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George MacDonald - The Twa Gordons
Work rating: Low

I.

There was John Gordon an` Archibold,
An` a yerl`s twin sons war they;
Quhan they war are an` twenty year auld
They fell oot on their ae birthday.

"Turn ye, John Gordon, nae brither to me!
Turn ye, fause an` fell!
Or doon ye s` gang, as black as a lee,
To the muckle deevil o` hell."

"An` quhat for that, Archie Gordon, I pray?
Quhat ill hae I dune to thee?"
"Twa-faced loon, ye sail rue this day
The answer I`m gauin to gie!

"For it`ll be roucher nor lady Janet`s,
An` loud i` the braid daylicht;
An` the wa` to speil is my iron mail,
No her castle-wa` by nicht!"

"I speilt the wa` o` her castle braw
I` the roarin win` yestreen;
An` I sat in her bower till the gloamin sta`
Licht-fittit ahint the mune."

"Turn ye, John Gordon—the twasum we s` twin!
Turn ye, an` haud yer ain;
For ane sall lie on a cauld weet bed—
An` I downa curse again!"

"O Archie, Janet is my true love—
notna speir leave o` thee!"
"Gien that be true, the deevil`s a sanct,
An` ye are no tellin a lee!"

Their suerds they drew, an` the fire-flauchts flew,
An` they shiftit wi` fendin feet;
An` the blude ran doon, till the grun a` roun
Like a verra bog was weet.

"O Archie, I hae gotten a cauld supper—
O` steel, but shortest grace!
Ae grip o` yer han` afore ye gang!
An` turn me upo` my face."

But he`s turnit himsel upon his heel,
An` wordless awa he`s gane;
An` the corbie-craw i` the aik abune
Is roupin for his ain.

II.

Lady Margaret, her hert richt gret,
Luiks ower the castle wa`;
Lord Archibold rides oot at the yett,
Ahint him his merry men a`.

Wi` a` his band, to the Holy Land
He`s boune wi` merry din,
His shouther`s doss a Christ`s cross,
In his breist an ugsome sin.

But the cross it brunt him like the fire.
Its burnin never ceast;
It brunt in an` in, to win at the sin
Lay cowerin in his breist.

A mile frae the shore o` the Deid Sea
The army haltit ae nicht;
Lord Archie was waukrife, an` oot gaed he
A walkin i` the munelicht.

Dour-like he gaed, wi` doon-hingin heid,
Quhill he cam, by the licht o` the mune,
Quhaur michty stanes lay scattert like sheep,
An` ance they worshipt Mahoun.

The scruff an` scum o` the deid shore gleamt
An` glintit a sauty gray;
The banes o` the deid stack oot o` its bed,
The sea lickit them as they lay.

He sat him doon on a sunken stane,
An` he sighit sae dreary an` deep:
"I can thole ohn grutten, lyin awauk,
But he comes whan I`m asleep!

"I wud gie my soul for ever an` aye
Intil en`less dule an` smert,
To sleep a` nicht like a bairn again,
An` cule my burnin hert!"

Oot frae ahint a muckle stane
Cam a voice like a huddy craw`s:
"Behaud there, Archibold Gordon!" it said,
"Behaud—ye hae ower gude cause!"

"I`ll say quhat I like," quod Archibold,
"Be ye ghaist or deevil or quhat!"
"Tak tent, lord Archie, gien ye be wise—
The tit winna even the tat!"

Lord Archibold leuch wi` a loud ha, ha,
Eerisome, grousum to hear:
"A bonny bargain auld Cloots wad hae,
It has ilka faut but fear!"

"Dune, lord Archibold?" craikit the voice;
"Dune, Belzie!" cried he again.—
The gray banes glimmert, the white saut shimmert—
Lord Archie was him lane.

Back he gaed straught, by the glowerin mune,
An` doun in his plaid he lay,
An` soun` he sleepit.—A ghaist-like man
Sat by his heid quhill the day.

An` quhanever he moanit or turnit him roun,
Or his broo gae token o` plycht,
The waukin man i` the sleepin man`s lug
Wud rown a murgeon o` micht.

An` the glint o` a smile wud quaver athort
The sleepin cheek sae broun,
An` a tear atween the ee-lids wud stert,
An` whiles rin fairly doun.

An` aye by his lair sat the ghaist-like man,
He watchit his sleep a` nicht;
An` in mail rust-broun, wi` his visorne doun,
Rade at his knee i` the fecht.

Nor anis nor twyis the horn-helmit chiel
Saved him frae deidly dad;
An` Archie said, "Gien this be the deil
He`s no sac black as he`s ca`d."

But wat ye fu` weel it wasna the deil
That tuik lord Archie`s pairt,
But his twin-brother John he thoucht deid an` gone,
Wi` luve like a lowe in his hert.

III.

Hame cam lord Archibold, weary wicht,
Hame til his ain countree;
An` he cried, quhan his castle rase in sicht,
"Noo Christ me sain an` see!"

He turnit him roun: the man in rust-broun
Was gane, he saw nocht quhair!
At the ha` door he lichtit him doun,
Lady Margaret met him there.

Reid, reid war her een, but hie was her mien,
An` her words war sharp an` sair:
"Welcome, Archie, to dule an` tene,
An` welcome ye s` get nae mair!

Quhaur is yer twin, lord Archibold,
That lay i` my body wi` thee?
I miss my mark gien he liesna stark
Quhaur the daylicht comesna to see!"

Lord Archibold dochtna speik a word
For his hert was like a stane;
He turnt him awa—an` the huddy craw
Was roupin for his ain.

"Quhaur are ye gaein, lord Archie," she said,
"Wi` yer lips sae white an` thin?"
"Mother, gude-bye! I`m gaein to lie
Ance mair wi` my body-twin."

Up she brade, but awa he gaed
Straucht for the corbie-tree;
For quhaur he had slain he thoucht to slay,
An` cast him doon an` dee.

"God guide us!" he cried wi` gastit rair,
"Has he lien there ever sin` syne?"
An` he thoucht he saw the banes, pykit an` bare,
Throu the cracks o` his harness shine.

"Oh Johnnie! my brither!" quo` Archibold
Wi` a hert-upheavin mane,
"I wad pit my soul i` yer wastit corp
To see ye alive again!"

"Haud ye there!" quod a voice frae oot the helm,
"A man suld heed quhat he says!"
An` the closin joints grippit an` tore the gerse
As up the armour rase:—

"Soul ye hae nane to ca` yer ain
An` its time to hand yer jaw!
The sleep it was thine, an` the soul it is mine:
Deil Archie, come awa!"

"Auld Hornie," quo` Archie, "twa words to that:
My burnin hert burns on;
An` the sleep, weel I wat, was nae reek frae thy pat,
For aye I was dreamin o` John!

"But I carena a plack for a soul sae black—
Wae`s me `at my mither bore me!
Put fire i` my breist an` fire at my back,
But ae minute set Johnnie afore me!"

The gantlets grippit the helm sae stoot
An` liftit frae chin an` broo:
An` Johnnie himsel keekit smilin oot:—
"O Archie, I hae ye noo!

"O` yer wee bit brod I was little the waur,
I crap awa my lane;
An` never a deevil cam ye nar,
`Cep ye coont yer Johnnie ane!"

Quhare quhylum his brither Johnnie lay,
Fell Archie upon his knees;
The words he said I dinna say,
But I`m sure they warna lees.
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