The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd Centenary Edition. With a Memoir of the Author, by the Rev. Thomas Thomson ... Poems and Life. With Many Illustrative Engravings [by James Hogg] |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
|
|
| 1. |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
The Miser's Warning.
|
|
|
|
|
|
 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
The Miser's Warning.
There was a carle, right worldly wise,
Wha died without remede,
Yet fought his way to paradise
After that he was dead.
And the first soul that he met there,
Was of a maiden, mild and fair,
Wha once had fallen into a snare,
Whilk led to evil deed.
Wha died without remede,
Yet fought his way to paradise
After that he was dead.
And the first soul that he met there,
Was of a maiden, mild and fair,
Wha once had fallen into a snare,
Whilk led to evil deed.
“Oh, Mrs. Madam!” cried John Græme,
“I wonder mightilye
How leddy of such evil fame
Gat into this countrye!
If such as you get footing here,
Then auld John Græme hath cause to fear
He hath the wrong sow by the ear,
And sore dismay'd is he.
“I wonder mightilye
How leddy of such evil fame
Gat into this countrye!
If such as you get footing here,
Then auld John Græme hath cause to fear
He hath the wrong sow by the ear,
And sore dismay'd is he.
“Is this a place of blessedness,
Or is it a place of woe;
Or is it a place of middle space,
That lies between the two?
For there's a mildness in your mien,
And blitheness in your bright blue eyne,
Whilk certes sennil should be seen,
Where wicked dames do go.”
Or is it a place of woe;
Or is it a place of middle space,
That lies between the two?
For there's a mildness in your mien,
And blitheness in your bright blue eyne,
Whilk certes sennil should be seen,
Where wicked dames do go.”
“Oho, John Græme! are you but there?
Did you ne'er hear of this,
That everilk place where spirits fare
To them is place of bliss?
That men and women, by God's might,
Were framed with spirits beaming bright,
Stepping from darkness into light,
Though sunk in sin's abyss?
Did you ne'er hear of this,
That everilk place where spirits fare
To them is place of bliss?
That men and women, by God's might,
Were framed with spirits beaming bright,
Stepping from darkness into light,
Though sunk in sin's abyss?
“A thousand years, or thousands ten,
Not reckon'd once can be;
The immortal spirit rises on
To all eternitye;
It rises on, or more or less,
In knowledge and in happiness,
Progressing still to purer bliss,
That end can never see.”
Not reckon'd once can be;
The immortal spirit rises on
To all eternitye;
It rises on, or more or less,
In knowledge and in happiness,
Progressing still to purer bliss,
That end can never see.”
John shook his head, and primm'd his mou,
And claw'd his lug amain,
And says, “Fair dame, if this be true,
How comes it men have lain
In darkness to their spirit's frame,
Their Maker's manage and his aim,
Quhill lighten'd by ane sinful dame,
When light can prove no gain?
And claw'd his lug amain,
And says, “Fair dame, if this be true,
How comes it men have lain
In darkness to their spirit's frame,
Their Maker's manage and his aim,
Quhill lighten'd by ane sinful dame,
When light can prove no gain?
“Sooth, it is ane pleasant doctrine
For wicked hearts, I trow,
And suits the lordly libertine,
And ladies such as you—”
Then the fair dame, with witching wile,
Upraised her eyne, withouten guile,
Flung back her locks, and smiled a smile,
And says, “How judgest thou?
For wicked hearts, I trow,
And suits the lordly libertine,
And ladies such as you—”
Then the fair dame, with witching wile,
Upraised her eyne, withouten guile,
Flung back her locks, and smiled a smile,
And says, “How judgest thou?
“Is it for sauntering, sordid sot,
A hypocritic craven,
Say who is wicked, and who is not,
And widdershin with Heaven?
Do you not know in heart full well,
That if there is a burning hell,
You do deserve the place yoursell,
As well as any leevin'?
A hypocritic craven,
Say who is wicked, and who is not,
And widdershin with Heaven?
Do you not know in heart full well,
That if there is a burning hell,
You do deserve the place yoursell,
As well as any leevin'?
“You judge like men, and judge amiss,
Of simple maiden's crime,
But through temptations fathomless,
You cannot see a styme.
Through dark and hidden snares of sin,
And warnings of the soul within,
The eyne of mortal may not win,
Within the bounds of time.
Of simple maiden's crime,
But through temptations fathomless,
You cannot see a styme.
Through dark and hidden snares of sin,
And warnings of the soul within,
The eyne of mortal may not win,
Within the bounds of time.
“But would you know what brought me here,
To this calm world of thought,
It was the sad and silent tear,
That sweet repentance brought;
Of all the things on earth that be
Whilk God and angels love to see,
It is the heart's deep agonye
For souls so dearly bought.
To this calm world of thought,
It was the sad and silent tear,
That sweet repentance brought;
Of all the things on earth that be
Whilk God and angels love to see,
It is the heart's deep agonye
For souls so dearly bought.
“'Tis that which brings the heavenly bliss
Down like the morning dew,
On lost sheep of the wilderness,
Its longings to renew,
Till the poor lamb that went astray
In vice's wild and witless way,
Is led, as by an heavenly ray,
The light of life to view.
Down like the morning dew,
On lost sheep of the wilderness,
Its longings to renew,
Till the poor lamb that went astray
In vice's wild and witless way,
Is led, as by an heavenly ray,
The light of life to view.
367
“And let me tell you, auld John Græme,
Though here you seem to be,
You have through darkness, flood, and flame,
A weary weird to dree,
Unless you do, at God's command,
Repent of all your sins off hand,
Whilk in your hateful native land
Have grievous been to see.
Though here you seem to be,
You have through darkness, flood, and flame,
A weary weird to dree,
Unless you do, at God's command,
Repent of all your sins off hand,
Whilk in your hateful native land
Have grievous been to see.
“A greater sinner was not born
In dale of fair Scotland:
You know you stole Jock Laidlaw's corn,
And broke his heart and hand.
And though men knew you were foresworn,
Yet, when his family fell forlorn,
You treated their complaint with scorn,
And broke them from the land.
In dale of fair Scotland:
You know you stole Jock Laidlaw's corn,
And broke his heart and hand.
And though men knew you were foresworn,
Yet, when his family fell forlorn,
You treated their complaint with scorn,
And broke them from the land.
“Oh fie, John Græme! you sordid slave!
It sets you weel to crack;
You cheating, lying, scurvy knave,
Your heart is raven black!
Instead of a progressive pace,
In virtue, knowledge, and in grace,
Thou art lagging everilk day and space,
And fearfully gone back.
It sets you weel to crack;
You cheating, lying, scurvy knave,
Your heart is raven black!
Instead of a progressive pace,
In virtue, knowledge, and in grace,
Thou art lagging everilk day and space,
And fearfully gone back.
“And there's a thraldom biding thee,
Thine heart cannot conceive,
Worried a thousand years to be,
Without the least reprieve.
Time was—time is—but will not be,
For, when I pass from warning thee,
An angel, with thy death's decree,
The yetts of heaven shall leave.”
Thine heart cannot conceive,
Worried a thousand years to be,
Without the least reprieve.
Time was—time is—but will not be,
For, when I pass from warning thee,
An angel, with thy death's decree,
The yetts of heaven shall leave.”
“Alake!” says John, “it grieves me sore,
Short mercy I shall find;
I thought I had been dead before,
But how I cannot mind.
Much to repentance I incline,
And I could pray, and I could whine:
But to give back what now is mine,
To that I shall not bind.”
Short mercy I shall find;
I thought I had been dead before,
But how I cannot mind.
Much to repentance I incline,
And I could pray, and I could whine:
But to give back what now is mine,
To that I shall not bind.”
Then John knelt down in humble way
Upon the sward of heaven,
And pray'd as loud as man could pray,
That he might be forgiven.
“John!” cried his wife, who lay awake,
“What horrid din is this you make?
Get up, old braying brock, and take
Some breath to end this stevin.”
Upon the sward of heaven,
And pray'd as loud as man could pray,
That he might be forgiven.
“John!” cried his wife, who lay awake,
“What horrid din is this you make?
Get up, old braying brock, and take
Some breath to end this stevin.”
“Whisht, wife!” says John, “for I am dead,
And praying on the sky.
What's this? I know my soul is fled,
Or very soon must fly;
For there is an angel on the way;
How long he takes, I cannot say;
But or to-morrow, or to-day,
Poor old John Græme must die;
And praying on the sky.
What's this? I know my soul is fled,
Or very soon must fly;
For there is an angel on the way;
How long he takes, I cannot say;
But or to-morrow, or to-day,
Poor old John Græme must die;
“And, wife, we must repent for life,
And all men's goods restore.”
“The fiend be there, then!” quod the wife—
“Though they were ten times more.
'Tis good to keep the grip one hath,
Either for life, or yet for death.
Repent and pray while you have breath,
And all your sins give o'er;
And all men's goods restore.”
“The fiend be there, then!” quod the wife—
“Though they were ten times more.
'Tis good to keep the grip one hath,
Either for life, or yet for death.
Repent and pray while you have breath,
And all your sins give o'er;
“And take your chance, like many a ship,
And many a better man.”
John rose, and swore he would restore;
And syne begoud to bann
All wicked wives, of bad intent,
Who would not let their men repent,
Without their froward cursed consent,
That hell might them trepan.
And many a better man.”
John rose, and swore he would restore;
And syne begoud to bann
All wicked wives, of bad intent,
Who would not let their men repent,
Without their froward cursed consent,
That hell might them trepan.
John look'd at all his ewes and kye—
Oh! they were fair to see:
His gold he counted three times bye;
The tear blinded his ee:
But still he swore he would restore,
And blamed the wife, and wept full sore,
Counting his treasure o'er and o'er,
And graening grievouslye.
Oh! they were fair to see:
His gold he counted three times bye;
The tear blinded his ee:
But still he swore he would restore,
And blamed the wife, and wept full sore,
Counting his treasure o'er and o'er,
And graening grievouslye.
They yermit and flaitte a summer's day,
Of what was to be done;
And just as spread the gloaming gray,
Behind the setting sun,
The angel with the warrant came;
John felt his vitals in a flame;
Ghastly he stared upon his dame,
But language he had none.
Of what was to be done;
And just as spread the gloaming gray,
Behind the setting sun,
The angel with the warrant came;
John felt his vitals in a flame;
Ghastly he stared upon his dame,
But language he had none.
He gave a shiver, and but one,
And still his gold he eyed;
He pointed to it—gave a groan—
And as he lived he died,
The slave of that o'erpowering vice,
That dead'ning, craving Avarice,
That turns the human heart to ice,
Unblest, unsatisfied.
And still his gold he eyed;
He pointed to it—gave a groan—
And as he lived he died,
The slave of that o'erpowering vice,
That dead'ning, craving Avarice,
That turns the human heart to ice,
Unblest, unsatisfied.
This carle was hated while he lived,
Unwept when he was gone;
But where he went, or how received,
To me was not made known.
But on this truth I can recline,
That he's where mercy's rays combine—
In better hands nor his or mine,
Which men will not disown.
Unwept when he was gone;
But where he went, or how received,
To me was not made known.
But on this truth I can recline,
That he's where mercy's rays combine—
In better hands nor his or mine,
Which men will not disown.
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |