The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes - Volume 2, George MacDonald [8 ebook reader TXT] 📗

the stanes wi' a whurr; The king's son walkit i' the evenin hush,
To hear the sea murmur and murr.

Straucht ower the water slade frae the mune
A glimmer o' cauld weet licht; Ane o' her horns rase the water abune,
And lampit across the nicht.

Quhat's that, and that, far oot i' the gray,
The laich mune bobbin afore? It's the bonny sea-maidens at their play-
Haud awa, king's son, frae the shore.

Ae rock stude up like an auld aik-root,
The king's son he steppit ahin'; The bonny sea-maidens cam gambolin oot,
Kaimin their hair to the win'.

O merry their lauch whan they fan the warm san',
For the lichtsome reel sae meet! Ilk are flang her kaim frae her pearly ban',
And tuik til her pearly feet.

But are, wha's beauty was dream and spell,
Her kaim on the rock she cuist; Her back was scarce turnt whan the munelicht shell
Was lyin i' the prince's breist!

The cluds grew grim as he watched their game,
Th' win' blew up an angry tune; Ane efter are tuik up her kaim,
And seaward gaed dancin doon.

But are, wi' hair like the mune in a clud,
Was left by the rock her lane; Wi' flittin ban's, like a priest's, she stude,
'Maist veiled in a rush o' rain.

She spied the prince, she sank at his feet,
And lay like a wreath o' snaw Meltin awa i' the win' and weet
O' a wastin wastlin thaw.

He liftit her, trimlin wi' houp and dreid,
And hame wi' his prize he gaed, And laid her doon, like a witherin weed,
Saft on a gowden bed.

A' that nicht, and a' day the neist,
She never liftit heid; Quaiet lay the sea, and quaiet lay her breist,
And quaiet lay the kirkyard-deid.

But quhan at the gloamin a sea-breeze keen
Blew intil the glimsome room, Like twa settin stars she opened her een,
And the sea-flooer began to bloom.

And she saw the prince kneelin at her bed,
And afore the mune was new, Careless and cauld she was wooed and wed-
But a winsome wife she grew.

And a' gaed weel till their bairn was born,
And syne she cudna sleep; She wud rise at midnicht, and wan'er till morn,
Hark-harkin the sough o' the deep.

Ae nicht whan the win' gaed ravin aboot,
And the winnocks war speckled wi' faem, Frae room to room she strayt in and oot,
And she spied her pearly kaim.

She twined up her hair wi' eager ban's,
And in wi' the rainbow kaim! She's oot, and she's aff ower the shinin san's
And awa til her moanin hame!

The prince he startit whaur he lay,
He waukit, and was himlane! He soucht far intil the mornin gray,
But his bonny sea-wife was gane!

And ever and aye, i' the mirk or the mune,
Whan the win' blew saft frae the sea, The sad shore up and the sad shore doon
By the lanely rock paced he.

But never again on the sands to play
Cam the maids o' the merry, cauld sea; He heard them lauch far oot i' the bay,
But hert-alane gaed he.


THE YERL O' WATERYDECK .

The wind it blew, and the ship it flew,
And it was "Hey for hame!" But up an' cried the skipper til his crew,
"Haud her oot ower the saut sea faem."

Syne up an' spak the angry king:
"Haud on for Dumferline!" Quo' the skipper, "My lord, this maunna be-
I 'm king on this boat o' mine!"

He tuik the helm intil his han',
He left the shore un'er the lee; Syne croodit sail, an', east an' south,
Stude awa richt oot to sea.

Quo' the king, "Leise-majesty, I trow!
Here lies some ill-set plan! 'Bout ship!" Quo' the skipper, "Yer grace forgets
Ye are king but o' the lan'!"

Oot he heild to the open sea
Quhill the north wind flaughtered an' fell; Syne the east had a bitter word to say
That waukent a watery hell.

He turnt her heid intil the north:
Quo' the nobles, "He s' droon, by the mass!" Quo' the skipper, "Haud afif yer lady-ban's
Or ye'll never see the Bass."

The king creepit down the cabin-stair
To drink the gude French wine; An' up cam his dochter, the princess fair,
An' luikit ower the brine.

She turnt her face to the drivin snaw,
To the snaw but and the weet; It claucht her snood, an' awa like a dud
Her hair drave oot i' the sleet.

She turnt her face frae the drivin win'-
"Quhat's that aheid?" quo' she. The skipper he threw himsel frae the win'
An' he brayt the helm alee.

"Put to yer han', my lady fair!
Haud up her heid!" quo' he; "Gien she dinna face the win' a wee mair
It's faurweel to you an' me!"

To the tiller the lady she laid her han',
An' the ship brayt her cheek to the blast; They joukit the berg, but her quarter scraped,
An' they luikit at ither aghast.

Quo' the skipper, "Ye are a lady fair,
An' a princess gran' to see, But war ye a beggar, a man wud sail
To the hell i' yer company!"

She liftit a pale an' a queenly face,
Her een flashed, an' syne they swam: "An' what for no to the hevin?" she says,
An' she turnt awa frae him.

Bot she tuik na her han' frae the gude ship's helm
Till the day begouth to daw; An' the skipper he spak, but what was said
It was said atween them twa.

An' syne the gude ship she lay to,
Wi' Scotlan' hyne un'er the lee; An' the king cam up the cabin-stair
Wi' wan face an' bluidshot ee.

Laigh loutit the skipper upo' the deck;
"Stan' up, stan' up," quo' the king; "Ye're an honest loun-an' beg me a boon
Quhan ye gie me back this ring."

Lowne blew the win'; the stars cam oot;
The ship turnt frae the north; An' or ever the sun was up an' aboot
They war intil the firth o' Forth.

Quhan the gude ship lay at the pier-heid,
And the king stude steady o' the lan',- "Doon wi' ye, skipper-doon!" he said,
"Hoo daur ye afore me stan'!"

The skipper he loutit on his knee;
The king his blade he drew: Quo' the king, "Noo mynt ye to centre me!
I'm aboord my vessel noo!

"Gien I hadna been yer verra gude lord
I wud hae thrawn yer neck! Bot-ye wha loutit Skipper o' Doon,
Rise up Yerl o' Waterydeck."

The skipper he rasena: "Yer Grace is great,
Yer wull it can heize or ding: Wi' ae wee word ye hae made me a yerl-
Wi' anither mak me a king."

"I canna mak ye a king," quo' he,
"The Lord alane can do that! I snowk leise-majesty, my man!
Quhat the Sathan wad ye be at?"

Glowert at the skipper the doutsum king
Jalousin aneth his croon; Quo' the skipper, "Here is yer Grace's ring-
An' yer dochter is my boon!"

The black blude shot intil the king's face
He wasna bonny to see: "The rascal skipper! he lichtlies oor grace!-
Gar hang him heigh on yon tree."

Up sprang the skipper an' aboord his ship,
Cleikit up a bytin blade An' hackit at the cable that held her to the pier,
An' thoucht it 'maist ower weel made.

The king he blew shill in a siller whustle;
An' tramp, tramp, doon the pier Cam twenty men on twenty horses,
Clankin wi' spur an' spear.

At the king's fute fell his dochter fair:
"His life ye wadna spill!" "Ye daur stan' twixt my hert an' my hate?"
"I daur, wi' a richt gude will!"

"Ye was aye to yer faither a thrawart bairn,
But, my lady, here stan's the king! Luikna him i' the angry face-
A monarch's anither thing!"

"I lout to my father for his grace
Low on my bendit knee; But I stan' an' luik the king i' the face,
For the skipper is king o' me!"

She turnt, she sprang upo' the deck,
The cable splashed i' the Forth, Her wings sae braid the gude ship spread
And flew east, an' syne flew north.

Now was not this a king's dochter-
A lady that feared no skaith? A woman wi' quhilk a man micht sail
Prood intil the Port o' Death?


THE TWA GORDONS .

I.

There was John Gordon an' Archibold, An' a yerl's twin sons war they; Quhan they war are an' twenty year auld They fell oot on their ae birthday.

"Turn ye, John Gordon, nae brither to me! Turn ye, fause an' fell! Or doon ye s' gang, as black as a lee, To the muckle deevil o' hell."

"An' quhat for that, Archie Gordon, I pray? Quhat ill hae I dune to thee?" "Twa-faced loon, ye sail rue this day The answer I'm gauin to gie!

"For it'll be roucher nor lady Janet's, An' loud i' the braid daylicht; An' the wa' to speil is my iron mail, No her castle-wa' by nicht!"

"I speilt the wa' o' her castle braw I' the roarin win' yestreen; An' I sat in her bower till the gloamin sta' Licht-fittit ahint the mune."

"Turn ye, John Gordon-the twasum we s' twin! Turn ye, an' haud yer ain; For ane sall lie on a cauld weet bed- An' I downa curse again!"

"O Archie, Janet is my true love- notna speir leave o' thee!" "Gien that be true, the deevil's a sanct, An' ye are no tellin a lee!"

Their suerds they drew, an' the fire-flauchts flew,
An' they shiftit wi' fendin feet; An' the blude ran doon, till the grun a' roun
Like a verra bog was weet.

"O Archie, I hae gotten a cauld supper-
O' steel, but shortest grace! Ae grip o' yer han' afore ye gang!
An' turn me upo' my face."

But he's turnit himsel upon his heel,
An' wordless awa he's gane; An' the corbie-craw i' the aik abune
Is roupin for his ain.

II.

Lady Margaret, her hert richt gret,
Luiks ower the castle wa'; Lord Archibold rides oot at the yett,