The Girl That Lost Things - Poem by George MacDonald

There was a girl that lost things-
Nor only from her hand;
She lost, indeed-why, most things,
As if they had been sand!

She said, 'But I must use them,
And can't look after all!
Indeed I did not lose them,
I only let them fall!'

That's how she lost her thimble,
It fell upon the floor:
Her eyes were very nimble
But she never saw it more.

And then she lost her dolly,
Her very doll of all!
That loss was far from jolly,
But worse things did befall.

She lost a ring of pearls
With a ruby in them set;
But the dearest girl of girls
Cried only, did not fret.

And then she lost her robin;
Ah, that was sorrow dire!
He hopped along, and-bob in-
Hopped bob into the fire!

And once she lost a kiss
As she came down the stair;
But that she did not miss,
For sure it was somewhere!

Just then she lost her heart too,
But did so well without it
She took that in good part too,
And said-not much about it.

But when she lost her health
She did feel rather poor,
Till in came loads of wealth
By quite another door!

And soon she lost a dimple
That was upon her cheek,
But that was very simple-
She was so thin and weak!

And then she lost her mother,
And thought that she was dead;
Sure there was not another
On whom to lay her head!

And then she lost her self-
But that she threw away;
And God upon his shelf
It carefully did lay.

And then she lost her sight,
And lost all hope to find it;
But a fountain-well of light
Came flashing up behind it.

At last she lost the world:
In a black and stormy wind
Away from her it whirled-
But the loss how could she mind?

For with it she lost her losses,
Her aching and her weeping,
Her pains and griefs and crosses,
And all things not worth keeping;

It left her with the lost things
Her heart had still been craving;
'Mong them she found-why, most things,
And all things worth the saving.

She found her precious mother,
Who not the least had died;
And then she found that other
Whose heart had hers inside.

And next she found the kiss
She lost upon the stair;
'Twas sweeter far, I guess,
For ripening in that air.

She found her self, all mended,
New-drest, and strong, and white;
She found her health, new-blended
With a radiant delight.

She found her little robin:
He made his wings go flap,
Came fluttering, and went bob in,
Went bob into her lap.

So, girls that cannot keep things,
Be patient till to-morrow;
And mind you don't beweep things
That are not worth such sorrow;

For the Father great of fathers,
Of mothers, girls, and boys,
In his arms his children gathers,
And sees to all their toys.

George MacDonald  (10 December 1824 – 18 September 1905)

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Huntly Castle

Huntly Castle sits on the edge of the small market town of Huntly, beside the River Deveron in Aberdeenshire.


Photo: Wikipedia

The magnificent ruin of this motte and bailey style castle dates from the 12th century. With its splendid architecture, Huntly Castle served as a baronial residence for five centuries. The earliest stronghold on the site sheltered Robert the Bruce in the 14th century.

 

[caption id="attachment_593" align="alignnone" width="300"] Photo: Jim Simpson[/caption]

 

 

[caption id="attachment_594" align="alignnone" width="300"] Photo: Jim Simpson[/caption]

 

 

[caption id="attachment_595" align="alignnone" width="300"] Photo: Jim Simpson[/caption]

 

 

 

 

 

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Address to the Deil

O Thou, whatever title suit thee!
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an’ sooty
Clos’d under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An’ let poor, damned bodies bee;
I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie,
Ev’n to a deil,
To skelp an’ scaud poor dogs like me,
An’ hear us squeel!

Great is thy pow’r, an’ great thy fame;
Far ken’d, an’ noted is thy name;
An’ tho’ yon lowan heugh’s thy hame,
Thou travels far;
An’ faith! thou’s neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion,
For prey, a’ holes an’ corners tryin;
Whyles, on the strong-win’d Tempest flyin,
Tirlan the kirks;
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,
Unseen thou lurks.

I’ve heard my rev’rend Graunie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or where auld, ruin’d castles, gray,
Nod to the moon,
Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s way,
Wi’ eldritch croon.

When twilight did my Graunie summon,
To say her pray’rs, douse, honest woman,
Aft ’yont the dyke she’s heard you bumman,
Wi’ eerie drone;
Or, rustling, thro’ the boorties coman,
Wi’ heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night,
The stars shot down wi’ sklentan light,
Wi’ you, mysel, I gat a fright
Ayont the lough;
Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight,
Wi’ waving sugh:

The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Each bristl’d hair stood like a stake,
When wi’ an eldritch, stoor, quaick, quaick,
Amang the springs,
Awa ye squatter’d like a drake,
On whistling wings.

Let Warlocks grim, an’ wither’d Hags,
Tell, how wi’ you, an ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs an’ dizzy crags,
Wi’ wicked speed;
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,
Owre howcket dead.

Thence, countra wives, wi’ toil an’ pain,
May plunge an’ plunge the kirn in vain;
For Och! the yellow treasure’s taen,
By witching skill;
An’ dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie’s gane
As yell’s the Bill.

Thence, mystic knots mak great absue,
On Young-Guidman, fond, keen an’ croose;
When the best warklum i’ the house,
By cantraip wit,
Is instant made no worth a louse,
Just at the bit.

When thowes dissove the snawy hoord,
An’ float the jinglan icy boord,
Then, Water-kelpies haunt the foord,
By your direction,
An’ nighted Trav’llers are allur’d
To their destruction.

An ’aft your moss-traversing Spunkies
Decoy the wight that late an’ drunk is;
The bleezan, curst, mischievous monkies
Delude his eyes,
Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne’er mair to rise.

When Masons’ mystic word an’ grip,
In storms an’ tempests raise you up,
Some cock, or cat, your rage maun stop,
Or, strange to tell!
The youngest Brother ye wad whip
Aff straught to H–ll.

Lang syne in Eden’s bonie yard,
When youthfu’ lovers first were pair’d,
An’ all the Soul of Love they shar’d,
The raptur’d hour,
Sweet on the fragrant, flow’ry swaird,
In shady bow’r:

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog!
Ye cam to Paradise incog,
An’ play’d on a man a cursed brogue,
(Black be your fa’!)
An’ gied the infant warld a shog,
’Maist ruin’d a’.

D’ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi’ reeket duds, an’ reestet gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz
’Mang better folk,
An’ sklented on the man of Uz
Your spitefu’ joke?

An’ how ye gat him i’ your thrall,
An’ brak him out o’ house an’ hal’.
While scabs an’ botches did him gall,
Wi’ bitter claw,
An’ lows’d his ill-tongu’d, wicked Scawl
Was warst ava?

But a’ your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an’ fechtin fierce,
Sin’ that day Michael did you pierce,
Down to this time,
Wad ding a’ Lallan tongue, or Erse,
In Prose or Rhyme.

An’ now, auld Cloots, I ken ye’re thinkan,
A certain Bardie’s rantin, drinkin,
Some luckless hour will send him linkan,
To your black pit;
But faith! he’ll turn a corner jinkan,
An’ cheat you yet.

But fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought an’ men’!
Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken—
Still hae a stake—
I’m wae to think upo’ yon den,
Ev’n for your sake.
Robert Burns

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