По всем вопросам обращайтесь на: info@litportal.ru
(©) 2003-2024.
✖
The poetical works of George MacDonald in two volumes — Volume 2
Настройки чтения
Размер шрифта
Высота строк
Поля
Aff o' his cuddy he sprang.
He ran to the body, an' turnt it ower:
"There's life i' the man!" he cried.
He wasna ane to stan an' glower,
Nor hand to the ither side!
He doctort his oons, an' heised him then
To the back o' the beastie douce;
An' he heild him on till, twa weary men,
They wan to the half-way hoose.
He ten'd him a' nicht, an' o' the morn did say,
"Lan'lord, latna him lack;
Here's auchteen pence!—an' ony mair ootlay
I'll sattle 't as I come back."
Sae tak til ye, neibours; read aricht the word;
It's a portion o' God's ain spell!
"Wha is my neibour?" speirna the Lord,
But, "Am I a neibour?" yersel.
IV.—HIM WI' THE BAG
Ance was a woman wha's hert was gret;
Her love was sae dumb it was 'maist a grief;
She brak the box—it's tellt o' her yet—
The bonny box for her hert's relief.
Ane was there wha's tale's but brief,
Yet was ower lang, the gait he cawed;
He luikit a man, and was but a thief,
Michty the gear to grip and hand.
"What guid," he cried, "sic a boxfu to blaud?
Wilfu waste I couth never beir!
It micht hae been sellt for ten poun, I wad—
Sellt for ten poun, and gien to the puir!"
Savin he was, but for love o' the gear;
Carefu he was, but a' for himsel;
He carried the bag to his hert sae near
What fell i' the ane i' the ither fell.
And the strings o' his hert hingit doun to hell,
They war pu'd sae ticht aboot the mou;
And hence it comes that I hae to tell
The warst ill tale that ever was true.
The hert that's greedy maun mischief brew,
And the deils pu'd the strings doon yon'er in hell;
And he sauld, or the agein mune was new,
For thirty shillins the Maister himsel!
Gear i' the hert it's a canker fell:
Brithers, latna the siller ben!
Troth, gien ye du, I warn ye ye'll sell
The verra Maister or ever ye ken!
V.—THE COORSE CRATUR
The Lord gaed wi' a crood o' men
Throu Jericho the bonny;
'Twas ill the Son o' Man to ken
Mang sons o' men sae mony:
The wee bit son o' man Zacchay
To see the Maister seekit;
He speilt a fig-tree, bauld an' shy,
An' sae his shortness ekit.
But as he thoucht to see his back,
Roun turnt the haill face til 'im,
Up luikit straucht, an' til 'im spak—
His hert gaed like to kill 'im.
"Come doun, Zacchay; bestir yersel;
This nicht I want a lodgin."
Like a ripe aipple 'maist he fell,
Nor needit ony nudgin.
But up amang the unco guid
There rase a murmurin won'er:
"This is a deemis want o' heed,
The man's a special sinner!"
Up spak Zacchay, his hert ableeze:
"Half mine, the puir, Lord, hae it;
Gien oucht I've taen by ony lees,
Fourfauld again I pay it!"
Then Jesus said, "This is a man!
His hoose I'm here to save it;
He's are o' Abraham's ain clan,
An' siclike has behavit!
I cam the lost to seek an' win."—
Zacchay was are he wantit:
To ony man that left his sin
His grace he never scantit.
He ran to the body, an' turnt it ower:
"There's life i' the man!" he cried.
He wasna ane to stan an' glower,
Nor hand to the ither side!
He doctort his oons, an' heised him then
To the back o' the beastie douce;
An' he heild him on till, twa weary men,
They wan to the half-way hoose.
He ten'd him a' nicht, an' o' the morn did say,
"Lan'lord, latna him lack;
Here's auchteen pence!—an' ony mair ootlay
I'll sattle 't as I come back."
Sae tak til ye, neibours; read aricht the word;
It's a portion o' God's ain spell!
"Wha is my neibour?" speirna the Lord,
But, "Am I a neibour?" yersel.
IV.—HIM WI' THE BAG
Ance was a woman wha's hert was gret;
Her love was sae dumb it was 'maist a grief;
She brak the box—it's tellt o' her yet—
The bonny box for her hert's relief.
Ane was there wha's tale's but brief,
Yet was ower lang, the gait he cawed;
He luikit a man, and was but a thief,
Michty the gear to grip and hand.
"What guid," he cried, "sic a boxfu to blaud?
Wilfu waste I couth never beir!
It micht hae been sellt for ten poun, I wad—
Sellt for ten poun, and gien to the puir!"
Savin he was, but for love o' the gear;
Carefu he was, but a' for himsel;
He carried the bag to his hert sae near
What fell i' the ane i' the ither fell.
And the strings o' his hert hingit doun to hell,
They war pu'd sae ticht aboot the mou;
And hence it comes that I hae to tell
The warst ill tale that ever was true.
The hert that's greedy maun mischief brew,
And the deils pu'd the strings doon yon'er in hell;
And he sauld, or the agein mune was new,
For thirty shillins the Maister himsel!
Gear i' the hert it's a canker fell:
Brithers, latna the siller ben!
Troth, gien ye du, I warn ye ye'll sell
The verra Maister or ever ye ken!
V.—THE COORSE CRATUR
The Lord gaed wi' a crood o' men
Throu Jericho the bonny;
'Twas ill the Son o' Man to ken
Mang sons o' men sae mony:
The wee bit son o' man Zacchay
To see the Maister seekit;
He speilt a fig-tree, bauld an' shy,
An' sae his shortness ekit.
But as he thoucht to see his back,
Roun turnt the haill face til 'im,
Up luikit straucht, an' til 'im spak—
His hert gaed like to kill 'im.
"Come doun, Zacchay; bestir yersel;
This nicht I want a lodgin."
Like a ripe aipple 'maist he fell,
Nor needit ony nudgin.
But up amang the unco guid
There rase a murmurin won'er:
"This is a deemis want o' heed,
The man's a special sinner!"
Up spak Zacchay, his hert ableeze:
"Half mine, the puir, Lord, hae it;
Gien oucht I've taen by ony lees,
Fourfauld again I pay it!"
Then Jesus said, "This is a man!
His hoose I'm here to save it;
He's are o' Abraham's ain clan,
An' siclike has behavit!
I cam the lost to seek an' win."—
Zacchay was are he wantit:
To ony man that left his sin
His grace he never scantit.
Другие электронные книги автора George MacDonald
Последний отзыв
интересный учебник