The poetical works of George MacDonald Volume Ii Part 71

Sair we'll muse at ane anither 'Tween the auld word an' new kiss!

Love I'm doobtin may be scanty Roun ye efter I'm awa: Yon kirkyard has happin plenty Close aside me, green an' braw!

An' abune there's room for mony; 'Twasna made for ane or twa, But was aye for a' an' ony Countin love the best ava.

There nane less ye'll be my father; Auld names we'll nor tyne nor spare!

A' my sons.h.i.+p I maun gather For the Son is king up there.

Greitna, father, that I'm gauin, For ye ken fu' well the gaet!

Here, in winter, cast yer sawin, There, in hairst, again ye hae't!

_I KEN SOMETHING._

What gars ye sing sae, birdie, As gien ye war lord o' the lift?

On breid ye're an unco sma' lairdie, But in hicht ye've a kingly gift!

A' ye hae to c.o.o.nt yersel rich in 'S a wee mawn o' glory-motes!

The whilk to the throne ye're aye hitchin Wi a lang tow o' sapphire notes!

Ay, yer sang's the sang o' an angel For a sinfu' thrapple no meet, Like the pipes til a heavenly braingel Whaur they dance their herts intil their feet!

But though ye canna behaud, birdie, Ye needna gar a'thing wheesht!

I'm noucht but a hirplin herdie, But I hae a sang i' my breist!

Len' me yer throat to sing throu, Len' me yer wings to gang hie, And I'll sing ye a sang a laverock to cow, And for bliss to gar him dee!

_MIRLS_.

The stars are steady abune; I' the water they flichter and flee; But, steady aye, luikin doon They ken theirsels i' the sea.

A' licht, and clear, and free, G.o.d, thou s.h.i.+nest abune; Yet luik, and see thysel in me, Aye on me luikin doon.

Throu the heather an' how gaed the creepin thing, But abune was the waff o' an angel's wing.

Hither an' thither, here an' awa, Into the dub ye maunna fa'; Oot o' the dub wad ye come wi' speed, Ye maun lift yer han's abune yer heid.

Whaur's nor sun nor mune, Laigh things come abune.

My thouchts are like worms in a starless gloamin My hert's like a sponge that's fillit wi' gall; My soul's like a bodiless ghaist sent a roamin I' the haar an' the mirk till the trumpet call.

Lord, turn ilk worm til a b.u.t.terflee, Wring oot my hert, an' fill 't frae thy ain; My soul syne in patience its weird will dree, An' luik for the mornin throu the rain.

THE END.