Psalms 19 - Metrical Psalms in Braid Scots 1928 (T.T. Alexander)

psalm XIX

¹ God’s gudeliheid the hevins rede, The lift His wark furthschaws;

² Day cries to day, and even sae Nicht tells to nicht, His Laws.

³ There’s ne’er a tongue nor tellin’ rung But whaur their soughin’ soon’s;

⁴ Their airt’s gane furth owre a’ the yirth, Their word to warl’s boon’s. He ettled lang e’en them amang A shielin’ for the sun —

⁵ Like bridegroom led frae’s chaumir, gled A giant’s race to run.

⁶ Frae ae lift’s end his gate dis wend, Syne rinks to ither roon’; There’s nocht that may be happit frae His lowin’, lemin’ doon.

⁷ God’s law’s thro’gaen, awaukenin’ The saul mislear’d wi’ vice; His tryst o’ truth is aye richt sooth, The bairnlike makkin’ wyss.

⁸ His lear’s a licht, that airts us richt, And mak’s the hert fu’ fain; His biddin’s clean, and to the e’en Gies gude enlichtenin’.

⁹ His halesome dreid gars folk tak’ heed, Abidin’ ever mair; His jidgments e’en in truth are gi’en, And a’thegither fair.

¹⁰ Mair to be socht than a’ that’s bocht Wi’ rowth o’ gowd sae fine; The hinnie sweet can ne’er compete, O Lord, wi’ words o’ Thine.

¹¹ They weel can wairn Thy ilka bairn Hoo he may win gude lear; Wha tents them weel sal never feel The want o’ gudes or gear.

¹² Wha has the skill to ken the ill His ain mislearin’ wins? O, hain me frae the wyte, I pray, O’ happit, hidden sins.

¹³ Thy servant hide frae poo’er o’ pride, That it rule‐na my will; Syne sal I be aefauld, and free O’ mickle scaith and ill.

¹⁴ Words o’ my moo’, and hert‐thochts too, Lat them aye pleeshure Thee, O Lord, my strength, that at lang length My bringer‐hame sal be.