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George MacDonald - Godly Ballants
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I.—THIS SIDE AN` THAT.

The rich man sat in his father`s seat—
Purple an` linen, an` a`thing fine!
The puir man lay at his yett i` the street—
Sairs an` tatters, an` weary pine!

To the rich man`s table ilk dainty comes,
Mony a morsel gaed frae`t, or fell;
The puir man fain wud hae dined on the crumbs,
But whether he got them I canna tell.

Servants prood, saft-fittit, an` stoot,
Stan by the rich man`s curtained doors;
Maisterless dogs `at rin aboot
Cam to the puir man an` lickit his sores.

The rich man deeit, an` they buried him gran`,
In linen fine his body they wrap;
But the angels tuik up the beggar man,
An` layit him doun in Abraham`s lap.

The guid upo` this side, the ill upo` that—
Sic was the rich man`s waesome fa`!
But his brithers they eat, an` they drink, an` they chat,
An` carena a strae for their Father`s ha`!

The trowth`s the trowth, think what ye will;
An` some they kenna what they wad be at;
But the beggar man thoucht he did no that ill,
Wi` the dogs o` this side, the angels o` that!

II.—THE TWA BAUBEES.

Stately, lang-robit, an` steppin at ease,
The rich men gaed up the temple ha`;
Hasty, an` grippin her twa baubees,
The widow cam efter, booit an` sma`.

Their goud rang lood as it fell, an` lay
Yallow an` glintin, bonnie an` braw;
But the fowk roun the Maister h`ard him say
The puir body`s baubees was mair nor it a`.

III.—WHA`S MY NEIBOUR?

Doon frae Jerus`lem a traveller took
The laigh road to Jericho;
It had an ill name an` mony a crook,
It was lang an` unco how.

Oot cam the robbers, an` fell o` the man,
An` knockit him o` the heid,
Took a` whauron they couth lay their han`,
An` left him nakit for deid.

By cam a minister o` the kirk:
"A sair mishanter!" he cried;
"Wha kens whaur the villains may lirk!
I s` haud to the ither side!"

By cam an elder o` the kirk;
Like a young horse he shied:
"Fie! here`s a bonnie mornin`s wark!"
An` he spangt to the ither side.

By cam ane gaed to the wrang kirk;
Douce he trottit alang.
"Puir body!" he cried, an` wi` a yerk
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.
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