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George MacDonald - Win` That `Blaws
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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.
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