Greitna, Father

Greitna, father, that I'm gauin,
    For fu' well ye ken the gaet;
I' the winter, corn ye're sawin,
    I' the hairst again ye hae't.

I'm gauin hame to see my mither;
    She'll be weel acquant or this!
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 sonship 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!

George MacDonald

George MacDonald (1824–1905) was a Scottish author, poet, and Christian minister best known for his fairy tales and fantasy novels. He was a pioneer in the fantasy genre, influencing notable writers such as C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. His major works include "Phantastes" and "Lilith," as well as numerous poems and other literary works. MacDonald's writings are characterized by their imaginative qualities and deep spiritual insight.

George MacDonald

Translations. - Lyrisches Intermezzo. Xlv. (From Heine.)

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Translations. - The Lord's Prayer, Briefly And Plainly Set Forth, And Turned Into Metre. (Luther's Song-Book.)

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

The Sleepless Jesus

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Sonnet. About Jesus. VIII.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

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' h...

George MacDonald

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.

"...

George MacDonald

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.

George MacDonald

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 welc...
George MacDonald

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!...
George MacDonald

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 verr...
George MacDonald