Win' That 'Blaws

A poem by George MacDonald

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.

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'Win' That 'Blaws' by George MacDonald

comments powered by Disqus

Home | Search | About this website | Contact | Privacy Policy