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

Triolet

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Translations. - The Grave. (From Von Salis-Seewis.)

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Longing.

George MacDonald, Simple Poetry

Little Elfie

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,
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                The Deil's forhooit his ain, his ain!
                    The Deil's forhooit his ain!
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The Deil he tuik his stick and his hat,
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    It'll be yer ain wull and ch'ice!

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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
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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
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    Till he had a bit lan' here!--
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Whaur the tide's settin!
It'll pusion my prayer
Till it's no worth a hair!

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The Bonny, Bonny Dell

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Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur I sang as I saw
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And fa' at the touch wi' a dainty shame;
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The Waesome Carl

There cam a man to oor toon-en',
    And a waesome carl was he,
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    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:--
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