Tuesday, August 21, 2007

The Spaelass

Seelent is the hoose: aw is laid asleep:
Ane her lane leuks oot ower the snaw-wreaths deep,
Tentin ilka clud, dreidin ilka souch
That dings the whummlin drift, an bends the grankin beuch.

Blythsome is the ingle, saft the strae an ess;
No ae bluffert knidges throu door or gless;
The wee bit laump burns straucht, its leam shuits strang an braid:
A airt it weel, tae be the starnless wanderer's aid.

Glunch, ma pauchtie sire! Flyte, ma angry dame;
Set yer sclavies speein; thraiten me wi shame:
But naither sire nor dame, nor snowkin thrill will knaw,
Whit angel nichtlins traipses thon waste o lappert snaw.

Whit A loue will come like veesitant o air,
Shuir in dernit pouer fae lourin human snare;
Nae wird o mines will iver gie up the ane A loue,
Tho for faith unsusteined ma life be unlaw due.

Burn, than, wee bit laump; skimmer straucht an clear -
Wheesht! A reeslin weeng, A'm thinkin, steers the air:
Thusgate him A wait on aye will come tae me;
Orra pouer! A trust yer maucht; ma constancy trust ye.

Emily Bronte (1818-48)

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