P Hately Waddell

Psalm XLII.

David, i' the wustlan', far frae God, 's like till die o' drouth for his presence, an' tholes ill the gibin o' his fause frien's: he leuks till win hame again.

Till the sang-maister: Maschil for the sons o' Korah.

AS the hart for the wimplin watirs sighs; sae sighs for yersel, my saul, O God.

2 Sae tholes wi' drouth for God, for the livin God, my saul: How lang or I gang, an' win ben afore God?

3 Day an' night, my tear's been my bread; ilka day lang till me as it's said, O whar is that God o' thine?

4 I hae min' o' siclike, an' I toom out my life on mysel: for I gaed wi' the lave; I gaed till God's howff' wi' the sugh o' a sang, an' o' praise, wi' the heigh-liltin thrang.

5 Whatfor sae dowie, O my saul! sae sairly forfoch'en 'ithin me? Lippen till God, for I'll praise him yet; for the health o' his leuks abune me!

6 My life, O my God, 's but a lade on mylane: I suld min' ye syne frae the Jordan lan', an' the Hermon folk; frae the height o' Mizar.

7 Ae dreid howe till anither sughs, at the rowte o' yer watirspates: yer breingers a', an' yer rowin fludes, hae gaen owre me bremin.

8 His gudeness yet the LORD ettles by day, an' a sang wi' mysel i' the night; an' my prayer till the God o' my life.

9 An' I'll say until God my rock, Whatfor think ye nane on me? whatfor down-dang maun I ay gang, aneth the ill-willer's gree?

10 Wi' a clour i' my banes, they gibe me, thae ill-willers o' mine; ilk day as they yammir until me, O whar is that God o' thine?

11 Whatfor are ye dowie, my saul? an' whatfor sae forfoch'en in me? Lippen till God, for I'll laud him or lang: the health o' my leuks, an' my God, is he!

Psalm XLIII

Leuks unco like some to-fa' till what gangs afore.

[By wha's no said.]

RIGHT me, O God, an' redd my plea, frae a pitiless natioun: frae the wily an' the wicket carl, O wark ye my salvatioun!

2 For yerlane are the God o' my strenth; whatfor hae ye schot me awa? Whatfor sae blate, maun I bide the gate, aneth the ill-willer's law?

3 O but wi' yer light an' yer truth! They sal weise me on, they sal wear me ben, till yer halie height an' yer ain lown dwallins.

4 Syne sal I win till God's offranstane; till God, my ain joye an' rejoicin: syne wi' the harp, O God my God, I sal lilt till yersel wi' loisin.

5 Whatfor are ye dowie, my saul? an' whatfor sae forfoch'en in me? Lippen till God, for I'll laud him or lang: the health o' my leuks, an' my God, is he!

Psalm XLIV.

Israel's by-gane days hae been gran', whan the LORD was wi' them: The LORD, sen syne, hauds atowre: the sang-makar fleeches wi' him sair, till come hame till his folk, an' help.

Till the sang-maister: Maschil, for the sons o' Korah.

O GOD, wi' our lugs we hae learn'd; our forebears hae tell'd oursels, what wark ye wrought i' their days; i' the days lang afore our ain.

2 How ye dang out the folk wi' yer han'; an' ye plantit themsels an' a': ye wrought sair wark on the folk; an' eke, ye drave them awa.

3 For nane by their swurd coft they the lan'; nor their arm wrought them salvatioun: bot yer ain right han', an' that arm o' thine; an' the light o' yer leuks, for ye lo'ed them.

4 Yersel, O God, are that king o' my ain: heal-ha'din sen' ye till Jakob!

5 Wi' yerlane, we sal dush our faes: i' yer name, we sal ding till the yird a' that can stan' again us.

6 For nane on my bow sal I bide; an' my swurd, it sal ne'er mak me sikker:

7 Bot yersel frae our faes can redd us atowre; an' our ill-willers a', ye can fluther.

8 A' day lang, we hae liltit till God; an' yer name, ever mair sal laud it: Selah.

9 Bot now ye hae dang us atowre; an' affrontit oursels fu' sairly: nae mair wi' our hosts, gang ye furth till the stour.

10 Oursels ye gar turn frae the face o' the fae; an' our ill-willers rive at their pleasur:

11 Ye hae gien us like fe, till feed the lave; an' hae sperfl't us a' 'mang the hethen:

12 Ye hae troket yer folk for nought; an' are nane the mair o' their win:

13 Ye hae made us a geck till our niebors; a snirt an' a sneer, till wha round us fen':

14 Ye hae made us a swatch till the folk; a cave o' the head amang a' their kin.

15 A' day lang is my schame afore me; an the lowe o' my face, it haps me owre:

16 For the jeer o' the scorner an' speaker o' ill; for the ill-willer's glow'r; an' for him, wha taks right till himsel.

17 Siclike comes a' our ain gate; yet we ne'er hae forgotten yersel, nor yet broken tryst wi' thee.

18 Our heart, it has ne'er gane bak; nor our stap fa'n awa frae yer lead:

19 Tho' ye dang us in bits amang ethir-holes; an' happit us owre wi' the gloam o' dead!

20 Gin we e'er forgot the name o' our God; or braidit our loov's till some unco god:

21 Wad-na God himsel hae sought out the like? for himlane kens the neuks o' the heart.

22 For yer sake, an' a', ilk day are we dang tiil dead; we're countit but sheep for the slachtir.

23 Wauken, O LORD; whatfor can ye sleep? Thole awee yet; ding-na clean by for evir.

24 Whatfor hap ye yer face? Hae ye nae mair min', o' our poortith an' cumber?

25 For our saul's dang down till the stoure; our wame till the grun is cruppen.

26 Up, till do weel for us, LORD: an' redd us a' hame; for that gudeness o' thine, we ay lippen!

Psalm XLV.

An the Chryst himsel he here, as nae doubt he maun be; Solomon, wha figured him, comes foremaist.

Till the sang-maister on Shoshannim: for the sons o' Korah; Maschil: A Lilt o' Loves.

MY heart, it's dinnlin owre wi' a sang that's unco braw: I maun tell o' what I've made, forenenst the king an' a': my tongue sal be the pen, o' ane that gleg can draw.

2 Brawer are ye yerlane, nor a' the bairns o' yird! Intil thae lips o' thine, what-na lofliheid's been wair'd! Sae weel as God has liket ye, langsyne.

3 Dicht yer swurd ontil yer thie; mighty mak yer lofliheid an' gree:

4 An' i' yer gree, ride furth wi' gloir; for truth's sake, an' for rightousness, till dree: an' warks o' wonner sair, sal thy right han' schaw till thee!

5 Sae snell's yer shafts hae been! The vera folk aneth thee fa', i' their heart that ill-will the king.

6 That thron o' thine, O God, is for evir an' for ay; an' o' rightousness a gad, is the king's-gad o' yer sway.

7 The man that's guid ye like; an' the ill ye winna fa': e'en sae hath God himsel, God o' thine, wi' the oyle o' joye owre-chrystit thee, abune yer niebors a'.

8 Myrrh an' aloes on yer claes, war strinkl'd syne; whan frae the ivor pailis ye cam but, they made ye fine.

9 Kings' dochtirs, i' yer brawest gear, war snod: the queen at thy right han', i' the gowd o' Ophir stude.

10 Dochtir, hearken ye an' leuk, an' lout yer lug; an' forget ye a' yer ain folk, an' eke yer faither's blude:

11 Syne yer leuks sal like the king; an' for he is your LORD, ye maun lout fu' laigh till him.

12 An' the dochtir out o' Tyre sal be till ye wi' a gift; the best o' a' the lan', till pleasur thee, sal shift.

13 Gin the dochtir o' the king be-na braw, baith out an' in! Frae wabster's wark o' gowd, her cleedin wrought has been.

14 In pearlins eke sal scho be brought until the king: her lasses, like hersel, sal syne be airtit ben.

15 Wi' blytheheid an' wi' glee, sal they be fushen in; an' they sal a' gang hame, till the pailis o' the king.

16 Fornenst yer faithers syne, yer bairnies thar sal be; an' intil a' the lan', ye may mak them princes hie.

17 Yer name I'se mak weel ken'd, till a' kiths that come an' gang; syne sae sal folk gie laud till thee, for evir, wi' a sang!

Psalm XLVI.

God's stiever ay nor castel-craigs, an' heigher nor the hills: whar He bides, sal ne'er be steerit.

Till the sang-maister: for the sons o' Korah; a lilt on Alamoth.

GOD for oursels is tryste an' stoopin help in stretts, right nar is he:

2 Nane syne sal we fear, tho' the yirth suld steer; or hills be flang owre 'i the heart o' the sea.

3 Its watirs warsl'd, its watirs flang; the hills they war steer'd, as it brem'd alang: Selah.

4 Bot a watir rins, whase wimplin wins till glad the brugh o' God; the halie bit o' dwallins, it; the Heighest, his abode.

5 God bides in her bosom, nane sal scho fey; God sal betyde her or blink o' day.

6 The folk, they warsl'd; the kingdoms, they fash'd: He gied but a sigh, the yirth swakket.

7 The LORD o' mony-might 's a' on our side; our ain heigh-ha'din 's the God o' Jakob: Selah.

8 Here-awa syne, see the warks o' the LORD; wha maks a' fu' lown i' the heart o' the yird.

9 Wha quaiets the steer, till the neuks o' the lan': he flinders the bow, an' sneds the spear; he scowthers in lowe the sleds o' weir.

10 Be whush, an' ken that 'am God mylane: heigh owre the hethen, heigh owre the yirth, sal I win hame.

11 The LORD o' mony-might 's a' on our side; our ain heigh-ha'din's Jakob's God: Selah.

Psalm XLVII.

The God that's King intil Zioun, he's King o' the hail yirth.

Till the sang-maister ane heigh-lilt for the sons o' Korah.

DING wi' the loof, O a' ye folk! Lilt ye till God wi' the sugh o' a sang!

2 For the LORD owre a' is himlane till be fear'd; atowre the hail yirth, a king fu' gran'.

3 He sal thring down the folk aneth us; an' the natiouns aneth our feet:

4 He sal wale out our hame-ha'din for us; the riggin o' Jakob sae meet: Selah.

5 God has gane up wi' a sugh; the LORD wi' the tout o' a swesch.

6 Sing ye till God, sing a sang: sing a sang till our King, sing ye.

7 For God himlane, o' the hail yirth is King; fu' wyssly till him sing ye!

8 God owre the hethen is king; God sits on his thron, sae weel shiftit.

9 Fu' blythely the folk thegither did win; o' Abraham's God, the folk that war kin: for the schilds o' the yirth, till God sal be gien; an' himlane sal be uncolie liftit.

Psalm XLVIII.

Nae town like Zioun, whar God himsel can bide: an the Kirk war ay like Zioun, God's folk wad hae braw lown-tide.

A kirk-sang: ane heigh-lilt for the sons o' Korah.

FU' mighty's the LORD, an' fu' loud till be laudit ay; in the brugh o' our ain gude God, the hill o' his ain setten-by.

2 Sae braw, as it stan's, pride o' a' the yirth; frae the airts o' the north, is Mount Zioun; the town o' the King sae gran'.

3 God in her biggens sae braw, is weel-kent for his heigh heal-ha'din.

4 For, saw ye? The kings cam thegither; thegither, they hirpled awa:

5 They leukit, an' syne they war daiver'd; feckless an' gyte, they gaed a'.

6 A dwaum, it cam owre them thar; a stoun' like the bearin-pang:

7 Wi' a blirt frae the blaudin east, whan the cobles o' Tarshish ye dang!

8 E'en sae as we heard, we hae seen, i' the brugh o' the LORD o' hosts; in our ain God's town: God sal haud her fu' soun'; an' that, sae lang's time sal last: Selah.

9 We hae thought on yer gudeness, God; i' the midds o' yer halie howff.

10 Siclike's yer name, O God, siclike yer praise maun be: owre a' the ends o' the yirth, your right-han' o' right hauds the gree.

11 Lat Zioun height be blythe, lat the dochtirs o' Judah be fain; for thae right-rechtins a', o' thine.

12 Gang ye roun Zioun, turn ilk neuk; count ye her castels a'.

13 Min' ye her strenths, haud heigh her towirs; the niest-come kin till schaw:

14 For this same God is our ain God, for evir an' for ay: Himlane sal weise us nieborlie, owre Death himsel till stay.

Psalm XLIX.

Walth an' worry, poortith an' pine, gang a' till the graiff thegither: what comes o' them syne?

Till the sang-maister: ane heigh-lilt for the sons o' Korah.

HEARKEN till this, O a' ye folk: tak tent, a' that won i' the warl':

2 Baith sons o' the cotter, an' sons o' the carl; the bein and the bare thegither:

3 My mouthe, it sal gie yo wyss rede; an' the thought o' my heart sal be worth yer swither.

4 I sal lout my ain lug, for a canny word; syne but on the harp my snell sayan tang.

5 Whatfor suld I dread, i' the day o' misdeed; whan the ill o' my heels is about me thrang?

6 Whan folk that weigh their ain weight, an' that rowe in walth, are fraisan thegither:

7 No a carl amang them can down wi' a plack, or swap wi' God, till saif his brither.

8 A bode for their breath's owre heigh for them; an' gang whar it will, it gangs for evir:

9 Yet fain wad he ay live on, an' ne'er see the sheugh neither.

10 For ane sees how the wyss maun die, wi' the gowk an' the doit thegither: they dwinnle awa, an' the feck o' their fa', they pairt wi' 't a' till anither.

11 Their benmaist thought's their ain houses for ay: their howffs suld stan', whiles folk come an' gang; an' till lan's o' their ain, their ain names gie they.

12 Bot man in sic gree, jimp tholes a night: like the brutes is he, that gang out o' sight.

13 Sic gate o' their ain 's but a swatch o' their haivers; yet wha come eftir them, roose their claivers: Selah.

14 Like sheep they lye a' i' the sheugh; Death himsel sal be herd till them syne: an' the rightous, at mornin, sal thring them eneugh: a' help for them gangs by i' the heugh, whan they flit frae their dwallin fine.

15 Bot my life God sal saif, frae the grip o' the graiff; for himsel sal rax haud o' me then: Selah.

16 Hae ye nae dread, tho' some carl suld speed; tho' the gear o' his houss suld be boukit:

17 For ne'er, whan he dies, sal he harl a haet; nor ahint him, his gloiry be sheughit.

18 Tho' his saul, it was blythe, whan he fuhred on live: an' folk gie ye laud, whan ye min' yer ain:

19 It sal gang till the lave o' his forebears belyve; no ane o' them a' sal see light again.

20 Man in sic gree, an' wha kensna right; like the brutes is he, that gang out o' sight.

Psalm L.

The LORD hauds a plea wi' his folk: nae offran, but o' rightousness an' truth, will ser' him.

Ane heigh-lilt o' Asaph's.

GOD o' Gods, the LORD hath spoken, an' the yirth has cry'd upon: frae the sun's up-gaen at brightnin, till his hame-gaen i' the gloam.

2 Frae Zioun-Hill, the height o' gloiry; God has skancit cleare, himsel.

3 Our God sal come, an' nane sal wheesht him; fire afore him, a' sal reist them; round him, it sal blaw fu' snell!

4 Till the lift he'll skreigh, athort it; syne till yirth, his folk to redden, he sal ca':

5 A' my sants till me be sortit; wha wi' me my tryst hae snedden, as by law.

6 Syne the hevins his ain right-rechtin, furth sal tell; for wha sal right the warld at rechtin, 's God himsel: Selah.

7 Hear, my folk, for I maun tell yo: Israel, an' I 'se threep wi' thee; God am I, yer God till be.

8 No for yer slachtir'd beiss I'se wyte yo; nor yer offrans ay afore me, perfyte a':

9 Stirk I 'se ne'er tak frae yer biggen, nor nae buck frae faulds o' thine:

10 For woodlan'-dier a' 's my belangin; knowte on a thousan hills are mine:

11 I ken ilk bird that flies abune yo; an' the field-gaen brute 's my ain:

12 Gin I suld thole a dwaum o' hungir, no till thee wad I mak maen; for till me the warld 's a ha'din, an' a' the gear its bouk can hain.

13 Think ye I 'se live on flesh o' beeve, or sloke my drouth on' bluid 'o' hin'?

14 Gie ye till God a lift o' laud; till Wha 's owre a', yer ain trysts pay ye:

15 Syne cry till me, i' the day o' dule; I sal rax yo but, an' gie me the gree.

16 Bot quo' God till the doer o' wrang, What hae ye wi' my bidden till do, or my tryst in yer mouthe till fang;

17 Sen ye wad ne'er thole a rebute; an' my bidden ahint yo ye flang?

18 An ye saw the thief-loon at his wark, syne ye hanker'd till gang wi' him; an' wha wrangit their niebor's bed, ye ay be till troke wi' them:

19 Yer mouthe ye hae fee'd till mischieff; an' yer tongue it has flauchtit a lie:

20 Ye sat, an' ye skaithe'd yer brither; on yer mither's son ye pat schamous gree:

21 Siclike ye hae dune, an' I was whush: ye thought the ill-thought I was like yerlane. Bot I'se threep wi' yo yet; an' afore yer een, I sal raik yer wrang-doens ilk ane.

22 I rede yo, tak thought o' this; a' ye wha think nane o' God: in case be I rive yo in bits, an' nane be till redd the road.

23 Wha offers a lift o' laud, is the man that maks meikle o' me: an' ay whar he airts his gate, wi' God's help I sal gar him see.

Psalm LI.

David maens sair an unco sair faut, nane but the LORD an' himsel wats o': He owns a'; he wins by wi' a sair pingle; his ain heart, syne, sal be the slachtir-gift.

Till the sang-maister: ane heigh-lilt o' David's; whan Nathan, God's-seer, gaed till him, an' he had gaen anowre till Bathsheba.

BE gude till me, God, as yer gudeness can be; i' the feck o' yer rewth, dicht out my wrang:

2 Reinge me fu' weel, frae my ill-dune deed; an' sine me fu' soun' frae the sin I belang:

3 For my wrang I ken brawly mysel; an' my sin, it's fu' sikker afore me.

4 Till yerlane, till yerlane, I' dune a' the skaith; an' sic ill I hae wrought i' yer een: that ye may be rightit, ay whan ye breath; clean-quat i' the rightin ye 'gien.

5 Ye ken, I was schupen in sin; an' in wrang, my ain mither she coft me:

6 Bot truth ye like weel within; i' the benmaist neuk, ye hae taught me.

7 Reinge me wi' hysope, an' syne I 'se be braw: wash me, an' syne I 'se be brighter nor snaw.

8 Gar me hearken ance mair till blythe-heid an' glee, the banes ye hae broken, mak liltin-free.

9 Yer sight frae my sins, hap atowre; an' a' my ill-doens dicht by:

10 Mak a clean heart, O God, for me; an' trew breath i' my body, perfy'.

11 Thring me na but frae yer sight; nor that spreit o' yer ain sae halie, tak ye ony mair frae me:

12 The joye o' yer heal-ha'din wair on me yet; an' stoop me forby wi' the ghaist that 's fit.

13 Wrang-gangers syne I sal airt yer ain gate; an' wrang-doers a' sal win bak till thee.

14 Redd me frae bluid, O God, thou God o' my ain heal-ha'din; an' my tongue it sal lilt o' yer rightin sae leal.

15 Unsteek ye my lips, O LORD; an' my mouthe yer ain praise sal tell.

16 For, o' slachtir ye ne'er thought weel: tho' I suld gie altar-lades, siclike ye wad ne'er envy.

17 God's slachtir-tryst 's a birset ghaist; a birset heart an' a tholin breast, O God, ye will ne'er leuk by!

18 Be gude till Zioun, yer ain kin' gate; Jerusalem's wa's big ye:

19 Syne fair-fa' yer ain meet slachtir-gifts: the offran an' hail bleezan lifts: syne knowte on yer cairn they sal gie!

Psalm LII.

The liean tongue 's like a gleg razor, bot the LORD can sned it in twa.

Till the sang-maister: Maschil o' David's, whan Doeg the Edomite gaed ben an' tell't Saul, an' said till him, David has gaen up till the houss o' Abimelech?

WHATFOR be sae crouse i' mischieff, ye haughty carl? the gudeness o' God tholes ilka day lang.

2 Yer tongue ettles ill, like the razor fu' snell; sneddin sae canny nane can tell.

3 Ill mair nor guid ye wad fain; a lie, nor till say the right: Selah.

4 A' frettin words ye wad fain, tongue that sae fause can gang.

5 Syne sal God ding ye for ay: he sal birse thee an' harl thee but, frae that howff o' yer ain; an' sal rute thee out, frae the lan' o' the livin warl': Selah.

6 The rightous themsels sal glow'r an' grew; an' sneer at him syne sal they:

7 Aye, this was the carl, tak a leuk at him, wha ne'er made God his stay; bot lippen'd alane till his gear anew, an' stoopit him ay on his wrang.

8 Bot 'am in the houss o' God, like the olive that braids fu' braw; my tryste, for evir an' ay, I hae set in God's gudeness a'.

9 I sal lilt evir mair till thee, for yersel sic rebute hae wrought; an' sal bide by yer name, for afore yer sants, it 's weel that siclike be thought.

Psalm LIII.

Anither draught o' the godlowse gowk: they 'been rife in David's day; an' are ay till the fore sen-syne.

Till the sang-maister on Mahalath: Maschil o' David's.

QUO' the gowk till himsel, Thar's nae God ava': fargaen are they a'; they 'dune waur nor ill: no ane o' them a' does weel.

2 God frae the lift leukit owre, abune the bairns o' the clod; till see gin ony war wyss, or ane that spier'd eftir God.

3 They had a' gane bak thegither; thegither they wrought at wrang: no ane wrought weel by anither; no, an' it war-na ane.

4 Will they ne'er be wyss [quo' God], thae warkers o' sic mischieff? wha eat up my folk, as folk eat bread; an' spier nevir a word for God?

5 Syne yonder they sheuk wi' dread, whar dread might nevir be: for God himlane has sperfl't the banes, o' him wha camps at thee. Ye baisit them syne, for God himsel shot them by wi' schamous gree.

6 O wha sal rax yont frae Zioun heal-ha'din till Israel a'? Whan God sal fesh hame the lave, o' his folk that 's been ay in haud; Jakob sal lilt wi' pleasur, Israel syne sal be glaid!

Psalm LIV.

David, uncolie worried an' herried, flings the weight o' a' ontil God.

Till the sang-maister on Neginoth: Maschil o' David's, whan the Ziphims gaed, an' quo' they till Saul, Does-na David hide himsel wi' us?

SAIF me, O God, by yer name; an' right-recht me i' yer might.

2 Hearken, O God, till my bidden; lout yer lug till the words o' my mouthe.

3 For frem-folk again me win up; an' stoor folk spier eftir my saul; wha ne'er set a God i' their gate: Selah.

4 Bot oh, ginna God be my stoop! an' wi' a' that uphaud my saul, the Laird o' the lan' 's in tret.

5 Mischieff sal come hame on my ill-willers a': i' yer truth, O God, sned them aff!

6 Fu' blythely I 'se offer till thee: till yer name I'se gie laud; O LORD, for it's gude:

7 For frae ilka sair strett, he has set me free; an' my sight, it sal light on mine enemie!

Psalm LV.

David, as right is, pleans mair o' fause frein's nor o' foul faes: he bans them till the vera sheugh in God's name; whar a' siclike suld gang, an' himsel weel quat o' them.

Till the sang-maister on Neginoth: Maschil o' David's.

HEARKEN my bidden, O God; hide yersel nane frae my prayer:

2 Tak tent till mysel, an' speak hame till me; I sigh i' my thought, an' I mourn fu' sair:

3 What wi' the sugh o' the fae, what wi' the ill-man's fang, for they claiver again me mischieff, an' in wuth they would fain do me wrang.

4 My heart, it's dang down i' my breast; an' the dules o' dead hae come owre me:

5 Dread an' a grue win up on me now; an' ane awsome scunner 'll smoor me.

6 An' quo' I - Oh, wha'll gie me wings like the doo? syne wad I flie an' be lown;

7 Aye, syne wad I flichter far aff, an' bide by mylane i' the moorlan': Selah!

8 Syne frae the blirt an' the blaudin blast, I wad rax me awa an' gang.

9 Ding, O LORD, an' synder their tongues; for rievan an' ragin, I 'seen i' the citie.

10 Day an' night, they gang roun, on her dykes; canker an' kiaugh are rife intil her:

11 Mischieff mony feck 's inside o' her yetts; guile an' a lie ne'er quat frae her causey.

12 For it ne'er was a fae that scorn'd me, or I cou'd hae thol'd it a'; nae ill-wilIer geckit atowre me, or frae him I had slippet awa.

13 Bot yersel, a man like my niebor; a captain, an' ken'd till me:

14 Sae kindly we thought thegither; an' gaed till God's houss wi' glee.

15 Death like a vice come abune them; till the sheugh lat them gang as they stan': for ill 's i' the mids o' their dwallins; ill's i' the mids o' their ban'.

16 Mylane, till God I can skreigh; an' the LORD, he sal haud me saif.

17 Glintin an' gloamin an' height o' the day, I sal pingle an' pray; an' God, he sal hearken my scraigh.

18 He sal redd hame my life i' the lown, frae sic stour as I dree this while: for in droves they been ay again me.

19 God sal hearken an' ding them, wha bides frae langsyne himlane: Selah. Nae flittins hae they amang them; syne o' God they think little or nane.

20 He rax't out his han' on his ain lown frien's; he suddled the tryst he made:

21 His lips pairtit sweeter nor butter, bor his heart it ettled a raid; finer nor oyle gaed his claivers, an' yet they war nakit blades!

22 Fling a' yer care on the LORD, an' himlane sal haud ye straught; he sal ne'er thole flittin for ay, till fash the man that does right.

23 Bot yersel sal thring them down, O God, till the wame o' the sheugh! Carls o' bluid an' a lie, sal ne'er live half their days: bot mysel I sal lippen till thee, O God, an' be lawn eneugh.

Psalm LVI.

David, i' the Carl's han', wi' a stieve heart an' a bauld tongue, tholes the warst o't.

Till the sang-maister on Jonathelem - rechokim: Michtam o' David's; whan the Philistins had haud o' him in Gath.

BE gude till me, God, or the carl 'll glaum me up; ilka day lang, fechtan thrang, he hauds me in feidom fell:

2 Ilka day lang, my ill-willers glaum a grip; for mony are they, an' heigh forby, that warsle on me mysel.

3 The day that I dree, I maun I lippen till thee.

4 In God, I sal laud his word: till God I mann lippen me a': nane sal I dread, what flesh an' bluid can wark me o' ill ava'.

5 Ilka day lang, my words they wrang; a' their thoughts are for ill to me.

6 They taigle an' jouk, my roddins they leuk, as my life they wad lang till hae:

7 They lippen till ill, to win by wi' 't still: bot, in angir, O God, ding sic folk to the grun for ay.

8 My weary turns ye hae tell'd: my tears, i' yer caup kep ye; i' yer buik sal they no gang ben?

9 My ill-willers yet sal slak their fit, i' the day whan I skreigh till thee: siclike for a truth I ken; for God himsel 's wi me.

10 In God I sal praise his word; his word I sal praise, in the LORD.

11 I lippen mylane till God: nane sal I dread, what son o' the yird can wark o' mischieff till me.

12 Yer ain trysts are atowre me, O God; an' praise I suld swap wi' thee.

13 Sen my life ye redd out frae the dead, will ye no keep my feet frae slidin? till airt me right, in God's ain sight; i' the light o' the lave that are livin?

Psalm LVII.

David, wi' a spang, wins atowre frae Saul hidlins, an' syne gies till God himsel a' the gloiry an' the gree o' his out-gang.

Till the sang-maister: Al-Taschith: Michtam o' David's, whan he slippet frae forenenst Saul i' the cove.

BE gude till me, God, be gude till me; for my life lippens a' till yerlane: i' the sconce o' yer wings I sal bide a-wee, till a' thir mischieffs are gane.

2 Till the God that 's fu' heigh, I sal skreigh; till God that rights a' for mysel:

3 He sal rax frae the lift, an' sal redd me free, frae the haughty carl that wad glaum at me: Selah. His rewth an' his trewth God can sen' far eneugh, himsel.

4 My life 's amang lyouns its lane; I lye amang bleezan bran's: sons o' the yird, their teeth pikes an' flanes; an' their tongue, a swurd sae snell.

5 O God, be thou liftit abune the lift; thy gloiry, owre yirth itsel!

6 A net they set for my feet, whan my life sae laigh was laid; a sheugh they howkit afore my face; i' the heart o't, themsels they slade: Selah.

7 My heart, it 's set, O God; my heart, it 's set fu' stieve; till thee I maun lilt an' sing:

8 Wauken, my gloiry, wauken heigh; langspiel an' harp, fy haste ye, baith: mysel I maun wauken or morning.

9 I sal lilt till ye, LORD, amang a' the folk; I sal lilt till yersel, amang a' their kin:

10 For heigh till the hevins is that rewth o' thine; an' abune the cluds your trewth can win.

11 O God, be thou liftit abune the lift; owre a' the yirth, thy gloiry seen.

Psalm LVIII.

David pleas wi' the ill-hearted, ill-deedie folk; an' wytes them at will, i' the name o' God, baith righters an' righted.

Till the sang-maister: Al-Taschith: Michtam o' David's.

SAY ye ay the right, whan ye thrang thegither? Haud ye by the straught, ye sons o' the lan'?

2 At heart, ye can ettle mischief without swither; on yirth, ye hae weigh'd the weight o' yer han's.

3 Wrang frae the outcome, are a' the wicket; tellin lies, frae the wame they gang gley'd wi' a shog:

4 Their poisoun 's as fell as the feim o' an ethir; like the worm that hears nane, an' that steeks its lug;

5 That'll hearken nane till the sugh o' the spaefolk, timin their trokins nevir sae trig.

6 Dirl their teeth, O God, i' the gab o' them; grush the lang teeth o' the lyouns, O LORD:

7 E'en sae lat them thowe, lat them gang like the watirs; his bolt come abune them, an' sae they be clour'd.

8 Ilk ane o' them gang, like the slug that 's ay thowan; like woman's lost fraucht, lat them ne'er see the sun.

9 Or yer pats on the fire hae got word o' the lowan; sae, a' livin-like, sae bleezan in wuth, he sal whirl them dune.

10 The gude sal be blythe, whan he sees sic right-rackin; his feet i' the bluid o' the wicket he'll sine:

11 An' the carl sal say - Aye, thar's a hairst for the rightous: Aye, thar 's a God, out o' doubt, that right-rechts i' the lan'!

Psalm LIX.

David, saw fash'd wi' a wheen ill-heartit sornin loons that ettle his skaith, lays a' afore God.

Till the sang-maister: Al-Taschith: Michtam o' David's; whan Saul gied word, an' they wairdit the houss to fell him.

RAX me, O God, frae my faes; abune my gainstan'ers heize me:

2 Redd me frae them that wad wark me ill; an' frae bluidy carls weise me.

3 For leuk, they tak thought for my life; they gather again me, the mighty; for nae ill o' my ain, O LORD; nae faut o' mine, they can wyte me.

4 Saikless, for ill, they rin an' they redd; wauken till meet me, an' see me saif:

5 Aye, yersel, O LORD, God o' hosts; God o' Israel, wauken an' wait; till wair their ain wyte on the hethen a': pitie nane that hae pleasur in skaith: Selah.

6 They come wi' the gloamin; they gowl like the dog; an' syne they gang roun the brugh:

7 Tak tent, what a gurl 's i' their gab; swurds are atween their lips: bot wha can hearken the sugh?

8 Bot yerlane sal mak light o' them, LORD; ye sal laugh at the hethen a':

9 For sic help, on yerlane I sal bide; for it 's God, that 's my ain heigh-ha'.

10 God, his gude-will wins afore me; God, he sal gar me leuk down, on them that wad warsle an' waur me.

11 Ding them na dead outright, or the folk 'll forget it sune; bot sperfle them sair i' yer might: O LORD, our schild, ding them down!

12 The faut o' their mouthe, the gab o' their lips; they sal a' be taen i' their pride: for threepin a lie, an' trokin a lie, they count on naething beside.

13 Waste ye in wuth; waste ye, an' ding them awa till nought: syne sal they ken thar 's a God can fen', till yirth's outmaist en', in Jakob: Selah.

14 Lat them come wi' the gloamin syne; lat them gowl like a dog, an' gang roun the citie:

15 Lat them harl about for meat till eat; an' thole the hail night, an they're needie.

16 Bot I sal lilt loud o' yer strenth; an' sal tell yer gude-will i' the mornin: for ye 'been a stoop till me; an' a bield to mysel, i' the day o' sic dulefu' sornin.

17 O my strenth, I shall lilt till thee: for God is my ain heigh-ha'din; God is my ain gude-gree!

Psalm LX.

An the LORD help-na, man may quat fechtin: an the LORD help weel, brughs maun jouk, an' heigh-towirs trimmle.

Till the sang-maister on Shushan-Eduth: Michtam o' David's, till wit; whan he tuilzied wi' the Syrians atween the watirs, an' wi' the Syrians fornenst Zobah: an' Joab, i' the hame-comin, dang Edom in the howe o' Saut, awa by twal thousan.

O GOD, ye ance schot us atowre, ye dang us a' syndry in bits; ye gied uncolie way till wuth; come hame till us now, it's blawn owre.

2 The yirth ye gar'd reel fu' sair; ye hae riv'n her amaist in twa: heal ye a' her skelvy scaurs; for scho jouks an' dinnles an' a'.

3 Yer folk ye gar'd see rough wark; ye sloken'd oursels wi' the wine o' wonner:

4 Yet ye 'gien till wha fear thee, a flag; afore the truth, till haud heigh like a banner.

5 That the folk ye loe weel may win hame out o' thril, help wi' yer right han', an' hear me!

6 Quo' God, whar he bides by himlane, I maun up: Shechem I 'll synder in twa, an' redd out the howe o' Succoth.

7 Gilode, it 's mine ain, mine eke sal Manasseh be: Ephraim as weel, my head sal hain; an' Judah gie laws for me.

8 Moab 's but my sinin-cog; owre Edom I'll fling my shoe: gin ye daur me, Philistia, now!

9 Wha sal airt me the heigh-bigget brugh? wha sal weise me in owre till Edom?

10 Winna ye, yerlane, O God, wha ance schot us a' atowre? winna ye gang furth, O God, alang wi' our hosts till the stour?

11 An ye gie us help frae stretts, what signifies strenth in Edom?

12 Wi' God himsel, we 'se do unco weel; for himlane sal downtread our hail fae-dom!

Psalm LXI.

The braw herskip o' them wha lippen till the LORD.

Till the sang-maister on Neginoth: ane o' David's.

HEARKEN, O God, till my skreigh; tak tent till my bidden.

2 Frae the yonder-maist neuk o' the lan', I sal cry till yersel, whan my heart mislippens: Till the Craig owre heigh for mylane, ye maun weise me sikker.

3 For ye 'been a stoop till me; an' a hainin-towir frae the face o' ill-willer.

4 I maun taigle ay i' that howff o' thine: I maun lippen me a' in the sconce o' yer feddirs: Selah.

5 For yerlane, O God, hae hearken'd my trysts; o' wha fear thy name, the gear-gift ye hae glen me.

6 Mony a lang day hae ye wair'd on the king; towmonds o' his are like hail kith-gettins.

7 He sal bide evir mair afore God himsel: rewth an' trewth ye maun sen', for till haud him sikker.

8 Syne sae sal I lilt evir mair till yer name; an' pay ye my trysts, ae day wi' anither.

Psalm LXII.

A lown sugh wi' God, an' nae mislipp'nin a' the langest tryst wi' him.

Till the sang-maister, till Jeduthun: ane heigh-lilt o' David's.

SURELY wi' God suld my saul be lown? frae himlane has been a' my heal-ha'din.

2 Surely himlane's been my ha'din an' health; my heigh ha'din-up, I sal nane mislippen.

3 How lang will ye ettle mischieff for a man? ye sal e'en be deadschuten, the hail o' ye: like some out-schotten dyke, like some ill-thrawn wa', ye sal gang.

4 They tak thought for nought but till ding him laigh: leasin 's their life; wi' their mouthe they wiss weel, i' their wame they wiss ill, till him: Selah.

5 Surely wi' God suld my saul be lown? for lang on himlane I hae weary't:

6 Surely himlane 's been my ha'din an' health: my heigh ha'din-up, I sal nane be steerit.

7 On God 's my heal-ha'din, an' gloiry guid: my hainin-towir an' my tryste 's in God.

8 Lippen ye till himsel ever mair, ye folk; toom out yer hearts afore him: God, for oursels, is a to-flight: Selah.

9 Surely sons o' the cotter are naught; an' sons o' the carl are but leasin? till weigh them on bawks the twa; are they no baith lighter nor naething?

10 Till stouthrief lippen ye nane, an' o' herriment ne'er mak a bost: on gear, tho' it growes itslane, ye suld ne'er lat yer heart hae trost.

11 Ance quo' God himsel; twice hae I heard the same: That might until God effeirs.

12 An' nieborlie-will, O LORD, effeirs forby till thee; for till ilka man will ye pay hame, as his ain han's-wark sal be.

Psalm LXIII.

God's gree better tell his ain folk, nor wa'ls a' watir i' the wustlan'.

Ane heigh-lilt o' David's; whan he taigl't i' the wustlan' o' Judea.

O GOD, ye are God o' my ain; wi' the glintin I sought yersel: my saul, it maun win till thee; my bouk, it clings for yerlane; in a dry drowthy lan', whar nae watirs be:

2 Till see ye again i' yer halie howff; till leuk on yer might an' yer gloiry syne.

3 For yer gudeness is mair nor life, my lips sal gie laud till thee:

4 Sae blythe maun I bid thee, ay while I live; my loov's I maun lift till that name o' thine.

5 As wi' creesh an' wi' talch, sal my saul be sta't ; an' wi' liltin lips sal my mouthe gang free:

6 Whan I think o' yersel on my bed o' dule; whan I wauken at night, I sal mind on thee.

7 For ye 'been a stoop till mysel; i' the scaum o' yer wings I sal lilt an' laud.

8 My saul, it hauds eftir ye close; yer right han', till me it 's a gad.

9 Bot, my life wha wad herry till dead, lat them gang till yirth's laighest line:

10 Lat them stoit on the nieve o' the swurd; an' be glaum for the foxes syne.

11 Bot the king sal be blythe in God; fa' that swear by him, fu' blythe sal they be: sae the gab sal be steekit for ay, o' them wha can yammir a lie.

Psalm LXIV.

The hame-come o' lies an' ill-willin, on the liean ill-willer himsel.

Till the sang-maister: ane heigh-lilt o' David's.

HEARKEN, O God, till the sugh o' my sighan; frae dread o' the fae, haud atowre my life.

2 Hap me fu' lown frae the whush o' ill-doers; frae the dinsome thrang o' wha wark mischieff:

3 Wha whatt their tongues like a swurd; wha straik out their bolts o' canker'd crack:

4 Till hit the aefauld, in some canny neuk; they hit him fu' snell, an' they dread nae wrack.

5 They stoop themsels weel wi' the word o' ill; they claiver o' settin girns: Wha sal leuk for them syne? they threep.

6 They ripe out mischieff wi' a will; they ripe an' they ripe, till they're dune. O gin the benmaist neuk, an' heart o' ilk ane, be-na deep!

7 Bot God sal sen' them a shaft fu' snell sal their blaudin be:

8 Their ain tongue, they sal bring on themsels; wha sees them, ilk ane, they sal flee.

9 An' ilk mither's-son sal dread, an' God's ain wark they sal tell: na, the wark o' his han' they sal heed.

10 Lat the rightous be blythe i' the LORD, an' lippen fu' lang till himsel; an' lat a' that are single in heart gie laud wi' a liltin-spell.

Psalm LXV.

Nae liltin o' laud at Zioun an God be na thar: narest till him, maun be blythest; but his gude-will 's atowre us a': the yirth hersel 's fu' fain at his comin.

Till the sang-maister: ane heigh-lilt an' sang o' David's.

THAR 'S a whush for yersel, O God, i' the liltin o' laud at Zioun; till yersel sal the tryst be made-guid:

2 Till yersel, wha can hearken prayer, a' flesh be till airt its road.

3 Words wi' a faut, are owre mony for me, our deeds wi' a faut, ye sal dicht them by.

4 Blythe abune a' maun he be, ye wale an' tak hame wi' yersel; he sal bide i' yer faulds sae fine: bot we sal be stegh't wi' the gude o' yer houss, that halie biggen o' thine.

5 Sair wonners, O God, our heal-ha'din, in right ye hae gar'd us ken; tryste till a' ends o' the yirth, an' till them owre the sea that fen:

6 Rightin the hills in his strenth, graith't wi' nae end o' might:

7 Whushin the sugh o' the fludes, the sugh o' their waves, an' the peopil's sigh.

8 An' the dwallers on yonder-maist-yird, are fleyed at the trysts ye sen': the outgang o' mornin, the hame-come o' night, ye mak them baith liltin fain.

9 Ye win till the yirth, an' ye drook it; ye seep it fu' saft wi' the spring-tide o' God: ye lucken their corn i' the growin, whan sae ye hae ready'd the road.

10 Her furs ye swak wi' a spatefu'; ye sloken her rigs wi' showers; her braird ye bring blythely awa.

11 Sae the year ye hae crown'd wi' yer gudeness; an' yer roungaens dreep rowth as they gang:

12 They dreep on the bawks i' the wustlan'; an' the knowes, they are graithit wi' sang:

13 The lea's, they are happit wi' fleeshes; an' the howes, they are theekit wi' corn they skreigh wi' content o' pleasance; na, wi' joye they're a' liltin thrang.

Psalm LXVI.

A lilt i' the name o' Jakobs folk, an they kent weel how till lilt it.

Till the sang-maister: ane heigh-lilt an' kirk-sang.

LILT wi' a sugh till God, O a' the yirth:

2 Lilt loud till his name the weight o' its fame, gie himsel a' the weight o' his gloiry.

3 Quo' ye until God, How awsome in warks o' yer ain! I' the feck o' yer might, sal ill-willers o' thine lout like liears afore ye.

4 Lout till yersel, sal a' the yirth loud till yersel sal they lilt; they sal lilt till yer name fu' cheerie: Selah.

5 Here-awa syne, see the warks o' God; sae dread a' he does till the bairns o' yird:

6 He swapit the sea for a bawk o' san'; on fit, they gaed owre the tide: fu' blythe in himsel war we than.

7 He hauds ay a heigh han' o' his ain; his een skance atowre on the hethen: lat-na thrawart-loons, that wad fain rebel, mak owre heigh o' themsel: Selah.

8 Blythe-bid our ain God, O a' ye folk, an' the sugh o' his praise lat them hearken:

9 Wha hauds ay our life in livan rife; an' tholes-na our fit till stacher.

10 For ye kent us fu' brawlie, O God; ye tried us as siller is tried:

11 Ye fankit us roun wi' the net; ye pat graith on our lisk like a snude:

12 Carls on our croun ye gar'd ride; we gaed e'en through the fire an' the flude bot ye brought us till rowthe o' gude.

13 I sal ben till yer houss wi' bleezan gifts; my trysts I maun redd wi' thee:

14 What my lips they cam out wi', my ain mouthe spak, whan dule it was sair on me.

15 Hansels o' guid I sal heise, wi' the talch o' tups, till thee: o' knowte an' o' gaits till yersel, sal I mak ane offran free: Selah.

16 Here-awa syne, an' hearken ye; I sal tell yo, ilk ane wha has dread o' God, what he for my saul has dune:

17 I cry't till himlane wi' my mouthe; an' his gree was aneth my tongue.

18 Gin I leuk like mischieff i' my heart, the LORD wad ne'er hearken ava':

19 Bot God surely hearken'd mysel; he tentit the sugh o' my ca'.

20 Blythe, blythe may God be; wha thol'd ay my bidden wi' him, an' ne'er took his gude frae me!

Psalm LXVII.

A lilt o' laud for nieborly folk, till the God that hauds a' fu' nieborlie.

Till the sang-maister on Neginoth: ane heigh-lilt an' kirk-sang.

GOD be gude till us; aye, an' be kind till us; glint his face on us: Selah.

2 That yer gate may be kent on the yirth; an' yer health amang a' the hethen.

3 Lat the folk gie ye laud, O God; lat the folk gie ye laud, the hail o' them.

4 Lat nieborly kins be blythe an' lilt: for the folk ye sal right i' the gate that's straught; an' the kins i' the lan', ye sal niebor them: Selah.

5 Lat the folk gie ye laud, O God; lat the folk gie ye laud, the hail o' them.

6 Her outcome the yirth sal mak guid; an' God, our ain God, sal blythe-bid us:

7 God, he sal blythe-bid oursels; an' a' ends o' the yirth sal be fley'd o' him!

Psalm LXVIII.

The story o' Jakob's folk whan God brought them out frae thral, wi' mony a lilt o' laud for his wonner-warks than: ettled, aiblins, for the flittin o' the ark by David.

Till the sang-maister: ane heigh-lilt o' David's, an' a sang.

GOD sal win up; his faes sal be skail'd; an' his haters afore him sal flee.

2 As the reek blaws owre, ye sal ding them by: as wax i' the lowe gaes awa'; sae fast, afore the face o' God, the warkers o' wrang sal fa'.

3 Bot the rightous sal ay be blythe; they sal lowp afore him fu' fain: na, wi' vera blythe-heid they sal sten'.

4 Sing ye till God, sing a sang till his name: uphaud wha rides on the croun o' the lift, by that name o' his ain, by JAH; be blythe afore him an' a'.

5 Faither o' faitherless folk, an' righter o' widows forby, is God in his ain halie howff.

6 God gars the nieborless dwall at hame; he lowses the thirl out o' ban'; bot thrawart loons get leave till bide, whar they are, in a drowthy lan'.

7 O God, whan ye fuhred afore yer folk; whan ye fuhred in the wustlan': Selah.

8 Yirth trimml't hersel; na, the lifts afore God, they war skailin: yon Sinai sheuk afore God, the God o' Israel 's walin.

9 Ye toom't out a gush o' gudewill, O God; yer heritage syne, sae uncolie gane, ye stoopit it ay frae failin.

10 That thrang o' yer ain couth fen i' the same; frae yer gudeness, O God, rowth ye made-guid till the puirest.

11 The Laird o' the warl' gied the word; ane unco gath'ran soundit.

12 Kings o' companies fled outright, an' the hame-keeper pairtit the rievan.

13 Tho' ye had lieu i' yer ain patneuk; the wings o' the doo wi' siller dicht, an' her feddirs wi' gowden sheen, was eneugh:

14 Whan Almighty dang kings wi' her wings, scho was brighter nor snaw on Salmon.

15 The height o' God, it was Bashan height; a heigh amang heights was Bashan.

16 Whatfor lowp ye, ye haughty hills? This is the hill it likes God still, till dwall in: na, the LORD himsel evir mair ettles it, for his hallan.

17 God's sleds o' war twenty thousan are; thousans on thousans; the LORD, as on Sinai, a' by himlane, amang them.

18 Ye hae skail'd the height; ye hae bun' the ban'; ye taen hansels on man-aye, the rebel clan; till haud God the LORD amang them.

19 Blythe, blythe be the LORD, the day lang; wha wearies us ay wi' his blessin: a God like himsel is our ain heal-ha'din: Selah.

20 A God fu' mighty 's this God our ain; Salvatioun's God: an' wi' him that's baith LORD an' Laird, are the outgates frae death till his peopil.

21 Bot God sal ding his ill-willers' croun, an' the hairy scaup o' the man that gangs on, i' the gate o' his ain ill-doens.

22 Quo' the LORD, I maun fesh frae Bashan; frae the howes o' the sea, I'se fesh hame:

23 That yer feet ye might weet, i' the blude o' yer faes; the tongue o' yer dogs, i' the same.

24 Yer gates, O God, they hae seen; the gates o' my God, o' my King, i' that howff o' his ain sae halie:

25 Ferst gaed the lilters, syne the sang-tilters; the lasses wi' timbrels atween.

26 O bless ye God, i' the thrang o' the kirks; the LORD, a' ye wha frae Israel spring.

27 Thar gaed young Benjamin, laird o' their ain; princes o' Judah, their council fine: princes o' Zabulon, princes o' Naphtali syne.

28 That God o' yer ain yer strenth sal hain; strenthen, O God, the wark ye hae wrought for ourlane.

29 For that howff o' yer ain, owre Jerus'lem till be; kings o' the folk sal sen' gifts till thee.

30 Wyte the wild brute o' the bogs; the thrang o' the knowte, wi' the stirks o' the clans, till they lout themsels a' wi' siller-trokes: ding ye the folk that are fechtan-fain.

31 Gran' eneugh a' frae AEgyp sal come; Cush, until God, sal sune rax her han's.

32 Lilt until God, ye kingryks o' yirth; lilt ye fu' loud till the Laird o' the lan': Selah.

33 Till wha rides, frae langsyne, on the lift o' lifts: Hearken! he ettles a skreigh, wi' that ca' o' his ain, sae gran'.

34 Gie the might till himsel, that's God's. His ha'din 's owre Israel heigh; an' his might, it's amang the cluds.

35 Dreadfu' eneugh, O God, are ye frae yer howffs sae halie. Israel's God himlane, is the God that gies strenth, an' might mony feck, till his folk: Blessed be God, ay!

Psalm LXIX.

David, i' the sairest dwaum about the biggen o' God's houss, wytit wi' rievan an' a' the rest o't, pleans uncolie to God: God sal rax him abune a' siclike, an' his ill-willers a' sal ding owre.

Till the sang-maister on Shoshannim: ane o' David's.

SAIF me, O God; for the watirs win hame till the Saul.

2 Am lair't i' the clay sae deep, nae stanan hae I: I hae won till the neth-maist flude, an' the spate has gane owre me braid.

3 Am forfairn wi' my skreighan; my hals, it's as dry: my een wear awa, as I wait on my God.

4 Thranger nor hairs on my head, dare the folk that ill-will me for nought; wha gird at me ay, are mighty; folk that ill-will me for nought: syne sent I hame, what I took-na awa.

5 My folly, O God, ye ken weel yerlane; an' fauts o' my ain are no happit frae thee.

6 Bot lat nane, for my faut, hing their heads, wha think lang for yersel, O LORD, LORD o' hosts: Lat nane, O Israel's God, wha seek for yersel, gang gyte for the sake o' me.

7 For, for thee I hae tholed the scorn; schame, it has happit my face:

8 Frem hae I been till my brether; no-kent till my ain mither's sons.

9 For the kiaugh o' yer houss, it has glaum'd me up; an' the jeers o' wha gibet yersel, they e'en cam a' down on me.

10 Gin I grat, an' wastit my life, siclike was a scorn o' my ain:

11 An I cled mysel owre wi' harn, syne I was a by-word till them:

12 They claiver'd again me, wha sat i' the yett; wha sweel'd at the bicker, I was their sang.

13 Bot me, O LORD, my bidden 's yer ain i' the likely time: O God, i' the feck o' yer gudeness, hearken me hame; i' the trewth o' heal-ha'din that's thine.

14 Rax me atowre frae the clay, an' let me nane sink i' the troch: frae my ill-willers a' lat me gang, an' eke frae the howe o' the loch.

15 Lat-na the spate win atowre me; an' lat-na the watir-weight smoor me; nor the heugh steek her mouthe on me.

16 Hearken me, LORD, for yer gudeness is gude; i' the rowth o' yer pitie, leuk owre till me.

17 An' hap-na yer face frae yer loon that's in ban'; whan thar's stretts at my yett, fy haste ye, till hear me.

18 Come in-owre till my saul, rax her out frae sic thral; for my ill-willers' sake, O wear me!

19 My scorn ye ken weel, an' the schame that I thole, an' the wytin I dree; ilk fae that I hae, they're afore ye.

20 Sic scorn, it's riv'n my heart: an' I weary'd an' pined for a frien' till 'plean, bot no ane: an' for folk till speak lown, but fand nane.

21 Poisoun pat they i' my meat; an' i' my drowth, they gied me till drink draegs o' the canker'd wine.

22 Lat their buird be a girn afore them; an' their trysts but a net i' their gate:

23 Lat their een be smoor'd i' the mirk; an' their lisks, haud them ay quaukin:

24 Toom out abune them yer wuth; an' the torne o' yer angir fang them:

25 Wust lat their biggens lye; an' nae livin bide i' their shielins:

26 For they dang, o' free will, wham yerlane was dingin; an' till the stoun o' yer ain woundit folk, they eke't the fash o' their talkin.

27 Eke ye ill, till a' ill o' their ain; an' ne'er lat them ben till yer rightin:

28 Lat them e'en be dicht out frae the Buik o' Life, an' nane wi' the rightous be written.

29 Bot mylane, sae forfocht'n an' wae, yer heal-ha'din, O God, be my stoop.

30 I sal lilt till God's name wi' a sang; I sal heise him fu' heigh, wi' liltin o' laud:

31 An' mair till the LORD sal it he, nor a stot, nor a stirk wi' baith horn an' cloot.

32 A' lown-livin folk, they sal see; wha spier ay for God, sal be blythe; an' the hearts o' ye a' sal thrive.

33 For the LORD he sal hearken the puir; an' his folk in sic thrall, he sal ne'er mislippen.

34 Lilt till him syne sal the lift an' the lan'; the fludes, an' ilk haet that gangs wurblin thro' them.

35 For God sal haud Zioun fu' sikker, an' the towns o' Judah sal big: an' thar sal the folk mak their dwallin, an' sal haud their ain right i' the rig.

36 An' his thirlfolk's ain outcome sal fa' the same; an' a' frien's o' his name, thar sal bide.

Psalm LXX.

A canny plea wi' God, again ill-doers.

Till the sang-maister: ane o' David's; till keep God in mind.

O GOD, till be skowth to me; LORD, till be stoop to me, haste ye an' gang:

2 Blate an' be-fule'd be they, wha seek the life o' me; hame'ard an' gyte gae they, wha wiss me wrang.

3 Wha cry Ha, ha! till me, fee for their scorn o' me, turn'd bak lat them be:

4 Bot fyke an' be fain in thee, a' wha spier eftir thee: an' wha lo'e that health o' thine, ay lat them cry fu' fain, God be on hie!

5 Bot puir an' forfairn am I; O God, mak haste to me: strenth o' mine, yett o' mine, ye are yerlane; LORD GOD ALMIGHTY, taigle ye nane!

Psalm LXXI.

David tells a' how the LORD has guided him; has lauded him loud lang-syne, an' sal laud him ay till he die.

[Wants the headin, altho' it be David's.]

TILL yerlane, O LORD, I hae lippen'd; lat me nane hing my head for ay:

2 In yer rightousness redd me, an' rax me atowre; lout me yer lug fu' laigh, an' wair yer heal-ha'din on me.

3 Be ye till mysel for a hainin-towir, till win ben to fu' sikkerly ay: ye hae ettled till haud me saif; for my craig an' my castel are ye.

4 My God, lat me gang frae the han' o' the wrang; frae the grip o' the godlowse an' bluidy carl:

5 For yerlane are my tryste, O LORD, my LORD; my tryste sen I cam to the warl.

6 On yerlane, frae the wame was I flang; frae my mither's bouk ye weise'd me awa: o' yersel, ay sen syne, 's been my sang.

7 Like some ferlie was I, till the feck o' the folk; bot yerlane war my stoop o' strenth:

8 Lat my mouthe be ay filled wi' yer laud; wi' yer loffliheid a' the day lang.

9 Fling me na by i' the time o' eld; whan my pith wins awa, dinna lea' me till pine.

10 For my ill-willers claiver anent me; wha leuk for my life, they tak thought like ane.

11 God, quo' they, has forlied him: thrang him an' fang him now; for till redd him atowre thar's nane.

12 Be-na far frae mysel, O God; my God, fy haste ye till help me.

13 Schame'd an' a' glaum'd, be the faes o' my life; theekit wi' scorn an' wi' lowe o' the face, be they a' that wad ettle me ill.

14 Bot mysel, ay the mair I sal bide on thee; an' till praise thee, can ne'er sing my fill.

15 Yer rightousness, a' the day lang, my mouthe it sal try till tell; that health o' yer ain, for the count o' the same, it's mair than I ken mysel.

16 I sal fuhre i' the strenth o' the LORD, my LORD; an' yer rightousness, nane but yer ain, I sal ay haud in guid record.

17 Ye hae taught me, O God, frae my youth; an' yer warks o' wonner sen-syne, I hae made them weel-kent eneugh.

18 An' now that 'am auld an' grey, O God, mislippen me nane; till yer might I hae tell'd, till the folk that are now; an' yer pith, till a' sal come eftir-hen.

19 An' yer rightousness, God sae hie, wha wonners hae wrought: O God, what-na god sal e'er kythe like thee!

20 Yersel, wha hae gar'd me see stretts mony feck an' sair; ye sal weise me till life tho' I die; frae the dreadest howes o' yird, ye sal e'en mak me risin-free:

21 Ye sal double my might an' mair; ye sal graith me a' roun wi' gude-gree.

22 Syne sal I sing till yersel, wi' a' that belangs till the quair; yer trewth, O my God, I sal tell: wi' the harp I sal lilt till thee, sae halie in Israel!

23 My lips sal be fain, whan I sing till thee; an' my life that ye fee'd frae the dead:

24 An' my tongue the hail day thy right-rechtin sal tell: for daiver't, for taiver't are they, wha ettle mischieff till mysel.

Psalm LXXII.

Nae en' o' wyssheid, an' loffliheid, an' gudeliheid, an' laud far Solomon: a fain-hearted faither's bidden for a braw son's ill to bound.

Ane heigh-lilt: for Solomon.

WAIR yer rightins, O God, on the King; an' yer right on the King's ain son:

2 He sal right-recht yer folk wi' right; an' yer puir anes wi' right-rechtin, syne.

3 The heights sal bring peace till the folk; an' the knowes intil rightousness, than:

4 He sal right a' the puir o' the folk, an' the sons o' the feckless sal fen'; bot the loon wi' the heavy han', he sal a' intil finders sen'.

5 They sal fear thee ay, while the sun sal shine, or the mune schaw her face; the folk that sal come an' gang.

6 He sal fa' like the rain on the swaith; like the saft dreepin showirs on the lan'.

7 The rightous, fu' green in his days sal growe; an' peace be enew, till the mune i' the lift sal pine.

8 Frae sea till sea sal he ring; an' eke frae the flude that rowes, till the yonder-maist neuks o' the lan'.

9 Folk that bide i' the drowth, afore his face sal cour; an' a' that wiss ill till him, they sal lick the vera stoure.

10 Kings frae Tarshish, an' the isles, till him sal a hansel bring; kings out o' Sheba an' Seba, sal e'en hae a gift till han'.

11 No a king, but sal lout till him; a' the hethen sal thirl till himlane:

12 For the feckless that skreighs, he sal saif; an' the puir, and wha ne'er had a stoop o' his ain;

13 On the weak an' forfairn he sal lay fu' light; an' the lives o' the frienless sal hain.

14 Frae guile an' mischieff he sal redd their life; an' their bluid sal be dear in his sight.

15 Live lang sal he syne, an' sal gie till him o' the best o' Sheba's gowd; evir an' ay for him sal he pray, an' till him ilka day gie laud.

16 A nieffu' o' corn i' the lan' sal be, on the head o' the hills sae toom: like Lebanon's sel, its growthe sal swee; an' roun the town, like fothir on yird, they sal blume.

17 His name, it sal stay for evir an' ay; his name, it sal win ayont the sun: in him sal the folk be blythe, an' blythe sal they a' bid himsel.

18 O blythe be the LORD that's God, the God o' Israel; wha warks o' wonner himlane can do.

19 An' blythe be his name sae gran', a' time that 's to come, unto: his gloiry fill the hail yirth still; Amen, an' sae lat it be!

20 The biddens o' David, Jesse's son, wi' this lilt they maun endit be.