Poetry Archives

Win’ that blaws the simmer plaid
Ower the hie hill’s shoothers laid,
Green wi’ gerse, an’ reid wi’ heather—
Welcome wi’ yer sowl-like weather!
Mony a win’ there has been sent
Oot aneth the firmament—
Ilka ane its story has;
Ilka ane began an’ was;
Ilka ane fell quaiet an’ mute
Whan its angel wark was oot:
First gaed are oot throu the mirk
Whan the maker gan to work;
Ower it gaed an’ ower the sea,
An’ the warl begud to be.
Mony are has come an’ gane
Sin’ the time there was but ane:
Ane was grit an’ strong, an’ rent
Rocks an’ muntains as it went
Afore the Lord, his trumpeter,
Waukin up the prophet’s ear;
Ane was like a stepping soun
I’ the mulberry taps abune—
Them the Lord’s ain steps did swing,
Walkin on afore his king;
Ane lay dune like scoldit pup
At his feet, an’ gatna up—
Whan the word the Maister spak
Drave the wull-cat billows back;
Ane gaed frae his lips, an’ dang
To the yird the sodger thrang;
Ane comes frae his hert to mine
Ilka day to mak it fine.
Breath o’ God, eh! come an’ blaw
Frae my hert ilk fog awa;
Wauk me up an’ mak me strang,
Fill my hert wi’ mony a sang,
Frae my lips again to stert
Fillin sails o’ mony a hert,
Blawin them ower seas dividin
To the only place to bide in.