George Abel
AHAB, JEZEBEL, AN ELIJAH.
I DINNA think he'd been sae coorse as some wid mak him oot,
Haed no the wife he mairriet been a domineerin' scoot;
She twistet him an twined him roon' her finger like a ring;
He cudna ca' his niz his ain, altho he wis a king.
Her fader wis a heathen lord ayont the Promised Lan',
An keep't a swarm o sornin priests aboot his hoose an haun;
His dother she teuk efter him, an lik't the heathen horde,
She haed them by the hunner, tee, providin' bed an board.
The only ane that contered her, an gart the randy squirm,
Blackguairded a' the heathen tribe, an for the Lord steed firm,
Wis him they ca'd the Tishbite, fae the East o Jordan's howe,
A man wham that maroonjus wife cud never mak to bow.
Ae day he sent a challenge to the umman an her men,
That she shud pit them forrit-an he trystit whaur an when;
Syne lat them pruve in sicht o a', on Carmel's saacred sod,
Which side wis wirth uphaudin', ay, an wha wis Michty God.
The rinnins o the shirrameer, an hoo it a' fell oot,
The solemn fun the Tishbite gat, ye ken, I dinna dout,
You've twigged the prophet's quaetness, an you've h'ard the heathens' yell:
The priests did get their farin'-tho they ne'er gaed hame to tell.
My! wisna there a strushie fin her husband brak' the news!
An didna a' the palace kent hat day she wore the trews!
She sent a treet'nin' message to the Prophet i' the rain:
He skirtit for a filie, but seen teuk himsel again.
But nocht wid cure my leddy o her heathen, hellish wyes,
Nor turn her to Jehovah-God wha made the earth an skies;
She primed her man wi mischief, an she gart him play the gemme,
An fat wis smuchterin in his hert she blew intil a flame.
He cuist his greedy ee upon a yaird a neebor haed,
An 'cause the man wid no excamb, nor sell, he teuk to bed;
His wife wid nae be bleckit, an she swore they'd hae the yaird;
She got the neebor steened to daith, an made her husband laird.
The Tishbite h'ard aboot it, an he hurried doon the hill,
He strade into the gairden fair whause owner they did kill,
He haed it oot wi him 'at claimed the bit o stowen lan',
An telt fat he an his wid get fae God Almichty's haun.
"Yer wife an you hae gane yer lengths in wicket plot an deed,
In compassin' yer shamefu' en's ye hinna stuck at bleed;
My God'll seer blot oot yer hoose, for noo His airm is bare,
An at the dichtin o the mess the dogs 'll hae a share."
The king wis scared oot o his wits, an said he haed deen vrang,
An He 'at answers penitence defarred the en' sae lang;
But God wid hae His warl clean in East, Wast, Sooth, an North,
An fin the oor for swypin' strak He sent His scaffies forth.
NAAMAN, or, THE LEPROUS CAPTAIN.
THE captain o the airmy, an his maister's muckle man-
The maister widna gyang to kirk excep' he heeld his haun-
The fleg o a' the neebors, but the stan'-by o his lan':
Sodger Naaman!
But och! there wis a tribbler that the sodger cudna fecht,
'Twis sornin on his vitals, it wis weerin' doon his wecht,
An at the sma'est bicker hoo he wiltit an he pecht!
Leprous Naaman!
The doctors o his kwintra for their captain cud dee nocht,
For he their skeel an medicines wi praecious gowd haed bocht,
An nae an inch the nearer to the cure he sairly socht
Deein Naaman!
The captain haed a servan' lass he stealt fae hoose an hame,
She telt them 'boot the prophet o the lan' fae which she cam;
Jehovah gied him skeel to cure the lepers, blin', an lame:
Howpfu' Naaman!
Wi kerridges an cooncillors, wi flunkies an wi tin,
He roadit for the man wha'd cure his rottin' flesh an skin;
They knockit at the prophet's door; war telt that he was in:
Lucky Naaman!
"Noo seerly he'll come oot an see fa's needin' him the day-
The captain o an airmy, an the hero o the fray!
He'll cure me wi a fleerish he denies to common cley":
Lordly Naaman!
The prophet didna budge a fit to meet the michty man,
But sat still in his chaumer fin anither wid hae ran;
Sent wird to try the watter that gaed throu' their little lan':
Slichtit Naaman!
My cert! there wis an ootbrak, ay, an wirds I daurna print;
The prophet got his character in langidge wintin' stint;
The horses' heids war turned aboot: he voued he'd hameward sprint:
Angry Naaman!
"To jist sen' wird for me to baathe in Israel's muddy stank!
It's naething mair aside OOR streams-the man's a rogue or crank;
I tell you I will ne'er come doon to try sic eeseless prank":
Sulky Naaman!
But they that war aboot him kent his tigs an tantrums weel,
An rizzont wi him quaetly till his wrath begood to queel,
Syne moyent him to the waters 'at the prophet said wid heal:
Thrawn Naaman!
He dook't as he wis hidden till his bleed ran fresh an clean,
His skin cam saft an bonny as a mither's ten'er wean,
He fan' himsel a better man than ever he haed been:
Happy Naaman!
An noo he blessed the prophet wha afore he cud but curse,
An gallop't back to gie him gowd oot o his weel-lined purse,
An tell him that he teuk his God for better or for worse:
Thankfu Naaman!
But little did he ken the man 'at telt him fat to dee,
As little did he ken the God whause captain he wid be;
They twa cud wirk their wark withoot the bribe o gowden fee:
Win'rin' Naaman!
The best we get we canna buy: my freen, it's nae for sale;
Pooch pride an tak God's mercy that'll seerly mak ye hale,
The mercy that made weel the faamous captain o oor tale-
Blessed Naaman!
THE BALLAD O HAMAN.
(BEUK O ESTHER.)
PROOD Haman sat in his lordly ha',
An drank o the purple wine;
Big freens war there, an a glees for a',
An ane for his leddy fine.
He bragg'd an blew fit to tirr a kirk
'boot his sins an dothers braw,
He sheuk his purse wi a meanin' smirk-
Nae cock but him shud craw!
"Heid-deester I i' this michty lan',
Far ben wi my king an queen,
Naething gyangs forrit withoot my haun,
An naethiug gyangs back, I ween.
"Last nicht the queen haed a pairty swell-
Hersel, an her lord, an me-
There's a shine the morn if a' gings well,
For only the fawvourt three."
But a' his brag haed a crowpy souch,
A wicket licht in his ee;
Gweed help the man wha at Haman leuch,
Or wi him haed taen the gee!
But there was ane 'at haed daur'd his bite-
The chiel that did keep the yett-
For Haman's coach he caredna a dite,
Ne'er a salaam did he get.
"What will I dee to the sanshach skunk
Wha refeeses me respeck?"
"Gie him a taste o the hangman's hank,
An rax the lith in his neck!"
The wife an freens they did reeze their plan,
An the wrichts were set to wark,
The gallows rase in a clap o haun,
For they vrocht in licht an mark.
But fa' did swin on the wuddy's rape
Let the auncient story tell;
Nae him 'at refeesed to lift his kep;
It was Haman's michty sel!
I hae seen the like, for I've aften watched-
The Almichty's in't, they say-
The biter bit, an the trapper catch'd
I' the girn he set for's fae.
You're no to herbour a deevil's hert,
You're no to tak up wi spite,
You're no to plot anither's desert,
As if his was a' the wite.
Pit oot the lirks o your sulky broo,
Lat us see the sheen o love;
Wha's mair deservin a sclaff than you!
Ay, a dour withoot the glove!
Big gallow's beams till they touch the meen,
Howk a pit as deep as hell-
It's only a heicher showd, my freen,
A farrer fa' for yoursel.
THE PRIESTS AN THE SAMARITAN.
HE cam doon "The Bluidy Highway" i' the bonny simmer rays,
Nae a thocht o thieves or robbers in his heid:
Or he kent they haed his siller; ay, they pilk'd his vera claes,
An belaubir't him, an left him there for deid.
But there's surely help a-comin, for there's priests upo' the road-
They've been up at the cathedral at their wark:
They are fou o love an peety fae the holy Hoose o God,
An they winna leave a brither bash'd an stark?
They cud hear the waefu grainin', they cud see the vratch's plicht,
But they stappit ower the trinkies rinnin reid,
For they needit to be hame afore the fa'in' o the nicht
To hae prayers wi wife an bairnies or they'd bed.
"An, forby, the scoon'ral robbers micht be hidin' near at haun,
They mith clour oor sculls, an filch oor hard-won tin;
There are ithers on the road, nae dout, 'at can befreen the man,
We haed better tuck oor flappin' goons an rin."
He wis nether priest nor parson that cam ridin' doon his leen,
But he jumpit fae the saidle in a clap,
Syne he baath'd an bun the haggers - some were gapin' to the been-
Nor for robbers i' the gulley cared a rap.
"Na, he isna o my kwintra, an he isna o my kirk,
He wid ban me, he wid kyaard me gin he kent,
But for a' that he's a brither, an I widna leave a stirk
I' the thraws o threet'nin' daith an nae tak tent.
Sae he teuk him in his oxter, an he pat him on his hack,
An they creepit doon the wye as far's the inn:
"Noo, my lan'lord, ye'll tak chairge until his wits an pith come back;
Here's the siller: keep him quaet-awa fae din.
"It'll mibbie be a filie or he's richt aboot the heid,
For the rascals they hae fairly crack'd his croon;
But ye winna hain the siller, an ye'll gie him fat he'll need,
An I'll squaar wi you when next I'm on the roon'."
Oh, the Maister spak' aboot it-the great Maister fae the skies;
An as lang's there's rinnin streams, an forest leaves,
Thae twa priests 'll get their dixie, an this man 'll get the prize-
He was freen to him 'at fell amo' the thieves.
THE MAISTER, THE PHARISEE, AN THE WUMMAN.
(Luke vii. 36-48.)
SQUIRE SIMON wis a muckle man
Baith in the kirk an toon,
An bade up i' the muckle hoose
Near to the city's boun.
He did the honours o the place,
An thocht he did them weel;
His denner an his supper spreids
War leebral an genteel.
Fin ony ane cam in the gate
Wi siller or wi fame,
The magnate wisna lang afore
He haed them at his hame.
An sae fin He o Galilee
Wis seen upo' the street,
The muckle man strauchtwye resolved
To gie Him an inveet.
"We'll hae Him up the morn's nicht,"
He said to his gweedwife;
"Fa' kens fat He'll turn oot to be?
Sic chances are na rife.
"Fin I gyang doon the toon the day
I'll tryst to meet Him here
Some pious cronies o oor kirk;
We'll size Him up, my dear."
The Prophet cam withoot demur,
Wi twal as peer's Himsel;
The flunkies turned their noses up,
An whisked the swalla-tail.
An ane cam in wi dragglet claes,
Wi mair than dragglet saul;
She 'd kent ower weel the city's howffs,
An taen the deevil's toll.
Ae day she h'ard prood Simon's Guest;
He spak' to her her leen,
An kenlet in her fousome hert
A lowe that made it clean.
An never fin she haed the chance,
Cud she keep fae His sicht;
An that wis foo she creepit in
To Simon's hoose that nicht.
Aneth her tatter'd shawl wis scent
To baathe His blessed feet,
But mair cam fae her gratefu e'en,
For she begood to greet.
She lowsed her lang an toozlet hair
To dicht the draps that fell,
She kissed His feet for vera joy
That she'd won oot o hell.
But Simon thocht na muckle o't,
An scool't wi a' his face:
"Gin this man war fat people say
He'd shoo her fae the place."
The Prophet fine cud read his thocht,
An dippet him upon 't,
An gart his host lay doon his speem,
File He gied him this dunt:-
"Twa men war ower the lugs in debt,
Ane hunners, an ane mair;
The creditor forgya them baith:
Whilk haed maist thanks to ware?
"'The man that awed the maist'? Ye're richt.
Noo herken unto Me:
This lass, fae love, haes sweetly deen
Fat ye refeesed to dee.
"Ye warna aiven ceevil, sir;
Nae watter for My feet,
Nae ointment for My weary heid,
Nor kiss o welcome meet.
"But she's gien a', an wi her hert,
Because she kent her debt,
An Fa' it wis that blot it oot,
An shawed the richteous gate.
"She 's deen the honours o the hoose
An nae the laird an host;
For love will aye dee mair than pelf,
An wintin pride or boast.
"Gin ye but kent hoo much ye awe,
That God haed scored it oot,
Ye widna win'er at this lass,
But raither follow suit.
"Gweed-bye, my wumman. Gyang in peace,
Ye've loe'd an trusted me;
Yer love an faith hiv made ye hale,
An Heeven 's in front o ye."
THE PRODIGAL SON, OR, THE LADDIE THAT GAED WRANG.
A MUCKLE fermer haed twa loons,
But ane gaed throu' the bows,
An dealt the aul' man mony stoons
Wi tigs, an drink, an rowes,
An to get better oot his heid,
An hae his wicket fling,
He gart his fader sign a deed
That gied him hauf the bing.
Syne did he scoot, an banged the door,
An ower the dales an hills,
To howffs an scamps he'd kent afore,
To ill-faured wark that kills.
At heck an manger he gaed on,
Forgat his hame an ha',
Connacht mony a mither's son,
For coorseness beat them a'.
But things gae deen, baith pith an pence,
Wi him 'at never guides,
An this peer vratch 'at wintit sense,
Noo wintit a' besides.
The siller gane, his freens grew fyow,
Rags flappit on his beens,
He rase a' dreepin wi the dyow
Fae bed o funs an steens.
Ill-cled, fair runtit, yappy, sair
Wi mony scarts an thuds,
He prigget, till he cud nae mair,
For breid, a job, an duds.
Ae day a chiel did peety shaw,
An gya him swine tae hird,
An fain wad he hae fullt his maw
Wi maet for beast an bird.
Fae troch to troch he hirplet roon',
For hert an queets war lame;
"Gweed help me! for I'm far, far doon:"
An then he thocht o hame.
"Ahin you hills my fader bides,
Aneuch aye there for a';
There man an beast hae thrivin' hides,
A heapit caup an sta'.
"I'll chanc't tho I've kick't ower the theat,
Tho taes teet throu' my shee,
Gin he'll no gie's a parlour sate,
A chaumer haun I'll be."
Wi that he rase an cam awa,
An scushlet ower the miles,
Till, pechin, at lang length he saw
His fader's parks an stiles.
He lap the burn o guddlin' years,
An up the rigs he'd ploo'd;
The lums o hame brocht scaumin' tears;
He fairly grat alood.
But, herken! there's the collie's bark,
An that's the aul' man's swin;
He'd seen him i' the farrest park,
An gart the staffy fling.
Wi noo a spang, an files a rin,
As if at fire's alairms:
A jiffy-an his greetin sin
Was sabbin in his airms.
"O, fader, I've deen wrang,"-but mair
The laddie mauna speak;
Fat need ava o ither prayer
Than that begrutten cheek?
"I ken fat ye wad say, my boy,
I see it in your e'en;
But nocht sall be the day but joy,
The wrang is a' forgi'en.
"Lat's to the toon wi kibble feet,
An kill the fattest steer;
We'll turn the soorness into sweet,
For duil we will hae cheer.
"We'll wag the ploomen fae the yoke,
The shepherds fae the braes,
An ilky ane 'll cast his smock
An don his brawest claes.
"We'll gaither a' the kwintra side,
Oor freens o a' degree;
For ye've come back wi me to bide,
An fuIl't my cup wi glee."
An that is Heeven's Fader, men,
The trowth the Christ brocht new;
He traivell't here that ye micht ken
Hoo God 'll dae wi you.
O, peer, far wan'ert, waistrel chaps,
He's leukin' doon the road:
He'll see you on the farrest knaps:
Come ye yer wa's to God.
THE ELDER BRITHER, OR, THE BRITHER THAT WISNA BRITHERLY.
THE aul'er loon was cuttin' sprots
Oot by the mairchin' burn,
For there war nae mislippent jots
Fin he cud tak his turn.
When he cam in by to the toon,
An h'ard the michty splore,
He asket o the strapper loon
'At hearkent at the door,
Fat a' the din an hoochs cud mean?
He telt a' in a crack-
Wi lauchin' mou an sheenin' e'en-
Aboot the comin back.
"Yer fader's nae to haud nor bin,
An, loshins, fat a spree!
Ye'll turse yersel an gyang richt in,
A gledsome sicht ye'll see."
'twas news he didna like to hear,
A clood cam ower his broo;
The noisy lot he'd nae gae near,
Nor touch their broth an stew.
His fader prigget wi him sair,
But he was on the bung;
He widna stan't! it wisna fair!
His brither wis a slung!
"But yet fin he comes skulkin' here,
Ye kill the bonny mairt,
Tho's siller's waurt on vice an beer,
Ye tak him to yer hert.
"Lang I've been wi ye, oot an in,
Been eident late an air;
I've haint the siller, rais't nae din,
Nor plantit ae grey hair.
"An a' for fat? I dinna ken:
For naething worth a preen;
Nae even a weary bantin hen
To feast a chum or freen."
His wirds war like a serpent's stang:
The aul' man's smile teuk flicht;
He kent he haed AE son gae wrang,
The ITHER wisna richt.
"Oh, laddie, dinna speak like that,
An spile the day for a',-
A day for mirth an mirth's ootlat,
An nae for sulks ava.
"Ay, ye've been wi's in shooer an shine,
An never left the nest;
Ye've haed the rin o a' that's mine,
But hinna choiced the best.
"O meat an drink ye've haed yer share,
O siller taen yer pairt;
Ye've aye atten't the faimly prayer;
Ye've nae the faimly hert.
"Fat shud ye thraw yer mou aboot?
A 'brither's but a name
'At fain wad keep anither oot
That's wintin to come hame.
"Gin iver onything was richt,
An onything waa mean,
They're here in fat I've deen the nicht,
In fat ye hinna deen."
O Heeven, pit on me Thy seal,
Gie me the muckle hert;
Be mair to me my brither's weal
Than my bit place an pairt.
I'd welcome wan'ert anes tho, 'deed,
They'll get mair claps than me,
An pruve mysel a freen o Gweed,
An nae a Pharisee.
ZACCHEUS, OR, THE LITTLE TAXMAN
THE news it spreid like wildfire,
'twas kent to lass an loon,
The Prophet fae the north shire
Wis comin to the toon.
They spak' o't at the hearthsteen,
In bourachs i' the street,
The closes said, "It's oor Freen;"
For joy the seek did greet.
The croods began to gaither,
An fester ran their bleed,
A' smiled to ane anither,
Excep' the unco gweed.
The taxman lock't his coffers,
An said the clerks micht gyang:
They didna need twa offers,
But oot an jined the thrang.
Their maister teuk the bywyes,
An quick wis i' the steer,
An seen he h'ard the gled cries-
"The Rabbi's nearly here."
But hoo see ower the crood's back
Fin stature is but laich?
He speeled up till a tree's glack,
An waitit in a pech.
The Prophet trampit slowly,
An gracious was His mien;
Wi lordly step, yet lowly,
Wi kind yet searchin' e'en.
He saw an didna swither,
But hailed the little man-
"I'm leukin for ye, brither,
Come doon as fest's ye can.
"I'm nae gyaan ony farder,
I'm bidin' here the day,
I'll tax yer love an larder;
Come doon withoot delay."
Sae airm in airm they linkit,
An wastward teuk the road;
The taxman mithna think it,
But he wis aff to God.
The angels stopped their harpin',
An eager look't on him,
The unco gweed war carpin',
An glower'd wi faces grim.
"An that's the Prophet faamous,
That a' the toon did dra',
Awa to tak an awmous
Fae him we a' misca'!"
The twa they never dacklet,
Nor ever leukit roon',
An reached, wi love weel shacklet,
The wast en' o the toon.
The wife she telt her tribbles,
The hate she haed to dree,
The youngsters shawed their gibbles,
An clamb the Stranger's knee.
Far throu' the nicht colloguin',
Sat taxman an his Guest;
The wirkin' fowk war joggin'
Afore they socht their rest.
But a' that wis taen throu' haun,
An a' that they did say,
We'll never ken in this lan';
We'll mibbie ken some day.
But this is nae a fable-
Ye never truer read-
That at the brakfast table,
The taxman rase an said:
"O Lord, but I've been greedy-
It's trowth the neebors say-
Oonfair to bien an needy,
I see it a' the day.
"But hauf o a' my gettin'
Sall plenish peer an auld,
An fat I teuk wi chaitin',
Sall a' gae back fower fauld."
The Prophet o the far fame
Cam doon the marble stair;
He'd deen His best to that hame-
He left salvation there.
He cured the blin' an ailin
That waitit i' the street,
His peety never failin',
He made the bitter sweet.
But fleen o a' His winnin's
Sae brichtened up the road,
As stoppin' that man's sinnin's
'At wis sae far fae God.
THE PHARISEE AN THE PUBLICAN.
TWA men gaed up the brae to kirk,
As the aul' bell clank'd her jow:
The taen a fell conçaited birk,
The tither doon i' the mou.
The first begood his prayers slap-bang-
Didna Heeven wint to hear?
He shudna keep them wytin' lang,
Nor hinner the angels' cheer.
He needit nocht fae Pouers abeen;
He haed a'thing an to spare;
Gin grace was scrimp ayont the meen,
He cud len some gweedness there.
"I'm gled I'm sic a santly chiel,
That I'm no like ither Fowk-
Hame-drauchtit, swicks, wha sair the deil
In wyes that maist gar me cowk.
"Ae fast a towmond's a' we need;
But aft I the aumrie steek;
An I wi tiends the rowle exceed
'At cam doon fae Moses meek."
The tither steed, a waefu wicht,
An he dauredna lift an ee;
An there he cried, wi tearfu' micht,
"O peetifu' God, min' me!"
Whilk o the twa gaed hame forgi'en
On that holy Sawbath day?
Whilk o them haed his sowel made clean?
Was't him 'at haed maist to say?
Na: nae the boy 'at reez'd himsel,
An blackguairded ither fowks,
An thocht the scaumin' lowe o hell
Was for a' but his smug chouks.
'twas him 'at cudna lift his e'en,
An haedna a wird to say
For a' the hairm he'd thocht an deen,
'At gaed hame in peace that day.
For him 'at's sweer to ain the vrang,
Heeven jist maun lat him be;
But him that sings peccavi's sang
Will the Lord's salvation see.
Twa men cam hame fae kirk fou snod-
Braw kwite an sheenin' buit-
But ane was farrer in wi God,
An the ither farrer oot.
TWA SISTERS AN THEIR BRITHER, OR, MARTHA, MARY, AN LAZARUS.
THE sun haed set on Olivet, and' darkness thick cam doon,
'Twis seelence but an ben excep' for Mary's waesome croon;
Their brither he wis richt nae weel, wis 'oorly growin waur,
An Him they aye dependit on wis in Perea far.
"But never min'," said Martha, as she dried her sister's tears,
An pat her airms roon' her neck, an socht to quaet her fears;
"Oor neebor says he'll gyang the morn an tell oor Freen the news,
An He'll be here het fit, ye'll see; He never cud refuse."
Yet oh! the Maister cam na, an altho they warna coo'rds,
Baith sisters grat as they leuked doon the road to Jordan's foords;
An syne they stoppit leukin, for their brither he was deid;
The warst haed noo befa'm them; there wis naething mair to dreed.
But they were nae forgotten by the Freen that never fails,
By Him 'at his a roomy hert for ilky ane that ails,
An dowie daith haed hardly made the lanely sisters wae,
Fin they war taul the Maister an his Twal war on the brae.
'Twis Martha gaed to meet Him, an she telt Him fat she thocht;
She win'ert that He didna gie the skeel an help they socht;
Gin He haed come fin they sent wird their brither widna dee'd;
But mibbie He'd dae something yet, for He haed poo'er wi Gweed.
The Maister answered kin'ly, an wi bonnie wirds o cheer;
"Yer brither 'll come oot the muils, he'll rise again, for seer,
An nae on some far distant day yer misty e'en dae see;
Yer brither isna deid, my lass; he lives, he lives in Me."
An syne He speert for Mary 'at wis aye sae near His hert,
An fin she h'ard He wintet her she till Him like a dert;
He leuked on her begrutten face that telt o drumly saul;
Richt sair it wis for Him to hae her keen reproach to thole.
Thegither, then, 'mid sabs an grains, they slowly teuk their wye,
Oontill they cam up till the greff whaur Lazarus' corpse did lie;
On ilky coontenance He saw dool's signature wis vrat;
He cudna langer haud it back, an fair brak' doon an grat.
But greetin wisna a' the help the Maister haed to gie,
Altho the Lord's gryte-hertedness wis comfortin' to see;
But He haed come to speak to daith, an sen' it till it's cooch,
An tak His leal an lovin' freen oot o its clammy clootch.
He h'ard the murners clatt'rin' as if He haed nae deen richt-
"He cud as easy cured His freen as gie the blin' their sicht":-
He ne'er lat on He h'ard them, but He laid peer Martha's fear,
Wha thocht the corpse wis ower far gane for them to ventur near.
He gart them rowe aff fae the greff the steen 'at steek't its mou,
An syne He haed wird wi God-His Pairtner here a' throu';
Then clair an strang the order rang 'at bade His freen come oot,
An Lazarus steed i' the licht! Nae room for quirk or dout.
They war twa blythesome sisters as wis ever kent to fame,
As airm in airm they brocht their blint'rin' brither back to hame:
But nae mair blithe than we will be when greffs gie back oor ain,
An we forgaither whaur the'll be nor duil nor daith again.