The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume Ii Part 65

She c.r.a.p for days aboot the hoose, Dull-futt.i.t 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 blackc.o.c.k flew, The lerrick munt.i.t 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 c.r.a.p 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 c.o.c.k crew, she heard on the flure The fa' o' shuneless feet; Whan the rud c.o.c.k crew, she heard the dure, And a sough o' win' and weet.

Whan the goud c.o.c.k 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 flitt.i.t 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 c.o.c.k 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 c.o.c.k 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?