Ochil Idylls and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Hebrew shepherd on the hillside saw
A green buss bleezin', bleezin' aye awa':
Nae reek rase up, nae ashes fell adoun,
There was nae sough o' fire, nae cracklin' soun';
But clear an' constant was the steady flame,
And unconsumed the buss, an' aye the same.

Ye needna doot the shepherd glowr'd wi' awe
At sic a strange suspension o' the law
That dooms to swift destruction barn or byre,
Biggin' or buss that's grippit fast by fire.
In this he saw the presence o' his God,
And felt the ground was holy where he trod.

That selfsame miracle does yet appear;
We see it i' the spring o' ilka year,
When whin an' bonnier brume are fairly bloom'd,
And wavin' burn the same, and unconsumed—
But unregardit o' baith man an' woman,
Clean unregardit, for the sicht's sae common.

They see't a' gate, along the public way,
In gowden beauty bleezin', bleezin' aye,
Till ev'ry hill-tap heich an' lawland knowe
Owre Scotland braid like flamin' altars lowe.
Yet wha draws near wi' reverential feet?
Is there a shepherd casts his shoon to see 't?
Is there a thocht that God's within the buss,
Or that the grund is holy brighten'd thus?

Lord, blame them not, tho' dull an' undeservin',
Nor me, among the lave, Thy humble servan',
Wha am, wi' reason, aye sae gled to ken
O' a' your gudeness to the sons o' men—
Though whyles it is, an' lang is, undeteckit;
In quarters, though, whaur it was least expeckit.

An' then, Thou mauna be owre hard on us;
Moses himsel' gaed snoovlin' roun' the buss,
Glowrin' wi' vulgar wonder, till Thou spak',
An' garr'd him wi' a souple stend loup back.

Lord, if, tho' late, at last we own Thou'rt in
Amang the blossoms o' the brume an' whin,
We own 't oorsel's—Lord, gie us credit for't!
Withoot the need o' Thee to speak the word.