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The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 2
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"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;
"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;
Другие электронные книги автора George MacDonald
Последний отзыв
Книгу прочитать не могу, везде ЛитРес свой нос сунул, как и где скачать полную версию бесплатно!?!?