The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 2

Автор

George MacDonald

Жанр

Зарубежная классика

Год написания книги

2018

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"Ye think I luik canty, my bonny man,
Sittin watchin the last o' the sun sae gran'?
Weel, an' I'm thinkin ye're no that wrang,
For 'deed i' my hert there's a wordless sang!

"Ken ye the meanin o' canty, my dow?
It's bein i' the humour o' singin, I trow!
An' though nae sang ever crosses my lips
I'm aye like to sing whan anither sun dips.

"For the time, wee laddie, the time grows lang
Sin' I saw the man wha's sicht was my sang—
Yer gran'father, that's—an' the sun's last glim
Says aye to me, 'Lass, ye're a mile nearer him!

"For he's hame afore me, an' lang's the road!
He fain at my side wud hae timed his plod,
But, eh, he was sent for, an' hurried awa!
Noo, I'm thinkin he's harkin to hear my fit-fa'."

"But, grannie, yer face is sae lirkit an' thin,
Wi' a doun-luikin nose an' an up-luikin chin,
An' a mou clumpit up oot o' sicht atween,
Like the witherin half o' an auld weary mune!"

"Hoot, laddie, ye needna glower yersel blin'!
The body 'at loos, sees far throu the skin;
An', believe me or no, the hoor's comin amain
Whan ugly auld fowk 'ill be bonny again.

"For there is ane—an' it's no my dear man,
Though I loo him as nane but a wife's hert can—
The joy o' beholdin wha's gran' lovely face
Til mak me like him in a' 'at's ca'd grace.

"But what I am like I carena a strae
Sae lang as I'm his, an' what he wud hae!
Be ye a guid man, John, an' ae day ye'll ken
What maks granny canty yont four score an' ten."

TIME

A lang-backit, spilgie, fuistit auld carl
Gangs a' nicht rakin athort the warl
Wi' a pock on his back, luikin hungry an' lean,
His crook-fingert han' aye followin his e'en:
He gathers up a'thing that canna but fa'—
Intil his bag wi' 't, an' on, an' awa!
Soot an' snaw! soot an' snaw!—
Intil his bag wi' 't, an' on, an' awa!

But whan he comes to the wa' o' the warl,
Spangs up it, like lang-leggit spidder, the carl;
Up gangs his pock wi' him, humpit ahin,
For naething fa's oot 'at ance he pat in;
Syne he warstles doon ootside the flamin wa',
His bag 'maist the deith o' him, pangt like a ba';
Soot an' snaw! soot an' snaw!
His bag 'maist throttlin him, pangt like a ba'!

Doon he draps weary upon a laigh rock,
Flingin aside him his muckle-mou'd pock:
An' there he sits, his heid in his han',
Like a broken-hertit, despairin man;
Him air his pock no bonny, na, na!
Him an' his pock an ugsome twa!
Soot an' snaw! soot an' snaw!
Him an' his pock an ugsome twa!

But sune 's the first ray o' the sunshine bare
Lichts on the carl, what see ye there?
An angel set on eternity's brink,
Wi' e'en to gar the sun himsel blink;
By his side a glintin, glimmerin urn,
Furth frae wha's mou rins a liltin burn:—
Soot an' snaw! soot an' snaw!
The dirt o' the warl rins in glory awa!

WHAT THE AULD FOWK ARE THINKIN

The bairns i' their beds, worn oot wi' nae wark,
Are sleepin, nor ever an eelid winkin;
The auld fowk lie still wi' their een starin stark,
An' the mirk pang-fou o' the things they are thinkin.

Whan oot o' ilk corner the bairnies they keek,
Lauchin an' daffin, airms loosin an' linkin,
The auld fowk they watch frae the warm ingle-cheek,
But the bairns little think what the auld fowk are thinkin.

Whan the auld fowk sit quaiet at the reet o' a stook,
I' the sunlicht their washt een blinterin an' blinkin,
Fowk scythin, or bin'in, or shearin wi' heuk
Carena a strae what the auld fowk are thinkin.

At the kirk, whan the minister's dreich an' dry,
His fardens as gien they war gowd guineas chinkin,
An' the young fowk are noddin, or fidgetin sly,
Naebody kens what the auld fowk are thinkin.