 | Poems by Cecil Frances Alexander |  |
“For it's o'er the bank, and it's o'er the linn,
And it's up to the meadow ridge—”
“Ay,” quo' the Stumpie hirpling in,
And he gied the wife a slap on the chin,
“But I cam' round by the bridge!”
And stump, stump, stump, to his plays again,
And o'er the stools and chairs;
Ye'd surely hae thought ten women and men
Were dancing there in pairs.
And it's up to the meadow ridge—”
“Ay,” quo' the Stumpie hirpling in,
And he gied the wife a slap on the chin,
“But I cam' round by the bridge!”
And stump, stump, stump, to his plays again,
And o'er the stools and chairs;
Ye'd surely hae thought ten women and men
Were dancing there in pairs.
173
They sold their gear, and over the sea
To a foreign land they went,
Over the sea—but wha can flee
His appointed punishment?
To a foreign land they went,
Over the sea—but wha can flee
His appointed punishment?
The ship swam over the water clear,
Wi' the help o' the eastern breeze;
But the vera first sound in guilty fear,
O'er the wide, smooth deck, that fell on their ear
Was the tapping o' them twa knees.
Wi' the help o' the eastern breeze;
But the vera first sound in guilty fear,
O'er the wide, smooth deck, that fell on their ear
Was the tapping o' them twa knees.
In the woods of wild America
Their weary feet they set;
But Stumpie was there the first, they say,
And he haunted them on to their dying day,
And he follows their children yet.
Their weary feet they set;
But Stumpie was there the first, they say,
And he haunted them on to their dying day,
And he follows their children yet.
I haud ye, never the voice of blood
Call'd from the earth in vain;
And never has crime won worldly good,
But it brought its after-pain.
Call'd from the earth in vain;
And never has crime won worldly good,
But it brought its after-pain.
This is the story o' Stumpie's Brae,
And the murderers' fearfu' fate:
Young man, your face is turn'd that way,
Ye'll be ganging the night that gate.
And the murderers' fearfu' fate:
Young man, your face is turn'd that way,
Ye'll be ganging the night that gate.
Ye'll ken it weel, through the few fir trees,
The house where they wont to dwell;
Gin ye meet ane there, as daylight flees,
Stumping about on the banes of his knees,
It'll jist be Stumpie himsel',
The house where they wont to dwell;
Gin ye meet ane there, as daylight flees,
Stumping about on the banes of his knees,
It'll jist be Stumpie himsel',
| Poems by Cecil Frances Alexander | |