Poems by Cecil Frances Alexander Edited, with a preface, by William Alexander |
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 | Poems by Cecil Frances Alexander |  |
Heard ye no' tell of the Stumpie's Brae?
Sit down, sit down, young friend,
I'll make your flesh to creep to-day,
And your hair to stan' on end.
Sit down, sit down, young friend,
I'll make your flesh to creep to-day,
And your hair to stan' on end.
Young man, it's hard to strive wi' sin,
And the hardest strife of a'
Is where the greed o' gain creeps in,
And drives God's grace awa'.
And the hardest strife of a'
Is where the greed o' gain creeps in,
And drives God's grace awa'.
Oh, it's quick to do, but it's lang to rue,
When the punishment comes at last,
And we would give the world to undo
The deed that's done and past.
When the punishment comes at last,
And we would give the world to undo
The deed that's done and past.
169
Over yon strip of meadow land,
And over the burnie bright,
Dinna ye mark the fir-trees stand,
Around yon gable white?
And over the burnie bright,
Dinna ye mark the fir-trees stand,
Around yon gable white?
I mind it weel, in my younger days
The story yet was rife:
There dwelt within that lonely place
A farmer man and his wife.
The story yet was rife:
There dwelt within that lonely place
A farmer man and his wife.
They sat together all alone,
One blessed autumn night,
When the trees without, and hedge, and stone,
Were white in the sweet moonlight.
One blessed autumn night,
When the trees without, and hedge, and stone,
Were white in the sweet moonlight.
The boys and girls were gone down all
A wee to the blacksmith's wake;
There pass'd ane on by the window small,
And guv the door a shake.
A wee to the blacksmith's wake;
There pass'd ane on by the window small,
And guv the door a shake.
The man he up and open'd the door—
When he had spoken a bit,
A pedlar men stepp'd into the floor,
Down he tumbled the pack he bore,
Right heavy pack was it.
When he had spoken a bit,
A pedlar men stepp'd into the floor,
Down he tumbled the pack he bore,
Right heavy pack was it.
“Gude save us a',” says the wife, wi' a smile,
“But yours is a thrivin' trade.”—
“Ay, ay, I've wander'd mony a mile,
And plenty have I made.”
“But yours is a thrivin' trade.”—
“Ay, ay, I've wander'd mony a mile,
And plenty have I made.”
170
The man sat on by the dull fire flame,
When the pedlar went to rest;
Close to his ear the Devil came,
And slipp'd intil his breast.
When the pedlar went to rest;
Close to his ear the Devil came,
And slipp'd intil his breast.
He look'd at his wife by the dim fire light,
And she was as bad as he—
“Could we no' murder thon man the night?”—
“Ay, could we, ready,” quo' she.
And she was as bad as he—
“Could we no' murder thon man the night?”—
“Ay, could we, ready,” quo' she.
He took the pickaxe without a word,
Whence it stood, ahint the door;
As he pass'd in, the sleeper stirr'd,
That never waken'd more.
Whence it stood, ahint the door;
As he pass'd in, the sleeper stirr'd,
That never waken'd more.
“He's dead!” says the auld man, coming back—
“What o' the corp, my dear?”
“We'll bury him snug in his ain bit pack,
Never ye mind for the loss of the sack,
I've ta'en out a' the gear.”
“What o' the corp, my dear?”
“We'll bury him snug in his ain bit pack,
Never ye mind for the loss of the sack,
I've ta'en out a' the gear.”
“The pack's owre short by twa gude span,
What'll we do?” quo' he—
“Ou, you're a doited, unthoughtfu' man,
We'll cut him off at the knee.”
What'll we do?” quo' he—
“Ou, you're a doited, unthoughtfu' man,
We'll cut him off at the knee.”
They shorten'd the corp, and they pack'd him tight,
Wi' his legs in a pickle hay;
Over the burn, in the sweet moonlight,
They carried him till this brae.
Wi' his legs in a pickle hay;
Over the burn, in the sweet moonlight,
They carried him till this brae.
171
They shovell'd a hole right speedily,
They laid him in on his back—
“A right pair are ye,” quo' the pedlar, quo' he,
Sitting bolt upright in the pack.
They laid him in on his back—
“A right pair are ye,” quo' the pedlar, quo' he,
Sitting bolt upright in the pack.
“Ye think ye've laid me snugly here,
And none shall know my station;
But I'll hant ye far, and I'll hant ye near,
Father and son, wi' terror and fear,
To the nineteenth generation.”
And none shall know my station;
But I'll hant ye far, and I'll hant ye near,
Father and son, wi' terror and fear,
To the nineteenth generation.”
The twa were sittin' the vera next night,
When the dog began to cower,
And they knew, by the pale blue fire light,
That the Evil One had power.
When the dog began to cower,
And they knew, by the pale blue fire light,
That the Evil One had power.
It had stricken nine, just nine o' the clock—
The hour when the man lay dead;
There came to the outer door a knock,
And a heavy, heavy tread.
The hour when the man lay dead;
There came to the outer door a knock,
And a heavy, heavy tread.
The old man's head swam round and round,
The woman's blood 'gan freeze,
For it was not like a natural sound,
But like some one stumping o'er the ground
An the banes of his twa bare knees.
The woman's blood 'gan freeze,
For it was not like a natural sound,
But like some one stumping o'er the ground
An the banes of his twa bare knees.
And through the door, like a sough of air,
And stump, stump, round the twa,
Wi' his bloody head, and his knee banes bare—
They'd maist ha'e died of awe!
And stump, stump, round the twa,
Wi' his bloody head, and his knee banes bare—
They'd maist ha'e died of awe!
172
The wife's black locks ere morn grew white,
They say, as the mountain snaws;
The man was as straight as a staff that night,
But he stoop'd when the morning rose.
They say, as the mountain snaws;
The man was as straight as a staff that night,
But he stoop'd when the morning rose.
Still, year and day, as the clock struck nine,
The hour when they did the sin,
The wee bit dog began to whine,
And the ghaist came clattering in.
The hour when they did the sin,
The wee bit dog began to whine,
And the ghaist came clattering in.
Ae night there was a fearful flood—
Three days the skies had pour'd;
And white wi' foam, and black wi' mud,
The burn in fury roar'd.
Three days the skies had pour'd;
And white wi' foam, and black wi' mud,
The burn in fury roar'd.
Quo' she—“Gude man, ye need na turn
Sae pale in the dim fire light;
The Stumpie canna cross the burn,
He'll no' be here the night.
Sae pale in the dim fire light;
The Stumpie canna cross the burn,
He'll no' be here the night.
| Poems by Cecil Frances Alexander | |