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'!

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

What Man Is There Of You?

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Christmas, 1884

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

To Aurelio Saffi

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

A Gift.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

English

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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 coont yersel rich in
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    Wi a lang tow o' sapphire notes!

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    Whaur they dance their herts intil their feet!

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    Ye needna gar a'thing wheesht!
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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.

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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...

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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,
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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, &...

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