Fireflaucht

A hae been here afore.
O whan, whit wey, A ken nae mair:
A mind the girse ayont the door,
The douce saut air,
The hurrin hush, the lichts aroond the shore.

Awreadies ye war mine
Afore the Fluid's first wattergaws:
E'en nou whan tae thon swallae hine
Ye raxt yer hause,
The hap fell back, - A kent it aw lang syne.

Whit wis - again bedeen.
Come wash ma brou in wimplin hair.
Will we no lie as we hae lien
For Luve a pair,
An sleep, an wauk, but sinder-na the cheen?

Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882)

Rewth

AWA! The muir is mirk aneath the muin,
Fleein cluds haes drunk the hinmaist leam o even:
AWA! The gaitherin winds will cry the gloamin suin,
An the blackest midnicht wynd the serene lichts o hieven.
Bide-na! the time is by! Ilka vyce cries, 'Awa!'
Sey-na wi ae last tear thy freend's ungentie state:
Thy luver's ee, o gless an ice, daurna keep thee ava:
Office an baundlessness airts thee tae places desolate.

Awa, awa! Tae thy drear an seelent haw:
Skail bitter tears on the ingle's fruizen yirth:
Tent the dim shades as like ghaists thay rise an faw,
An complicate streenge wabs o dowf an dowie mirth.
The blads o wastit hairst-end wids will flotter roond thy heid,
The flouers o dewy Spring will leam aneath thy feet:
But thy saul or this warld maun fade in the frost that thrings the deid,
Or midnicht's smool an morntid's smue, or thou an peace, can meet.

The clud shaidaes o midnicht is aucht thair ain repast,
For the wabbit winds is seelent, or the muin is in the deep;
Some upleuk frae its turbulence, wanrestfu sea, thou hast;
Whitiver steers or taws or murns haes its appyntit sleep.
Thou in the lair will rest: - yit, till the ghaists soud flee,
That thon hoose an muir an gairden made dear tae thee or nou,
For thy myndin an forthinkin an prependin isna free
Frae the muisic o twa vyces, an the licht o ae sweet smue.

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)

Throuither Muisic

Life's lairnin, like a fauch muisician, haulds
A dulcimer o tholin in his haund,
Frae whaur sweet soonds we canna unnerstaund,
O God; will in his warlds, the souch unfaulds
In dowf-throuither minors: daithly caulds
Dings doun on's while we hear, tae contermaund
The hert bluid-biggen back frae Faerielonde
Wi philomenes in spaewark's orra warlds.
We murmle 'Whaur is ony siccar tuin
Or meisurt muisic in sic notes as thir?'
But angels, hingin frae the gowden seat,
Wants aw conceit that thair fine hearin's won
The conter-crack o feenisht cadences,
An, smuein doun the starns, thay whisper - SWEET.

Elizabeth Barret Browning (1806-61)