the silly affair; For, high In the sky With her one white eye, Motionless miles above the air, She never had heard the great Wind blare.



THE FOOLISH HAREBELL.

A harebell hung her wilful head: "I am tired, so tired! I wish I was dead."

She hung her head in the mossy dell: "If all were over, then all were well!"

The Wind he heard, and was pitiful, And waved her about to make her cool.

"Wind, you are rough!" said the dainty Bell; "Leave me alone—I am not well."

The Wind, at the word of the drooping dame, Sighed to himself and ceased in shame.

"I am hot, so hot!" she moaned and said; "I am withering up; I wish I was dead!"

Then the Sun he pitied her woeful case, And drew a thick veil over his face.

"Cloud go away, and don't be rude," She said; "I do not see why you should!"

The Cloud withdrew. Then the Harebell cried, "I am faint, so faint!—and no water beside!"

The Dew came down its millionfold path: She murmured, "I did not want a bath!"

The Dew went up; the Wind softly crept; The Night came down, and the Harebell slept.

A boy ran past in the morning gray, Plucked the Harebell, and threw her away.

The Harebell shivered, and sighed, "Oh! oh! I am faint indeed! Come, dear Wind, blow."

The Wind blew gently, and did not speak. She thanked him kindly, but grew more weak.

"Sun, dear Sun, I am cold!" she said. He shone; but lower she drooped her head.

"O Rain, I am withering! all the blue Is fading out of me!—come, please do!"

The Rain came down as fast as he could, But for all his good will he could do her no good.

She shuddered and shrivelled, and moaning said, "Thank you all kindly!" and then she was dead.

Let us hope, let us hope when she comes next year She'll be simple and sweet! But I fear, I fear!



SONG.

I was very cold In the summer weather; The sun shone all his gold, But I was very cold— Alas, we were grown old, Love and I together! Oh, but I was cold In the summer weather!

Sudden I grew warmer Though the brooks were frozen: "Truly, scorn did harm her!" I said, and I grew warmer; "Better men the charmer Knows at least a dozen!" I said, and I grew warmer Though the brooks were frozen.

Spring sits on her nest, Daisies and white clover; And my heart at rest Lies in the spring's young nest: My love she loves me best, And the frost is over! Spring sits on her nest, Daisies and white clover!



AN IMPROVISATION.

The stars cleave the sky. Yet for us they rest, And their race-course high Is a shining nest!

The hours hurry on. But where is thy flight, Soft pavilion Of motionless night?

Earth gives up her trees To the holy air; They live in the breeze; They are saints at prayer!

Summer night, come from God, On your beauty, I see, A still wave has flowed Of eternity!



EQUITY.

No bird can sing in tune but that the Lord Sits throned in equity above the heaven, And holds the righteous balance always even; No heart can true response to love afford Wherein from one to eight not every chord Is yet attuned by the spirits seven: For tuneful no bird sings but that the Lord Is throned in equity above high heaven.

Oh heart, by wrong unfilial scathed and scored, And from thy humble throne with mazedness driven, Take courage: when thy wrongs thou hast forgiven, Thy rights in love thy God will see restored: No bird could sing in tune but that the Lord Sits throned in equity above the heaven.



CONTRITION.

Out of the gulf into the glory, Father, my soul cries out to be lifted. Dark is the woof of my dismal story, Thorough thy sun-warp stormily drifted!— Out of the gulf into the glory, Lift me, and save my story.

I have done many things merely shameful; I am a man ashamed, my father! My life is ashamed and broken and blameful— The broken and blameful, oh, cleanse and gather! Heartily shame me, Lord, of the shameful! To my judge I flee with my blameful.

Saviour, at peace in thy perfect purity, Think what it is, not to be pure! Strong in thy love's essential security, Think upon those who are never secure. Full fill my soul with the light of thy purity: Fold me in love's security.

O Father, O Brother, my heart is sore aching! Help it to ache as much as is needful; Is it you cleansing me, mending, remaking, Dear potter-hands, so tender and heedful? Sick of my past, of my own self aching— Hurt on, dear hands, with your making.

Proud of the form thou hadst given thy vessel, Proud of myself, I forgot my donor; Down in the dust I began to nestle, Poured thee no wine, and drank deep of dishonour! Lord, thou hast broken, thou mendest thy vessel! In the dust of thy glory I nestle.



THE CONSOLER: ON AN ENGRAVING OF SCHEFFER'S Christus Consolator.

I.

What human form is this? what form divine? And who are these that gaze upon his face Mild, beautiful, and full of heavenly grace, With whose reflected light the gazers shine? Saviour, who does not know it to be thine? Who does not long to fill a gazer's place? And yet there is no time, there is no space To keep away thy servants from thy shrine! Here if we kneel, and watch with faithful eyes, Thou art not too far for faithful eyes to see, Thou art not too far to turn and look on me, To speak to me, and to receive my sighs. Therefore for ever I forget the skies, And find an everlasting Sun in thee.

II.

Oh let us never leave that happy throng! From that low attitude of love not cease! In all the world there is no other peace, In all the world no other shield from wrong. But chiefly, Saviour, for thy feet we long— For no vain quiet, for no pride's increase— But that, being weak, and Thou divinely strong, Us from our hateful selves thou mayst release. We wander from thy fold's free holy air, Forget thy looks, and take our fill of sin! But if thou keep us evermore within, We never surely can forget thee there— Breathing thy breath, thy white robe given to wear, And loving thee for all thou diedst to win!

III.

To speak of him in language of our own, Is not for us too daringly to try; But, Saviour, we can read thy history Upon the faces round thy humble throne; And as the flower among the grass makes known What summer suns have warmed it from the sky, As every human smile and human sigh Is witness that we do not live alone, So in that company—in those sweet tears, The first-born of a rugged melted heart, In those gaunt chains for ever torn apart, And in the words that weeping mother hears, We read the story of two thousand years, And know thee somewhat, Saviour, as thou art.



TO ——

I cannot write old verses here, Dead things a thousand years away, When all the life of the young year Is in the summer day.

The roses make the world so sweet, The bees, the birds have such a tune, There's such a light and such a heat And such a joy this June,

One must expand one's heart with praise, And make the memory secure Of sunshine and the woodland days And summer twilights pure.

Oh listen rather! Nature's song Comes from the waters, beating tides, Green-margined rivers, and the throng Of streams on mountain-sides.

So fair those water-spirits are, Such happy strength their music fills, Our joy shall be to wander far And find them on the hills.



TO A SISTER.

A fresh young voice that sings to me So often many a simple thing, Should surely not unanswered be By all that I can sing.

Dear voice, be happy every way A thousand changing tones among, From little child's unfinished lay To angel's perfect song.

In dewy woods—fair, soft, and green Like morning woods are childhood's bower— Be like the voice of brook unseen Among the stones and flowers;

A joyful voice though born so low, And making all its neighbours glad; Sweet, hidden, constant in its flow Even when the winds are sad.

So, strengthen in a peaceful home, And daily deeper meanings bear; And when life's wildernesses come Be brave and faithful there.

Try all the glorious magic range, Worship, forgive, console, rejoice, Until the last and sweetest change— So live and grow, dear voice.



THE SHORTEST AND SWEETEST OF SONGS.

Come Home.



SCOTS SONGS AND BALLADS.



ANNIE SHE'S DOWIE.

Annie she's dowie, and Willie he's wae: What can be the matter wi' siccan a twae, For Annie she's fair as the first o' the day, And Willie he's honest and stalwart and gay?

Oh, the tane has a daddy is poor and is proud, And the tither a minnie that cleiks at the goud '. They lo'ed are anither, and said their say, But the daddy and minnie hae partit the twae!



O LASSIE AYONT THE HILL!

O lassie ayont the hill, Come ower the tap o' the hill, Come ower the tap wi' the breeze o' the hill, Bidena ayont the hill! I'm needin ye sair the nicht, For I'm tired and sick o' mysel. A body's sel 's the sairest weicht: O lassie, come ower the hill!

Gien a body could be a thoucht o' grace, And no a sel ava! I'm sick o' my heid and my ban's and my face, O' my thouchts and mysel and a';

I'm sick o' the warl' and a'; The win' gangs by wi' a hiss; Throu my starin een the sunbeams fa' But my weary hert they miss! O lassie ayont the hill, Come ower the tap o' the hill, Come ower the tap wi' the breeze o' the hill, Bidena ayont the hill! &c.

For gien I but saw yer bonnie heid, And the sunlicht o' yer hair, The ghaist o' mysel wud fa' doun deid, I wud be mysel nae mair. I wud be mysel nae mair, Filled o' the sole remeid, Slain by the arrows o' licht frae yer hair, Killed by yer body and heid! O lassie ayont the hill, &c.

My sel micht wauk up at the saft fitfa' O' my bonnie departin dame; But gien she lo'ed me ever sae sma' I micht bide it—the weary same! Noo, sick o' my body and name Whan it lifts its upsettin heid, I turn frae the cla'es that cover my frame As gien they war roun the deid. O lassie ayont the hill, &c.

But gien ye lo'ed me as I lo'e you I wud ring my ain deid knell; The spectre wud melt, shot through and through Wi' the shine o' your sunny sel! By the shine o' yer sunny sel, By the licht aneth yer broo I wud dee to mysel, ring my ain deid-bell, And live again in you!

O lassie ayont the hill, Come ower the tap o' the hill, Come ower the tap wi' the breeze o' the hill, For I want ye sair the nicht! I'm needin ye sair the nicht, For I'm tired and sick o' mysel. A body's sel 's the sairest weicht: O lassie, come ower the hill!



THE BONNY, BONNY DELL.

Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the yorlin sings, Wi' a clip o' the sunshine atween his wings; Whaur the birks are a' straikit wi' fair munelicht, And the brume hings its lamps by day and by nicht; Whaur the burnie comes trottin ower shingle and stane Liltin bonny havers til 'tsel its lane; And the sliddery troot wi' ae soop o' its tail Is ahint the green weed's dark swingin veil! Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur I sang as I saw The yorlin, the brume, and the burnie, and a'!

Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the primroses won, Luikin oot o' their leaves like wee sons o' the sun; Whaur the wild roses hing like flickers o' flame, And fa' at the touch wi' a dainty shame; Whaur the bee swings ower the white-clovery sod, And the butterfly flits like a stray thoucht o' God; Whaur, like arrow shot frae life's unseen bow, The dragon-fly burns the sunlicht throu! Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur I sang to see The rose and the primrose, the draigon and bee!

Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the mune luiks doon As gien she war hearin a soughless tune, Whan the flooers and the birdies are a' asleep, And the verra burnie gangs creepy-creep; Whaur the corn-craik craiks i' the lang-heidit rye, And the nicht is the safter for his rouch cry; Whaur the win' wud fain lie doon on the slope, And the gloamin waukens the high-reachin hope! Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur, silent, I felt The mune and the darkness baith into me melt!

Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the sun luiks in Sayin, "Here awa, there awa, hand awa, Sin!" Sayin darkness and sorrow a' work for the licht, And the will o' God was the hert o' the nicht; Whaur the laverock hings hie, on his ain sang borne, Wi' bird-shout and tirralee hailin the morn; Whaur my hert ran ower wi' the lusome bliss That, come winter, come weather, nocht gaed amiss! Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the sun luikit in Sayin, "Here awa, there awa, hand awa, Sin!"

Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur aft I wud lie, Wi' Jeanie aside me sae sweet and sae shy; Whaur the starry gowans wi' rose-dippit tips War as white as her cheek and as reid as her lips; Whaur she spread her gowd hert till she saw that I saw, Syne fauldit it up and gied me it a'; Whaur o' sunlicht and munelicht she was the queen, For baith war but middlin withoot my Jean! Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur aft I wud lie, Wi' Jeanie aside me sae sweet and sae shy!

Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the kirkyard lies A' day and a' nicht luikin up to the skies; Whaur the sheep wauken up i' the simmer nicht, Tak a bite and lie doon, and await the licht; Whaur the psalms roll ower the grassy heaps; Whaur the win' comes and moans, and the rain comes and weeps; Whaur my Jeanie's no lyin in a' the lair, For she's up and awa up the angels' stair! Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the kirkyard lies, Whaur the stars luik doon, and the nicht-wind sighs!



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' Balaaem'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?



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'!



GODLY 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-fittit, 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 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 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' God'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 hell, 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.

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 sell The verra Maister or ever ye ken!

V.—THE COORSE CRATUR.

The Lord gaed wi' a crood o' men Throu Jericho the bonny; 'Twas ill the Son o' Man to ken Mang sons o' men sae mony:

The wee bit son o' man Zacchay To 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 guid There 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 sin His grace he never scantit.



THE DEIL'S FORHOOIT HIS AIN.

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 wrang It'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 spune And tak yer fair share o' the drink; Gien ye dinna, I wadna won'er but sune Ye micht 'maist begin to think!

"Neist, luik efter yer liver; that's the place Whaur 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 care To yer best freen, Doctor Death.

"He'll no distress ye: as quaiet's a cat He 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's verbum sat— I hae preacht it mony's the year: Whaur there's naething ava to be frictit at There'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 keek Intil yer wee mistaks.

"But nor ben there's naebody there Frae the yird to the farthest spark; Ye'll rub the knees o' yer breeks to the bare Afore 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 again It'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.



THE AULD FISHER.

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 awa Whaur the bairns come hame, an' the wives they bide, An' God is the father o' a'!

Jocky an' Jeamy an' Tammy oot there A' 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 awa Whaur the bairns come hame, an' the wives they bide, An' God is the father o' a'!



THE HERD AND THE MAVIS.

"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 wile My wee things oot o' her eggs."

An' aye &c.

"The mistress is plenty for that same gear Though 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 fain As to lift the muckle sneck!

An' aye &c.

An' ye wudna draw ae bairnie back Frae the arms o' the bonny man Though 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.



A LOWN NICHT.

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 bowl Till the wine o' the kingdom fill ye up.

Conscience-glass, Mirror the en'less All in thee; Melt the boundered and make it pass Into 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.



THE HOME OF DEATH.

"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 airts An' o' a' the pairts, In herts— Whan the tane to the tither says, Na, An' the north win' begins to blaw."



TRIOLET.

I'm a puir man I grant, But I am weel neiboured; And nane shall me daunt Though 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.

Win' that blaws the simmer plaid Ower 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 sent Oot aneth the firmament— Ilka ane its story has; Ilka ane began an' was; Ilka ane fell quaiet an' mute Whan its angel wark was oot: First gaed are oot throu the mirk Whan the maker gan to work; Ower it gaed an' ower the sea, An' the warl begud to be. Mony are has come an' gane Sin' the time there was but ane: Ane was grit an' strong, an' rent Rocks an' muntains as it went Afore the Lord, his trumpeter, Waukin up the prophet's ear; Ane was like a stepping soun I' the mulberry taps abune— Them the Lord's ain steps did swing, Walkin on afore his king; Ane lay dune like scoldit pup At his feet, an' gatna up— Whan the word the Maister spak Drave the wull-cat billows back; Ane gaed frae his lips, an' dang To the yird the sodger thrang; Ane comes frae his hert to mine Ilka day to mak it fine. Breath o' God, eh! come an' blaw Frae my hert ilk fog awa; Wauk me up an' mak me strang, Fill my hert wi' mony a sang, Frae my lips again to stert Fillin sails o' mony a hert, Blawin them ower seas dividin To the only place to bide in.



A SONG OF HOPE.

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 greitin I'stead o' gaein to him! I'll step oot like ane sure o' a meetin, I'll travel an' rin to him.



THE BURNIE.

The water ran doon frae the heich hope-heid, Wi' a Rin, burnie, rin; It wimpled, an' waggled, an' sang a screed O' nonsense, an' wadna blin Wi' 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-heid Wi' 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 rase Wi' a Rin, burnie, rin; Wear'ly clim'in up weary ways There was but a drap to fa' in, Sae laith did that burnie rin.

Twa wee bit miles frae the heich hope-heid Wi' its Rin, burnie, rin, Doon creepit a cowerin streakie o' reid, An' it meltit awa within The 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 gaed Wi' 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.



HAME.

The warl it's dottit wi' hames As thick as gowans o' the green, Aye bonnier ilk ane nor the lave To him wha there opent his een.

An' mony an' bonny's the hame That lies neth auld Scotlan's crests, Her hills an' her mountains they are the sides O' a muckle nest o' nests.

His lies i' the dip o' a muir Wi' 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 auld Stan up i' the gloamin pale Wi' the line o' a gran' sierra drawn On the lift as sharp's wi' a nail.

But whether by ingle-neuk On a creepie ye sookit yer thumb, Dreamin, an' watchin the blue peat-reek Wamle oot up the muckle lum,

Or yer wee feet sank i' the fur Afore 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 same Whether 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 ayont Abune the stars an' the suns.

For o' a' the hames there's a hame Herty an' warm an' wide, Whaur a' that maks hame ower the big roun earth Gangs til its hame to bide.



THE SANG O' THE AULD FOWK.

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 heat Cam 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 fore Wha was and wha is and will be evermore.



THE AULD MAN'S PRAYER

Lord, I'm an auld man, An' I'm deein! An' do what I can I canna help bein Some feart at the thoucht! I'm no what I oucht! An' thou art sae gran', Me but an auld man!

I haena gotten muckle Guid o' the warld; Though siller a puckle Thegither 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 body Coudna haud on here, Puttin cloddy to cloddy Till he had a bit lan' here!— But eh I'm forgettin Whaur the tide's settin! It'll pusion my prayer Till it's no worth a hair!

It's awfu, it's awfu To think 'at I'm gaein Whaur 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 til What ye canna see intil!