Chapter 17

O Father, lift me on thine arm, And hold me close to thee; Lift me into thy breathing warm, Then cast me, and I fear no harm, Into creation's sea!

_SONG-SERMON_.

In his arms thy silly lamb, Lo, he gathers to his breast! See, thou sadly bleating dam, See him lift thy silly lamb! Hear it cry, "How blest I am! Here is love, and love is rest!" In his arms thy silly lamb See him gather to his breast!

_THE DONKEY IN THE CART TO THE HORSE IN THE CARRIAGE_.

I.

I say! hey! cousin there! I mustn't call you brother! Yet you have a tail behind, and I have another! You pull, and I pull, though we don't pull together: You have less hardship, and I have more weather!

II.

Your legs are long, mine are short; I am lean, you are fatter; Your step is bold and free, mine goes pitter-patter; Your head is in the air, and mine hangs down like lead-- But then my two great ears are so heavy on my head!

III.

You need not whisk your stump, nor turn away your nose; Poor donkeys ain't so stupid as rich horses may suppose! I could feed in any manger just as well as you, Though I don't despise a thistle--with sauce of dust and dew!

IV.

T'other day a bishop's cob stopped before me in a lane, With a tail as broad as oil-cake, and a close-clipped hoggy mane; I stood sideways to the hedge, but he did not want to pass, And he was so full of corn he didn't care about the grass.

V.

Quoth the cob, "You are a donkey of a most peculiar breed! You've just eaten up a thistle that was going fast to seed! If you had but let it be, you might have raised a crop! To many a coming dinner you have put a sad stop!"

VI.

I told him I was hungry, and to leave one of ten Would have spoiled my best dinner, the one I wanted then. Said the cob, "_I_ ought to know the truth about dinners, _I_ don't eat on roadsides like poor tramping sinners!"

VII.

"Why don't you take it easy? You are working much too hard! In the shafts you'll die one day, if you're not upon your guard! Have pity on your friends: work seems to you delectable, But believe me such a cart--excuse me--'s not respectable!"

VIII.

I told him I must trot in the shafts where I was put, Nor look round at the cart, but set foremost my best foot; It _was_ rather rickety, and the axle wanted oil, But I always slept at night with the deep sleep of toil!

IX.

"All very fine," he said, "to wag your ears and parley, And pretend you quite despise my bellyfuls of barley! But with blows and with starving, and with labour over-hard, By spurs! a week will see you in the knacker's yard."

X.

I thanked him for his counsel, and said I thought I'd take it, really, If he'd spare me half a feed out of four feeds daily. He tossed his head at that: "Now don't be cheeky!" said he; "When I find I'm getting fat, I'll think of you: keep steady."

XI.

"Good-bye!" I said--and say, for you are such another! Why, now I look at you, I see you are his brother! Yes, thank you for your kick: 'twas all that you could spare, For, sure, they clip and singe you very, very bare!

XII.

My cart it is upsets you! but in that cart behind There's no dirt or rubbish, no bags of gold or wind! There's potatoes there, and wine, and corn, and mustard-seed, And a good can of milk, and some honey too, indeed!

XIII.

Few blows I get, some hay, and of water many a draught: I tell you he's no coster that sits upon my shaft! And for the knacker's yard--that's not my destined bed: No donkey ever yet saw himself there lying dead.

_ROOM TO ROAM_.

Strait is the path? He means we must not roam? Yes; but the strait path leads into a boundless home.

_COTTAGE SONGS_.

I.--BY THE CRADLE.

Close her eyes: she must not peep! Let her little puds go slack; Slide away far into sleep: Sis will watch till she comes back!

Mother's knitting at the door, Waiting till the kettle sings; When the kettle's song is o'er She will set the bright tea-things.

Father's busy making hay In the meadow by the brook, Not so very far away-- Close its peeps, it needn't look!

God is round us everywhere-- Sees the scythe glitter and rip; Watches baby gone somewhere; Sees how mother's fingers skip!

Sleep, dear baby; sleep outright: Mother's sitting just behind: Father's only out of sight; God is round us like the wind.

II.--SWEEPING THE FLOOR.

Sweep and sweep and sweep the floor, Sweep the dust, pick up the pin; Make it clean from fire to door, Clean for father to come in!

Mother said that God goes sweeping, Looking, sweeping with a broom, All the time that we are sleeping, For a shilling in the room:

Did he drop it out of glory, Walking far above the birds? Or did parson make the story For the thinking afterwards?

If I were the swept-for shilling I would hearken through the gloom; Roll out fast, and fall down willing Right before the sweeping broom!

III.--WASHING THE CLOTHES.

This is the way we wash the clo'es Free from dirt and smoke and clay! Through and through the water flows, Carries Ugly right away!

This is the way we bleach the clo'es: Lay them out upon the green; Through and through the sunshine goes, Makes them white as well as clean!

This is the way we dry the clo'es: Hang them on the bushes about; Through and through the soft wind blows, Draws and drives the wetness out!

Water, sun, and windy air Make the clothes clean, white, and sweet Lay them now in lavender For the Sunday, folded neat!

IV.--DRAWING WATER.

Dark, as if it would not tell, Lies the water, still and cool: Dip the bucket in the well, Lift it from the precious pool!

Up it comes all brown and dim, Telling of the twilight sweet: As it rises to the brim See the sun and water meet!

See the friends each other hail! "Here you are!" cries Master Sun; Mistress Water from the pail Flashes back, alive with fun!

Have you not a tale to tell, Water, as I take you home? Tell me of the hidden well Whence you, first of all, did come.

Of it you have kept some flavour Through long paths of darkling strife: Water all has still a savour Of the primal well of life!

Could you show the lovely way Back and up through sea and sky To that well? Oh, happy day, I would drink, and never die!

Jesus sits there on its brink All the world's great thirst to slake, Offering every one to drink Who will only come and take!

Lord of wells and waters all, Lord of rains and dewy beads, Unto thee my thirst doth call For the thing thou know'st it needs!

Come home, water sweet and cool, Gift of God thou always art! Spring up, Well more beautiful, Rise in mine straight from his heart.

V.--CLEANING THE WINDOWS.

Wash the window; rub it dry; Make the ray-door clean and bright: He who lords it in the sky Loves on cottage floors to light!

Looking over sea and beck, Mountain-forest, orchard-bloom, He can spy the smallest speck Anywhere about the room!

See how bright his torch is blazing In the heart of mother's store! Strange! I never saw him gazing So into that press before!

Ah, I see!--the wooden pane In the window, dull and dead, Father called its loss a gain, And a glass one put instead!

What a difference it makes! How it melts the filmy gloom! What a little more it takes Much to brighten up a room!

There I spy a dusty streak! There a corner not quite clean! There a cobweb! There the sneak Of a spider, watching keen!

Lord of suns, and eyes that see, Shine into me, see and show; Leave no darksome spot in me Where thou dost not shining go.

Fill my spirit full of eyes, Doors of light in every part; Open windows to the skies That no moth corrupt my heart.

_THE WIND AND THE MOON_.

Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out! You stare In the air As if crying _Beware_, Always looking what I am about: I hate to be watched; I will blow you out!"

The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon. So, deep On a heap Of clouds, to sleep Down lay the Wind, and slumbered soon, Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon!"

He turned in his bed: she was there again! On high In the sky With her one ghost-eye The Moon shone white and alive and plain: Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again!"

The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew slim. "With my sledge And my wedge I have knocked off her edge! I will blow," said the Wind, "right fierce and grim, And the creature will soon be slimmer than slim!"

He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread. "One puff More's enough To blow her to snuff! One good puff more where the last was bred, And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go that thread!"

He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone. In the air Nowhere Was a moonbeam bare; Larger and nearer the shy stars shone: Sure and certain the Moon was gone!

The Wind he took to his revels once more; On down And in town, A merry-mad clown, He leaped and holloed with whistle and roar-- When there was that glimmering thread once more!

He flew in a rage--he danced and blew; But in vain Was the pain Of his bursting brain, For still the Moon-scrap the broader grew The more that he swelled his big cheeks and blew.

Slowly she grew--till she filled the night, And shone On her throne In the sky alone A matchless, wonderful, silvery light, Radiant and lovely, the queen of the night.

Said the Wind, "What a marvel of power am I! With my breath, In good faith, I blew her to death!-- First blew her away right out of the sky, Then blew her in: what a strength am I!"

But the Moon she knew nought of the silly affair; For, high In the sky With her one white eye, Motionless miles above the air, She never had heard the great Wind blare.

_THE FOOLISH HAREBELL_.

A harebell hung her wilful head: "I am tired, so tired! I wish I was dead."

She hung her head in the mossy dell: "If all were over, then all were well!"

The Wind he heard, and was pitiful, And waved her about to make her cool.

"Wind, you are rough!" said the dainty Bell; "Leave me alone--I am not well."

The Wind, at the word of the drooping dame, Sighed to himself and ceased in shame.

"I am hot, so hot!" she moaned and said; "I am withering up; I wish I was dead!"

Then the Sun he pitied her woeful case, And drew a thick veil over his face.

"Cloud go away, and don't be rude," She said; "I do not see why you should!"

The Cloud withdrew. Then the Harebell cried, "I am faint, so faint!--and no water beside!"

The Dew came down its millionfold path: She murmured, "I did not want a bath!"

The Dew went up; the Wind softly crept; The Night came down, and the Harebell slept.

A boy ran past in the morning gray, Plucked the Harebell, and threw her away.

The Harebell shivered, and sighed, "Oh! oh! I am faint indeed! Come, dear Wind, blow."

The Wind blew gently, and did not speak. She thanked him kindly, but grew more weak.

"Sun, dear Sun, I am cold!" she said. He shone; but lower she drooped her head.

"O Rain, I am withering! all the blue Is fading out of me!--come, please do!"

The Rain came down as fast as he could, But for all his good will he could do her no good.

She shuddered and shrivelled, and moaning said, "Thank you all kindly!" and then she was dead.

Let us hope, let us hope when she comes next year She'll be simple and sweet! But I fear, I fear!

_SONG_.

I was very cold In the summer weather; The sun shone all his gold, But I was very cold-- Alas, we were grown old, Love and I together! Oh, but I was cold In the summer weather!

Sudden I grew warmer Though the brooks were frozen: "Truly, scorn did harm her!" I said, and I grew warmer; "Better men the charmer Knows at least a dozen!" I said, and I grew warmer Though the brooks were frozen.

Spring sits on her nest, Daisies and white clover; And my heart at rest Lies in the spring's young nest: My love she loves me best, And the frost is over! Spring sits on her nest, Daisies and white clover!

_AN IMPROVISATION_.

The stars cleave the sky. Yet for us they rest, And their race-course high Is a shining nest!

The hours hurry on. But where is thy flight, Soft pavilion Of motionless night?

Earth gives up her trees To the holy air; They live in the breeze; They are saints at prayer!

Summer night, come from God, On your beauty, I see, A still wave has flowed Of eternity!

_EQUITY_.

No bird can sing in tune but that the Lord Sits throned in equity above the heaven, And holds the righteous balance always even; No heart can true response to love afford Wherein from one to eight not every chord Is yet attuned by the spirits seven: For tuneful no bird sings but that the Lord Is throned in equity above high heaven.

Oh heart, by wrong unfilial scathed and scored, And from thy humble throne with mazedness driven, Take courage: when thy wrongs thou hast forgiven, Thy rights in love thy God will see restored: No bird could sing in tune but that the Lord Sits throned in equity above the heaven.

_CONTRITION_.

Out of the gulf into the glory, Father, my soul cries out to be lifted. Dark is the woof of my dismal story, Thorough thy sun-warp stormily drifted!-- Out of the gulf into the glory, Lift me, and save my story.

I have done many things merely shameful; I am a man ashamed, my father! My life is ashamed and broken and blameful-- The broken and blameful, oh, cleanse and gather! Heartily shame me, Lord, of the shameful! To my judge I flee with my blameful.

Saviour, at peace in thy perfect purity, Think what it is, not to be pure! Strong in thy love's essential security, Think upon those who are never secure. Full fill my soul with the light of thy purity: Fold me in love's security.

O Father, O Brother, my heart is sore aching! Help it to ache as much as is needful; Is it you cleansing me, mending, remaking, Dear potter-hands, so tender and heedful? Sick of my past, of my own self aching-- Hurt on, dear hands, with your making.

Proud of the form thou hadst given thy vessel, Proud of myself, I forgot my donor; Down in the dust I began to nestle, Poured thee no wine, and drank deep of dishonour! Lord, thou hast broken, thou mendest thy vessel! In the dust of thy glory I nestle.

_THE CONSOLER_: ON AN ENGRAVING OF SCHEFFER'S _Christus Consolator_.

I.

What human form is this? what form divine? And who are these that gaze upon his face Mild, beautiful, and full of heavenly grace, With whose reflected light the gazers shine? Saviour, who does not know it to be thine? Who does not long to fill a gazer's place? And yet there is no time, there is no space To keep away thy servants from thy shrine! Here if we kneel, and watch with faithful eyes, Thou art not too far for faithful eyes to see, Thou art not too far to turn and look on me, To speak to me, and to receive my sighs. Therefore for ever I forget the skies, And find an everlasting Sun in thee.

II.

Oh let us never leave that happy throng! From that low attitude of love not cease! In all the world there is no other peace, In all the world no other shield from wrong. But chiefly, Saviour, for thy feet we long-- For no vain quiet, for no pride's increase-- But that, being weak, and Thou divinely strong, Us from our hateful selves thou mayst release. We wander from thy fold's free holy air, Forget thy looks, and take our fill of sin! But if thou keep us evermore within, We never surely can forget thee there-- Breathing thy breath, thy white robe given to wear, And loving thee for all thou diedst to win!

III.

To speak of him in language of our own, Is not for us too daringly to try; But, Saviour, we can read thy history Upon the faces round thy humble throne; And as the flower among the grass makes known What summer suns have warmed it from the sky, As every human smile and human sigh Is witness that we do not live alone, So in that company--in those sweet tears, The first-born of a rugged melted heart, In those gaunt chains for ever torn apart, And in the words that weeping mother hears, We read the story of two thousand years, And know thee somewhat, Saviour, as thou art.

_TO_ ----

I cannot write old verses here, Dead things a thousand years away, When all the life of the young year Is in the summer day.

The roses make the world so sweet, The bees, the birds have such a tune, There's such a light and such a heat And such a joy this June,

One must expand one's heart with praise, And make the memory secure Of sunshine and the woodland days And summer twilights pure.

Oh listen rather! Nature's song Comes from the waters, beating tides, Green-margined rivers, and the throng Of streams on mountain-sides.

So fair those water-spirits are, Such happy strength their music fills, Our joy shall be to wander far And find them on the hills.

_TO A SISTER_.

A fresh young voice that sings to me So often many a simple thing, Should surely not unanswered be By all that I can sing.

Dear voice, be happy every way A thousand changing tones among, From little child's unfinished lay To angel's perfect song.

In dewy woods--fair, soft, and green Like morning woods are childhood's bower-- Be like the voice of brook unseen Among the stones and flowers;

A joyful voice though born so low, And making all its neighbours glad; Sweet, hidden, constant in its flow Even when the winds are sad.

So, strengthen in a peaceful home, And daily deeper meanings bear; And when life's wildernesses come Be brave and faithful there.

Try all the glorious magic range, Worship, forgive, console, rejoice, Until the last and sweetest change-- So live and grow, dear voice.

_THE SHORTEST AND SWEETEST OF SONGS_.

Come Home.

SCOTS SONGS AND BALLADS.

_ANNIE SHE'S DOWIE_.

Annie she's dowie, and Willie he's wae: What can be the matter wi' siccan a twae, For Annie she's fair as the first o' the day, And Willie he's honest and stalwart and gay?

Oh, the tane has a daddy is poor and is proud, And the tither a minnie that cleiks at the goud '. They lo'ed are anither, and said their say, But the daddy and minnie hae partit the twae!

_O LASSIE AYONT THE HILL_!

O lassie ayont the hill, Come ower the tap o' the hill, Come ower the tap wi' the breeze o' the hill, Bidena ayont the hill! I'm needin ye sair the nicht, For I'm tired and sick o' mysel. A body's sel 's the sairest weicht: O lassie, come ower the hill!

Gien a body could be a thoucht o' grace, And no a sel ava! I'm sick o' my heid and my ban's and my face, O' my thouchts and mysel and a';

I'm sick o' the warl' and a'; The win' gangs by wi' a hiss; Throu my starin een the sunbeams fa' But my weary hert they miss! O lassie ayont the hill, Come ower the tap o' the hill, Come ower the tap wi' the breeze o' the hill, Bidena ayont the hill! &c.

For gien I but saw yer bonnie heid, And the sunlicht o' yer hair, The ghaist o' mysel wud fa' doun deid, I wud be mysel nae mair. I wud be mysel nae mair, Filled o' the sole remeid, Slain by the arrows o' licht frae yer hair, Killed by yer body and heid! O lassie ayont the hill, &c.

My sel micht wauk up at the saft fitfa' O' my bonnie departin dame; But gien she lo'ed me ever sae sma' I micht bide it--the weary same! Noo, sick o' my body and name Whan it lifts its upsettin heid, I turn frae the cla'es that cover my frame As gien they war roun the deid. O lassie ayont the hill, &c.

But gien ye lo'ed me as I lo'e you I wud ring my ain deid knell; The spectre wud melt, shot through and through Wi' the shine o' your sunny sel! By the shine o' yer sunny sel, By the licht aneth yer broo I wud dee to mysel, ring my ain deid-bell, And live again in you!

O lassie ayont the hill, Come ower the tap o' the hill, Come ower the tap wi' the breeze o' the hill, For I want ye sair the nicht! I'm needin ye sair the nicht, For I'm tired and sick o' mysel. A body's sel 's the sairest weicht: O lassie, come ower the hill!

_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, And the butterfly flits like a stray thoucht o' God; Whaur, like arrow shot frae life's unseen bow, The dragon-fly burns the sunlicht throu! Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur I sang to see The rose and the primrose, the draigon and bee!

Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the mune luiks doon As gien she war hearin a soughless tune, Whan the flooers and the birdies are a' asleep, And the verra burnie gangs creepy-creep; Whaur the corn-craik craiks i' the lang-heidit rye, And the nicht is the safter for his rouch cry; Whaur the win' wud fain lie doon on the slope, And the gloamin waukens the high-reachin hope! Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur, silent, I felt The mune and the darkness baith into me melt!

Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the sun luiks in Sayin, "Here awa, there awa, hand awa, Sin!" Sayin darkness and sorrow a' work for the licht, And the will o' God was the hert o' the nicht; Whaur the laverock hings hie, on his ain sang borne, Wi' bird-shout and tirralee hailin the morn; Whaur my hert ran ower wi' the lusome bliss That, come winter, come weather, nocht gaed amiss! Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the sun luikit in Sayin, "Here awa, there awa, hand awa, Sin!"

Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur aft I wud lie, Wi' Jeanie aside me sae sweet and sae shy; Whaur the starry gowans wi' rose-dippit tips War as white as her cheek and as reid as her lips; Whaur she spread her gowd hert till she saw that I saw, Syne fauldit it up and gied me it a'; Whaur o' sunlicht and munelicht she was the queen, For baith war but middlin withoot my Jean! Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur aft I wud lie, Wi' Jeanie aside me sae sweet and sae shy!

Oh! the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the kirkyard lies A' day and a' nicht luikin up to the skies; Whaur the sheep wauken up i' the simmer nicht, Tak a bite and lie doon, and await the licht; Whaur the psalms roll ower the grassy heaps; Whaur the win' comes and moans, and the rain comes and weeps; Whaur my Jeanie's no lyin in a' the lair, For she's up and awa up the angels' stair! Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the kirkyard lies, Whaur the stars luik doon, and the nicht-wind sighs!

_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 verra shune!

Wi' yer silken net on yer hair, Nannie, I' yer bonnie blue petticoat, Wi' yer kin'ly arms a' bare, Nannie, On yer ilka motion I doat.

For, oh, but ye're canty and free, Nannie, Airy o' hert and o' fit! A star-beam glents frae yer ee, Nannie-- O' yersel ye're no thinkin a bit!

Fillin the cogue frae the coo, Nannie, Skimmin the yallow ream, Pourin awa the het broo, Nannie, Lichtin the lampie's leme,