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Him Wi' The Bag.
By George MacDonald
Ance was a woman wha's hert was gret;
Her love was sae dumb it was 'maist a grief;
She brak the box--it's tellt o' her yet--
The bonny box for her hert's relief.
Ane was there wha's tale's but brief,
Yet was ower lang, the gait he cawed;
He luikit a man, and was but a thief,
Michty the gear to grip and hand.
"What guid," he cried, "sic a boxfu to blaud?
Wilfu waste I couth never beir!
It micht hae been sellt for ten poun, I wad--
Sellt for ten poun, and gien to the puir!"
Savin he was, but for love o' the gear;
Carefu he was, but a' for himsel;
He carried the bag to his hert sae near
What fell i' the ane i' the ither fell.
And the strings o' his hert hingit doun to hell,
They war pu'd sae ticht aboot the mou;
And hence it comes that I hae to tell
The warst ill tale that ever was true.
The hert that's greedy maun mischief brew,
And the deils pu'd the strings doon yon'er in hell;
And he sauld, or the agein mune was new,
For thirty shillins the Maister himsel!
Gear i' the hert it's a canker fell:
Brithers, latna the siller ben!
Troth, gien ye du, I warn ye ye'll sell
The verra Maister or ever ye ken!
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