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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/1746-0.txt b/1746-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6d40797 --- /dev/null +++ b/1746-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2318 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, New Collected Rhymes, by Andrew Lang + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: New Collected Rhymes + + +Author: Andrew Lang + + + +Release Date: September 8, 2014 [eBook #1746] +[This file was first posted on 25 November 1998] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEW COLLECTED RHYMES*** + + +Transcribed from the 1905 Longmans, Green and Co. edition by David Price, +email ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + NEW COLLECTED + RHYMES + + + * * * * * + + BY + ANDREW LANG + + * * * * * + + LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. + 39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON + NEW YORK AND BOMBAY + + 1905 + + _All rights reserved_ + + + + +PREFACE + + +THIS poor little flutter of rhymes would not have been let down the wind: +the project would have been abandoned but for the too flattering +encouragement of a responsible friend. I trust that he may not “live to +rue the day,” like Keith of Craigentolly in the ballad. + +The “Loyal Lyrics” on Charles and James and the White Rose must not be +understood as implying a rebellious desire for the subversion of the +present illustrious dynasty. + + “These are but symbols that I sing, + These names of Prince, and rose, and King; + Types of things dear that do not die, + But reign in loyal memory. + _Across the water_ surely they + Abide their twenty-ninth of May; + And we shall hail their happy reign, + When Life comes to his own again,”— + +over the water that divides us from the voices and faces of our desires +and dreams. + +Of the ballads, _The Young Ruthven_ and _The Queen of Spain_ were written +in competition with the street minstrels of the close of the sixteenth +century. The legend on which _The Young Ruthven_ is based is well known; +_The Queen of Spain_ is the story of the _Florencia_, a ship of the +Spanish Armada, wrecked in Tobermory Bay, as it was told to me by a +mariner in the Sound of Mull. In _Keith of Craigentolly_ the family and +territorial names of the hero or villain are purposely altered, so as to +avoid injuring susceptibilities and arousing unavailing regrets. + + + + +CONTENTS + + DEDICATORY + PAGE +IN AUGUSTINUM DOBSON 3 + LOYAL LYRICS +HOW THE MAID MARCHED FROM BLOIS 7 +LONE PLACES OF THE DEER 9 +AN OLD SONG 10 +JACOBITE “AULD LANG SYNE” 12 +THE PRINCE’S BIRTHDAY 14 +THE TENTH OF JUNE, 1715 15 +WHITE ROSE DAY 17 +RED AND WHITE ROSES 18 +THE BONNIE BANKS O’ LOCH LOMOND 19 +KENMURE 21 +CULLODEN 23 +THE LAST OF THE LEAL 25 +JEANNE D’ARC 27 + CRICKET RHYMES +TO HELEN 31 +BALLADE OF DEAD CRICKETERS 32 +BRAHMA 34 + CRITICAL OF LIFE, ART, AND LITERATURE +GAINSBOROUGH GHOSTS 37 +A REMONSTRANCE WITH THE FAIR 39 +RHYME OF RHYMES 42 +RHYME OF OXFORD COCKNEY RHYMES 44 +ROCOCO 47 +THE NEW ORPHEUS TO HIS EURYDICE 47 +THE FOOD OF FICTION 59 +“A HIGHLY VALUABLE CHAIN OF THOUGHTS” 51 +MATRIMONY 53 +PISCATORI PISCATOR 55 +THE CONTENTED ANGLER 56 +OFF MY GAME 58 +THE PROPERTY OF A GENTLEMAN WHO HAS GIVEN UP COLLECTING 60 +THE BALLADE OF THE SUBCONSCIOUS SELF 62 +BALLADE OF THE OPTIMIST 64 +ZIMBABWE 66 +LOVE’S CRYPTOGRAM 68 +TUSITALA 70 +DISDAINFUL DIAPHENIA 72 +TALL SALMACIS 73 + JUBILEE POEMS +WHAT FRANCESCO SAID OF THE JUBILEE 72 +THE POET AND THE JUBILEE 79 +ON ANY BEACH 81 +ODE OF JUBILEE 82 +JUBILEE BEFORE REVOLUTION 84 + FOLK SONGS +FRENCH PEASANT SONGS 89 + BALLADS +THE YOUNG RUTHVEN 93 +THE QUEEN O’ SPAIN AND THE BAULD MCLEAN 97 +KEITH OF CRAIGENTOLLY 101 + + + + +DEDICATORY + + +_In Augustinum Dobson_. + + + JAM RUDE DONATUM. + + DEAR Poet, now turned out to grass + (Like him who reigned in Babylon), + Forget the seasons overlaid + By business and the Board of Trade: + And sing of old-world lad and lass + As in the summers that are gone. + + Back to the golden prime of Anne! + When you ambassador had been, + And brought o’er sea the King again, + Beatrix Esmond in his train, + Ah, happy bard to hold her fan, + And happy land with such a Queen! + + We live too early, or too late, + You should have shared the pint of Pope, + And taught, well pleased, the shining shell + To murmur of the fair Lepel, + And changed the stars of St. John’s fate + To some more happy horoscope. + + By duchesses with roses crowned, + And fed with chicken and champagne, + Urbane and witty, and too wary + To risk the feud of Lady Mary, + You should have walked the courtly ground + Of times that cannot come again. + + Bring back these years in verse or prose, + (I very much prefer your verse!) + As on some Twenty-Ninth of May + Restore the splendour and the sway, + Forget the sins, the wars, the woes— + The joys alone must you rehearse. + + Forget the dunces (there is none + So stupid as to snarl at _you_); + So may your years with pen and book + Run pleasant as an English brook + Through meadows floral in the sun, + And shadows fragrant of the dew. + + And thus at ending of your span— + As all must end—the world shall say, + “His best he gave: he left us not + A line that saints could wish to blot, + For he was blameless, though a man, + And though the poet, he was gay!” + + + + +LOYAL LYRICS + + +_How the Maid Marched from Blois_. + + +(Supposed to be narrated by James Power, or Polwarth, her Scottish +banner-painter.) + + THE Maiden called for her great destrier, + But he lashed like a fiend when the Maid drew near: + “Lead him forth to the Cross!” she cried, and he stood + Like a steed of bronze by the Holy Rood! + + Then I saw the Maiden mount and ride, + With a good steel sperthe that swung by her side, + And girt with the sword of the Heavenly Bride, + That is sained with crosses five for a sign, + The mystical sword of St. Catherine. + And the lily banner was blowing wide, + With the flowers of France on the field of fame + And, blent with the blossoms, the Holy Name! + And the Maiden’s blazon was shown on a shield, + _Argent_, _a dove_, _on an azure field_; + That banner was wrought by this hand, ye see, + For the love of the Maid and chivalry. + + Her banner was borne by a page of grace, + With hair of gold, and a lady’s face; + And behind it the ranks of her men were dressed— + Never a man but was clean confessed, + Jackman and archer, lord and knight, + Their souls were clean and their hearts were light: + There was never an oath, there was never a laugh, + And La Hire swore soft by his leading staff! + Had we died in that hour we had won the skies, + And the Maiden had marched us through Paradise! + + A moment she turned to the people there, + Who had come to gaze on the Maiden fair; + A moment she glanced at the ring she wore, + She murmured the Holy Name it bore, + Then, “For France and the King, good people pray!” + She spoke, and she cried to us, “_On and away_!” + And the shouts broke forth, and the flowers rained down, + And the Maiden led us to Orleans town. + + + +_Lone Places of the Deer_. + + + LONE places of the deer, + Corrie, and Loch, and Ben, + Fount that wells in the cave, + Voice of the burn and the wave, + Softly you sing and clear + Of Charlie and his men! + + Here has he lurked, and here + The heather has been his bed, + The wastes of the islands knew + And the Highland hearts were true + To the bonny, the brave, the dear, + The royal, the hunted head. + + + +_An Old Song_. + + + 1750. + + OH, it’s hame, hame, hame, + And it’s hame I wadna be, + Till the Lord calls King James + To his ain countrie, + Bids the wind blaw frae France, + Till the Firth keps the faem, + And Loch Garry and Lochiel + Bring Prince Charlie hame. + + May the lads Prince Charlie led + That were hard on Willie’s track, + When frae Laffen field he fled, + Wi’ the claymore at his back, + May they stand on Scottish soil + When the White Rose bears the gree, + And the Lord calls the King + To his ain countrie! + + Bid the seas arise and stand + Like walls on ilka side, + Till our Highland lad pass through + With Jehovah for his guide. + Dry up the River Forth, + As Thou didst the Red Sea, + When Israel cam hame + To his ain countrie. {11} + + + +_Jacobite_ “_Auld Lang Syne_.” + + + LOCHIEL’S REGIMENT, 1747. + + THOUGH now we take King Lewie’s fee + And drink King Lewie’s wine, + We’ll bring the King frae ower the sea, + As in auld lang syne. + + For, he that did proud Pharaoh crush, + And save auld Jacob’s line, + Will speak to Charlie in the Bush, + Like Moses, lang syne. + + For oft we’ve garred the red coats run, + Frae Garry to the Rhine, + Frae Baugé brig to Falkirk moor, + No that lang syne. + + The Duke may with the Devil drink, + And wi’ the deil may dine, + But Charlie’s dine in Holyrood, + As in auld lang syne. + + For he who did proud Pharaoh crush, + To save auld Jacob’s line, + Shall speak to Charlie in the Bush, + Like Moses, lang syne. + + + +_The Prince’s Birthday_. + + + ROME, 31ST DECEMBER, 1721. + +(A new-born star shone, which is figured on an early Medal of Prince +Charles.) + + A WONDERFUL star shone forth + From the frozen skies of the North + Upon Rome, for an Old Year’s night: + And a flower on the dear white Rose + Broke, in the season of snows, + To bloom for a day’s delight. + + Lost is the star in the night, + And the Rose of a day’s delight + Fled “where the roses go”: + But the fragrance and light from afar, + Born of the Rose and the Star, + Breathe o’er the years and the snow. + + + +_The Tenth of June_, 1715. + + +(Being a Song writ for a lady born on June 10th, the birthday of his Most +Sacred Majesty King James III. and VIII.) + + DAY of the King and the flower! + And the girl of my heart’s delight, + The blackbird sings in the bower, + And the nightingale sings in the night + A song to the roses white. + + Day of the flower and the King! + When shall the sails of white + Shine on the seas and bring + In the day, in the dawn, in the night, + The King to his land and his right? + + Day of my love and my may, + After the long years’ flight, + Born on the King’s birthday, + Born for my heart’s delight, + With the dawn of the roses white! + + Black as the blackbird’s wing + Is her hair, and her brow as white + As the white rose blossoming, + And her eyes as the falcon’s bright + And her heart is leal to the right. + + When shall the joy bells ring? + When shall the hours unite + The right with the might of my King, + And my heart with my heart’s delight; + In the dawn, in the day, in the night? + + + +_White Rose Day_. + + + JUNE 10, 1688. + + ’TWAS a day of faith and flowers, + Of honour that could not die, + Of Hope that counted the hours, + Of sorrowing Loyalty: + And the _Blackbird_ sang in the closes, + The _Blackbird_ piped in the spring, + For the day of the dawn of the Roses, + The dawn of the day of the King! + + White roses over the heather, + And down by the Lowland lea, + And far in the faint blue weather, + A white sail guessed on the sea! + But the deep night gathers and closes, + Shall ever a morning bring + The lord of the leal white roses, + The face of the rightful King? + + + +_Red and White Roses_. + + + RED roses under the sun + For the King who is lord of land; + But he dies when his day is done, + For his memory careth none + When the glass runs empty of sand. + + White roses under the moon + For the King without lands to give; + But he reigns with the reign of June, + With the rose and the Blackbird’s tune, + And he lives while Faith shall live. + + Red roses for beef and beer; + Red roses for wine and gold; + But they drank of the water clear, + In exile and sorry cheer, + To the kings of our sires of old. + + Red roses for wealth and might; + White roses for hopes that flee; + And the dreams of the day and the night, + For the Lord of our heart’s delight— + For the King that is o’er the sea. + + + +_The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond_. + + + 1746. + + THERE’S an ending o’ the dance, and fair Morag’s safe in France, + And the Clans they hae paid the lawing, + And the wuddy has her ain, and we twa are left alane, + Free o’ Carlisle gaol in the dawing. + + So ye’ll tak the high road, and I’ll tak the laigh road, + An’ I’ll be in Scotland before ye: + But me and my true love will never meet again, + By the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond. + + For my love’s heart brake in twa, when she kenned the Cause’s fa’, + And she sleeps where there’s never nane shall waken, + Where the glen lies a’ in wrack, wi’ the houses toom and black, + And her father’s ha’s forsaken. + + While there’s heather on the hill shall my vengeance ne’er be still, + While a bush hides the glint o’ a gun, lad; + Wi’ the men o’ Sergeant Môr shall I work to pay the score, + Till I wither on the wuddy in the sun, lad! + + So ye’ll tak the high road, and I’ll tak the laigh road, + An’ I’ll be in Scotland before ye: + But me and my true love will never meet again, + By the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond. + + + +_Kenmure_. + + + 1715. + + “THE heather’s in a blaze, Willie, + The White Rose decks the tree, + The Fiery Cross is on the braes, + And the King is on the sea! + + “Remember great Montrose, Willie, + Remember fair Dundee, + And strike one stroke at the foreign foes + Of the King that’s on the sea. + + “There’s Gordons in the North, Willie, + Are rising frank and free, + Shall a Kenmure Gordon not go forth + For the King that’s on the sea? + + “A trusty sword to draw, Willie, + A comely weird to dree, + For the Royal Rose that’s like the snaw, + And the King that’s on the sea!” + + He cast ae look across his lands, + Looked over loch and lea, + He took his fortune in his hands, + For the King was on the sea. + + Kenmures have fought in Galloway + For Kirk and Presbyt’rie, + This Kenmure faced his dying day, + For King James across the sea. + + It little skills what faith men vaunt, + If loyal men they be + To Christ’s ain Kirk and Covenant, + Or the King that’s o’er the sea. + + + +_Culloden_. + + + DARK, dark was the day when we looked on Culloden + And chill was the mist drop that clung to the tree, + The oats of the harvest hung heavy and sodden, + No light on the land and no wind on the sea. + + There was wind, there was rain, there was fire on their faces, + When the clans broke the bayonets and died on the guns, + And ’tis Honour that watches the desolate places + Where they sleep through the change of the snows and the suns. + + Unfed and unmarshalled, outworn and outnumbered, + All hopeless and fearless, as fiercely they fought, + As when Falkirk with heaps of the fallen was cumbered, + As when Gledsmuir was red with the havoc they wrought. + + _Ah_, _woe worth you_, _Sleat_, _and the faith that you vowed_, + _Ah_, _woe worth you_, _Lovat_, _Traquair_, _and Mackay_; + _And woe on the false fairy flag of Macleod_, + _And the fat squires who drank_, _but who dared not to die_! + + Where the graves of Clan Chattan are clustered together, + Where Macgillavray died by the Well of the Dead, + We stooped to the moorland and plucked the pale heather + That blooms where the hope of the Stuart was sped. + + And a whisper awoke on the wilderness, sighing, + Like the voice of the heroes who battled in vain, + “Not for Tearlach alone the red claymore was plying, + But to bring back the old life that comes not again.” + + + +_The Last of the Leal_. + + + DECEMBER 31, 1787. + + HERE’S a health to every man + Bore the brunt of wind and weather; + Winnowed sore by Fortune’s fan, + Faded faith of chief and clan: + Nairne and Caryl stand together; + Here’s a health to every man + Bore the brunt of wind and weather! + + Oh, round Charlie many ran, + When his foot was on the heather, + When his sword shone in the van. + Now at ending of his span, + Gask and Caryl stand together! + + Ne’er a hope from plot or plan, + Ne’er a hope from rose or heather; + Ay, the King’s a broken man; + Few will bless, and most will ban. + Nairne and Caryl stand together! + + Help is none from Crown or clan, + France is false, a fluttered feather; + But Kings are not made by man, + Till God end what God began, + Nairne and Caryl stand together, + Gask and Caryl stand together; + Here’s a health to every man + Bore the brunt of wind and weather! + + + +_Jeanne d’Arc_. + + + THE honour of a loyal boy, + The courage of a paladin, + With maiden’s mirth, the soul of joy, + These dwelt her happy breast within. + From shame, from doubt, from fear, from sin, + As God’s own angels was she free; + Old worlds shall end, and new begin + To be + + Ere any come like her who fought + For France, for freedom, for the King; + Who counsel of redemption brought + Whence even the armed Archangel’s wing + Might weary sore in voyaging; + Who heard her Voices cry “Be free!” + Such Maid no later human spring + Shall see! + + Saints Michael, Catherine, Margaret, + Who sowed the seed that Thou must reap, + If eyes of angels may be wet, + And if the Saints have leave to weep, + In Paradise one pain they keep, + Maiden! one mortal memory, + One sorrow that can never sleep, + For Thee! + + + + +CRICKET RHYMES + + +_To Helen_. + + + (After seeing her bowl with her usual success.) + + ST. LEONARD’S HALL. + + HELEN, thy bowling is to me + Like that wise Alfred Shaw’s of yore, + Which gently broke the wickets three: + From Alfred few could smack a four: + Most difficult to score! + + The music of the moaning sea, + The rattle of the flying bails, + The grey sad spires, the tawny sails— + What memories they bring to me, + Beholding thee! + + Upon our old monastic pitch, + How sportsmanlike I see thee stand! + The leather in thy lily hand, + Oh, Helen of the yorkers, which + Are nobly planned! + + + +_Ballade of Dead Cricketers_. + + + AH, where be Beldham now, and Brett, + Barker, and Hogsflesh, where be they? + Brett, of all bowlers fleetest yet + That drove the bails in disarray? + And Small that would, like Orpheus, play + Till wild bulls followed his minstrelsy? {32} + Booker, and Quiddington, and May? + Beneath the daisies, there they lie! + + And where is Lambert, that would get + The stumps with balls that broke astray? + And Mann, whose balls would ricochet + In almost an unholy way + (So do baseballers “pitch” to-day) + George Lear, that seldom let a bye, + And Richard Nyren, grave and gray? + Beneath the daisies, there they lie! + + Tom Sueter, too, the ladies’ pet, + Brown that would bravest hearts affray; + Walker, invincible when set, + (Tom, of the spider limbs and splay); + Think ye that we could match them, pray, + These heroes of Broad-halfpenny, + With Buck to hit, and Small to stay? + Beneath the daisies, there they lie! + + ENVOY. + + Prince, canst thou moralise the lay? + How all things change below the sky! + Of Fry and Grace shall mortals say, + “Beneath the daisies, there they lie!” + + + +_Brahma_. + + + AFTER EMERSON. + + IF the wild bowler thinks he bowls, + Or if the batsman thinks he’s bowled, + They know not, poor misguided souls, + They too shall perish unconsoled. + _I_ am the batsman and the bat, + _I_ am the bowler and the ball, + The umpire, the pavilion cat, + The roller, pitch, and stumps, and all. + + + + +CRITICAL OF LIFE, ART, AND LITERATURE + + +_Gainsborough Ghosts_. + + + IN THE GROSVENOR GALLERY. + + THEY smile upon the western wall, + The lips that laughed an age agone, + The fops, the dukes, the beauties all, + Le Brun that sang, and Carr that shone. + We gaze with idle eyes: we con + The faces of an elder time— + Alas! and _ours_ is flitting on; + Oh, moral for an empty rhyme! + + Think, when the tumult and the crowd + Have left the solemn rooms and chill, + When dilettanti are not loud, + When lady critics are not shrill— + Ah, think how strange upon the still + Dim air may sound these voices faint; + Once more may Johnson talk his fill + And fair Dalrymple charm the Saint! + + Of us they speak as we of them, + Like us, perchance, they criticise: + Our wit, they vote, is Brummagem; + Our beauty—dim to Devon’s eyes! + Their silks and lace our cloth despise, + Their pumps—our boots that pad the mud, + What modern fop with Walpole vies? + With St. Leger what modern blood? + + Ah, true, we lack the charm, the wit, + Our very greatest, sure, are small; + And Mr. Gladstone is not Pitt, + And Garrick comes not when we call. + Yet—pass an age—and, after all, + Even _we_ may please the folk that look + When we are faces on the wall, + And voices in a history book! + + In Art the statesman yet shall live, + With collars keen, with Roman nose; + To Beauty yet shall Millais give + The roses that outlast the rose: + The lords of verse, the slaves of prose, + On canvas yet shall seem alive, + And charm the mob that comes and goes, + And lives—in 1985. + + + +_A Remonstrance with the Fair_. + + + THERE are thoughts that the mind cannot fathom, + The mind of the animal male; + But woman abundantly hath ’em, + And mostly her notions prevail. + And why ladies read what they _do_ read + Is a thing that no man may explain, + And if any one asks for a true rede + He asketh in vain. + + Ah, why is each “passing depression” + Of stories that gloomily bore + Received as the subtle expression + Of almost unspeakable lore? + In the dreary, the sickly, the grimy + Say, why do our women delight, + And wherefore so constantly ply me + With _Ships in the Night_? + + Dear ladies, in vain you approach us, + With books to your taste in your hands; + For, alas! though you offer to coach us, + Yet the soul of no man understands + Why the grubby is always the moral, + Why the nasty’s preferred to the nice, + While you keep up a secular quarrel + With a gay little Vice; + + Yes, a Vice with her lips full of laughter, + A Vice with a rose in her hair, + You condemn in the present and after, + To darkness of utter despair: + But a sin, if no rapture redeem it, + But a passion that’s pale and played out, + Or in surgical hands—you esteem it + Worth scribbling about! + + What is sauce for the goose, for the gander + Is sauce, ye inconsequent fair! + It is better to laugh than to maunder, + And better is mirth than despair; + And though Life’s not all beer and all skittles, + Yet the Sun, on occasion, can shine, + And, _mon Dieu_! he’s a fool who belittles + This cosmos of Thine! + + There are cakes, there is ale—ay, and ginger + Shall be hot in the mouth, as of old: + And a villain, with cloak and with whinger, + And a hero, in armour of gold, + And a maid with a face like a lily, + With a heart that is stainless and gay, + Make a tale worth a world of the silly + Sad trash of to-day! + + + +_Rhyme of Rhymes_. + + + WILD on the mountain peak the wind + Repeats its old refrain, + Like ghosts of mortals who have sinned, + And fain would sin again. + + For “wind” I do not rhyme to “mind,” + Like many mortal men, + “Again” (when one reflects) ’twere kind + To rhyme as if “agen.” + + I never met a single soul + Who _spoke_ of “wind” as “wined,” + And yet we use it, on the whole, + To rhyme to “find” and “blind.” + + We _say_, “Now don’t do that _agen_,” + When people give us pain; + In poetry, nine times in ten, + It rhymes to “Spain” or “Dane.” + + Oh, which are wrong or which are right? + Oh, which are right or wrong? + The sounds in prose familiar, quite, + Or those we meet in song? + + To hold that “love” can rhyme to “prove” + Requires some force of will, + Yet in the ancient lyric groove + We meet them rhyming still. + + This was our learned fathers’ wont + In prehistoric times, + We follow it, or if we don’t, + We oft run short of rhymes. + + + +_Rhyme of Oxford Cockney Rhymes_. + + + (Exhibited in the _Oxford Magazine_.) + + THOUGH Keats rhymed “ear” to “Cytherea,” + And Morris “dawn” to “morn,” + A worse example, it is clear, + By Oxford Dons is “shorn.” + G—y, of Magdalen, goes beyond + These puny Cockneys far, + And to “Magrath” rhymes—Muse despond!— + “Magrath” he rhymes to “star”! + + Another poet, X. Y. Z., + Employs the word “researcher,” + And then,—his blood be on his head,— + He makes it rhyme to “nurture.” + Ah, never was the English tongue + So flayed, and racked, and tortured, + Since one I love (who should be hung) + Made “tortured” rhyme to “orchard.” + + Unkindly G—y’s raging pen + Next craves a rhyme to “sooner;” + Rejecting “Spooner,” (best of men,) + He fastens on _lacuna_(_r_). + Nay, worse, in his infatuate mind + He ends a line “explainer,” + Nor any rhyme can G—y find + Until he reaches Jena(r). + + Yes, G—y shines the worst of all, + He needs to rhyme “embargo;” + The man had “Margot” at his call, + He had the good ship _Argo_; + Largo he had; yet doth he seek + Further, and no embargo + Restrains him from the odious, weak, + And Cockney rhyme, “Chicago”! + + Ye Oxford Dons that Cockneys be, + Among your gardens tidy, + If you would ask a maid to tea, + D’ye call the girl “a lydy”? + And if you’d sing of Mr. Fry, + And need a rhyme to “swiper,” + Are you so cruel as to try + To fill the blank with “paper”? + + Oh, Hoxford was a pleasant plice + To many a poet dear, + And Saccharissa had the grice + In Hoxford to appear. + But Waller, if to Cytherea + He prayed at any time, + Did not implore “her friendly ear,” + And think he had a rhyme. + + Now, if you ask to what are due + The horrors which I mention, + I think we owe them to the U- + Niversity extension. + From Hoxton and from Poplar come + The ’Arriets and ’Arries, + And so the Oxford Muse is dumb, + Or, when she sings, miscarries. + + + +_Rococo_. + + + (“My name is also named ‘Played Out.’”) + + _When first we heard Rossetti sing_, + _We twanged the melancholy lyre_, + _We sang like this_, _like anything_, + _When first we heard Rossetti sing_. + _And all our song was faded Spring_, + _And dead delight and dark desire_, + _When first we heard Rossetti sing_, + _We twanged the melancholy lyre_. + +(_And this is how we twanged it_)— + + _The New Orpheus to his Eurydice_. + + WHY wilt thou woo, ah, strange Eurydice, + A languid laurell’d Orpheus in the shades, + For here is company of shadowy maids, + Hero, and Helen and Psamathoë: + + And life is like the blossom on the tree, + And never tumult of the world invades, + The low light wanes and waxes, flowers and fades, + And sleep is sweet, and dreams suffice for me; + + “Go back, and seek the sunlight,” as of old, + The wise ghost-mother of Odysseus said, + Here am I half content, and scarce a-cold, + But one light fits the living, one the dead; + Good-bye, be glad, forget! thou canst not hold + In thy kind arms, alas! this powerless head. + + _When first we heard Rossetti sing_, + _We also wrote this kind of thing_! + + + +_The Food of Fiction_. + + + TO breakfast, dinner, or to lunch + My steps are languid, once so speedy; + E’en though, like the old gent in _Punch_, + “Not hungry, but, thank goodness! greedy.” + I gaze upon the well-spread board, + And have to own—oh, contradiction! + Though every dainty it afford, + There’s nothing like the food of fiction. + + “The better half”—how good the sound! + Of Scott’s or Ainsworth’s “venison pasty,” + In cups of old Canary drowned, + (Which probably was very nasty). + The beefsteak pudding made by Ruth + To cheer Tom Pinch in his affliction, + Ah me, in all the world of truth, + There’s nothing like the food of fiction! + + The cakes and ham and buttered toast + That graced the board of Gabriel Varden, + In Bracebridge Hall the Christmas roast, + Fruits from the Goblin Market Garden. + And if you’d eat of luscious sweets + And yet escape from gout’s infliction, + Just read “St. Agnes’ Eve” by Keats— + There’s nothing like the food of fiction. + + What cups of tea were ever brewed + Like Sairey Gamp’s—the dear old sinner? + What savoury mess was ever stewed + Like that for Short’s and Codlin’s dinner? + What was the flavour of that “poy”— + To use the Fotheringay’s own diction— + Pendennis ate, the love-sick boy? + There’s nothing like the food of fiction. + + Prince, you are young—but you will find + After life’s years of fret and friction, + That hunger wanes—but never mind! + There’s nothing like the food of fiction. + + + +“_A Highly Valuable chain of Thoughts_.” + + + HAD cigarettes no ashes, + And roses ne’er a thorn, + No man would be a funker + Of whin, or burn, or bunker. + There were no need for mashies, + The turf would ne’er be torn, + Had cigarettes no ashes, + And roses ne’er a thorn. + + Had cigarettes no ashes, + And roses ne’er a thorn, + The big trout would not ever + Escape into the river. + No gut the salmon smashes + Would leave us all forlorn, + Had cigarettes no ashes, + And roses ne’er a thorn. + + But ’tis an unideal, + Sad world in which we’re born, + And things will “go contrairy” + With Martin and with Mary: + And every day the real + Comes bleakly in with morn, + And cigarettes have ashes, + And every rose a thorn. + + + +_Matrimony_. + + +(Matrimony—Advertiser would like to hear from well-educated Protestant +lady, under thirty, fair, with view to above, who would have no objection +to work Remington type-writer, at home. Enclose photo. T. 99. This +Office. Cork newspaper.) + + T. 99 would gladly hear + From one whose years are few, + A maid whose doctrines are severe, + Of Presbyterian blue, + Also—with view to the above— + Her photo he would see, + And trusts that she may live and love + His Protestant to be! + But ere the sacred rites are done + (And by no Priest of Rome) + He’d ask, if she a Remington + Type-writer works—at home? + + If she have no objections to + This task, and if her hair— + In keeping with her eyes of blue— + Be delicately fair, + Ah, _then_, let her a photo send + Of all her charms divine, + To him who rests her faithful friend, + Her own T. 99. + + + +_Piscatori Piscator_. + + + IN MEMORY OF THOMAS TOD STODDART. + + AN angler to an angler here, + To one who longed not for the bays, + I bring a little gift and dear, + A line of love, a word of praise, + A common memory of the ways, + By Elibank and Yair that lead; + Of all the burns, from all the braes, + That yield their tribute to the Tweed. + + His boyhood found the waters clean, + His age deplored them, foul with dye; + But purple hills, and copses green, + And these old towers he wandered by, + Still to the simple strains reply + Of his pure unrepining reed, + Who lies where he was fain to lie, + Like Scott, within the sound of Tweed. + + + +_The Contented Angler_. + + + THE Angler hath a jolly life + Who by the rail runs down, + And leaves his business and his wife, + And all the din of town. + The wind down stream is blowing straight, + And nowhere cast can he: + Then lo, he doth but sit and wait + In kindly company. + + The miller turns the water off, + Or folk be cutting weed, + While he doth at misfortune scoff, + From every trouble freed. + Or else he waiteth for a rise, + And ne’er a rise may see; + For why, there are not any flies + To bear him company. + + Or, if he mark a rising trout, + He straightway is caught up, + And then he takes his flasket out, + And drinks a rousing cup. + Or if a trout he chance to hook, + Weeded and broke is he, + And then he finds a godly book + Instructive company. + + + +_Off My Game_. + + + “I’M of my game,” the golfer said, + And shook his locks in woe; + “My putter never lays me dead, + My drives will never go; + Howe’er I swing, howe’er I stand, + Results are still the same, + I’m in the burn, I’m in the sand— + I’m off my game! + + “Oh, would that such mishaps might fall + On Laidlay or Macfie, + That they might toe or heel the ball, + And sclaff along like me! + Men hurry from me in the street, + And execrate my name, + Old partners shun me when we meet— + I’m off my game! + + “Why is it that I play at all? + Let memory remind me + How once I smote upon my ball, + And bunkered it—_behind me_. + I mostly slice into the whins, + And my excuse is lame— + It cannot cover half my sins— + I’m off my game! + + “I hate the sight of all my set, + I grow morose as Byron; + I never loved a brassey yet, + And now I hate an iron. + My cleek seems merely made to top, + My putting’s wild or tame; + It’s really time for me to stop— + I’m off my game!” + + + +_The Property of a Gentleman who has given up Collecting_. + + + OH blessed be the cart that takes + Away my books, my curse, my clog, + Blessed the auctioneer who makes + Their inefficient catalogue. + + Blessed the purchasers who pay + However little—less were fit— + Blessed the rooms, the rainy day, + The knock-out and the end of it. + + For I am weary of the sport, + That seemed a while agone so sweet, + Of Elzevirs an inch too short, + And First Editions—incomplete. + + Weary of crests and coats of arms, + “Attributed to Padeloup” + The sham Deromes have lost their charms, + The things Le Gascon did not do. + + I never read the catalogues + Of rubbish that come thick as rooks, + But most I loathe the dreary dogs + That write in prose, or worse, on books. + + Large paper surely cannot hide + Their grammar, nor excuse their rhyme, + The anecdotes that they provide + Are older than the dawn of time. + + Ye bores, of every shape and size, + Who make a tedium of delight, + Good-bye, the last of my good-byes. + Good night, to all your clan good night! + + * * * * + + Thus in a sullen fit we swore, + But on mature reflection, + Went on collecting more and more, + And kept our old collection! + + + +_The Ballade of the Subconscious Self_. + + + WHO suddenly calls to our ken + The knowledge that should not be there; + Who charms Mr. Stead with the pen, + Of the Prince of the Powers of the Air; + Who makes Physiologists stare— + Is he ghost, is he demon, or elf, + Who fashions the dream of the fair? + It is just the Subconscious Self. + + He’s the ally of Medicine Men + Who consult the Australian bear, + And ’tis he, with his lights on the fen, + Who helps Jack o’ Lanthorn to snare + The peasants of Devon, who swear + Under Commonwealth, Stuart, or Guelph, + That they never had half such a scare— + It is just the Subconscious Self. + + It is he, from his cerebral den, + Who raps upon table and chair, + Who frightens the housemaid, and then + Slinks back, like a thief, to his lair: + ’Tis the Brownie (according to Mair) + Who rattles the pots on the shelf, + But the Psychical sages declare + “It is just the Subconscious Self.” + + Prince, each of us all is a pair— + The Conscious, who labours for pelf, + And the other, who charmed Mr. Blair, + It is just the Subconscious Self. + + + +_Ballade of the Optimist_. + + + HEED not the folk who sing or say + In sonnet sad or sermon chill, + “Alas, alack, and well-a-day, + This round world’s but a bitter pill.” + Poor porcupines of fretful quill! + Sometimes we quarrel with our lot: + We, too, are sad and careful; still + We’d rather be alive than not. + + What though we wish the cats at play + Would some one else’s garden till; + Though Sophonisba drop the tray + And all our worshipped Worcester spill, + Though neighbours “practise” loud and shrill, + Though May be cold and June be hot, + Though April freeze and August grill, + We’d rather be alive than not. + + And, sometimes on a summer’s day + To self and every mortal ill + We give the slip, we steal away, + To walk beside some sedgy rill: + The darkening years, the cares that kill, + A little while are well forgot; + When deep in broom upon the hill, + We’d rather be alive than not. + + Pistol, with oaths didst thou fulfil + The task thy braggart tongue begot, + We eat our leek with better will, + We’d rather be alive than not. + + + +_Zimbabwe_. + + + (The ruined Gold Cities of Rhodesia. The Ophir of Scripture.) + + INTO the darkness whence they came, + They passed, their country knoweth none, + They and their gods without a name + Partake the same oblivion. + Their work they did, their work is done, + Whose gold, it may be, shone like fire + About the brows of Solomon, + And in the House of God’s Desire. + + Hence came the altar all of gold, + The hinges of the Holy Place, + The censer with the fragrance rolled + Skyward to seek Jehovah’s face; + The golden Ark that did encase + The Law within Jerusalem, + The lilies and the rings to grace + The High Priest’s robe and diadem. + + The pestilence, the desert spear, + Smote them; they passed, with none to tell + The names of them who laboured here: + Stark walls and crumbling crucible, + Strait gates, and graves, and ruined well, + Abide, dumb monuments of old, + We know but that men fought and fell, + Like us, like us, for love of Gold. + + + +_Love’s Cryptogram_. + + +[The author (if he can be so styled) awoke from a restless sleep, with +the first stanza of the following piece in his mind. He has no memory of +composing it, either awake or asleep. He had long known the perhaps +Pythagorean fable of the bean-juice, but certainly never thought of +applying it to an amorous correspondence! The remaining verses are the +contribution of his Conscious Self!] + + ELLE. + + I CANNOT write, I may not write, + I dare not write to thee, + But look on the face of the moon by night, + And my letters shalt thou see. + For every letter that lovers write, + By their loves on the moon is seen, + If they pen their thought on the paper white, + With the magic juice of the bean! + + LUI. + + Oh, I had written this many a year, + And my letters you had read. + Had you only told me the spell, my dear, + Ere ever we twain were wed! + But I have a lady and you have a lord, + And their eyes are of the green, + And we dared not trust to the written word, + Lest our long, long love be seen! + + ELLE. + + “Oh, every thought that your heart has thought, + Since the world came us between, + The birds of the air to my heart have brought, + With no word heard or seen.” + ’_Twas thus in a dream we spoke and said_ + _Myself and my love unseen_, + _But I woke and sighed on my weary bed_, + _For the spell of the juice of the bean_! + + + +_Tusitala_. + + + WE spoke of a rest in a fairy knowe of the North, but he, + Far from the firths of the East, and the racing tides of the West, + Sleeps in the sight and the sound of the infinite Southern Sea, + Weary and well content in his grave on the Vaëa crest. + + Tusitala, the lover of children, the teller of tales, + Giver of counsel and dreams, a wonder, a world’s delight, + Looks o’er the labours of men in the plain and the hill; and the sails + Pass and repass on the sea that he loved, in the day and the night. + + Winds of the West and the East in the rainy season blow + Heavy with perfume, and all his fragrant woods are wet, + Winds of the East and West as they wander to and fro, + Bear him the love of the land he loved, and the long regret. + + Once we were kindest, he said, when leagues of the limitless sea + Flowed between us, but now that no wash of the wandering tides + Sunders us each from each, yet nearer we seem to be, + Whom only the unbridged stream of the river of Death divides. + + + +_Disdainful Diaphenia_. + + + THERE is no venom in the Rose + That any bee should shrink from it; + No poison from the Lily flows, + She hath not a disdainful wit; + But thou, that Rose and Lily art, + Thy tongue doth poison Cupid’s dart! + + Nature herself to deadly flowers + Refuseth beauty lest the vain + Insects that hum through August hours + With beauty should suck in their bane; + But thou, as Rose or Lily fair, + Art circled with envenomed air! + + Like Progne didst thou lose thy tongue, + Thy lovers might adore and live; + Like that witch Circe, oft besung, + Thou hast dear gifts, if thou wouldst give; + But since thou hast a wicked wit, + Thy lovers fade, or flee from it. + + + +_Tall Salmacis_. + + + WERE an apple tree a pine, + Tall and slim, and softly swaying, + Then her beauty were like thine, + Salmacis, when boune a Maying, + Tall as any poplar tree, + Sweet as apple blossoms be! + + Had the Amazonian Queen + Seen thee ’midst thy maiden peers, + Thou the Coronel hadst been + Of that lady’s Grenadiers; + Troy had never mourned her fall, + With thine axe to guard her wall. + + As Penthesilea brave + Is the maiden (in her dreams); + Ilium she well might save, + Though Achilles’ armour gleams, + ’Midst the Greeks; all vain it is, + ’Gainst the glance of Salmacis! + + + + +JUBILEE POEMS +BY BARDS WHO WERE SILENT + + +_What Francesco said of the Jubilee_. + + + BY R. B. + + WHAT if we call it fifty years! ’Tis steep! + To climb so high a gradient? Prate of Guides? + Are we not roped? The Danger? Nay, the Turf, + No less nor more than mountain peaks, my friend, + Hears talk of Roping,—but the Jubilee! + Nay, there you have me: old Francesco once + (This was in Milan, in Visconti’s time, + Our wild Visconti, with one lip askance, + And beard tongue-twisted in the nostril’s nook) + Parlous enough,—these times—what? “So are ours”? + Or any times, i’fegs, to him who thinks,— + Well ’twas in Spring “the frolic myrtle trees + There gendered the grave olive stocks,”—you cry + “A miracle!”—Sordello writeth thus,— + Believe me that indeed ’twas thus, and he, + Francesco, you are with me? Well, there’s gloom + No less than gladness in your fifty years, + “And so,” said he, “to supper as we may.” + “Voltairean?” So you take it; but ’tis late, + And dinner seven, sharp, at Primrose Hill. + + + +_The Poet and the Jubilee_. + + + POSCIMUR! + + BY A. D. + + A _Birthday Ode_ for MEG or NAN, + A Rhyme for Lady FLORA’s Fan, + A Verse on _Smut_, who’s gone astray, + These Things are in the _Poet’s_ way; + At Home with praise of JULIA’s Lace, + Or DELIA’s Ankles, ROSE’s Face, + But “Something _overparted_” He, + When asked to rhyme the _jubilee_! + + He therefore turns, the _Poet_ wary, + And Thumbs his _Carmen Seculare_, + To PHŒBUS and to DIAN prays, + Who tune Men’s Lyres of Holidays, + He reads of the _Sibylline_ Shades, + Of Stainless Boys and chosen Maids. + He turns, and reads the other Page, + Of docile Youth, and placid Age, + Then Sings how, in this golden Year + _Fides Pudorque_ reappear,— + And if they don’t appear, you know it + Were quite unjust to blame the Poet! + + + +_On any Beach_. + + + BY M. A. + + YES, in the stream and stress of things, + That breaks around us like the sea, + There comes to Peasants and to Kings, + The solemn Hour of Jubilee. + If they, till strenuous Nature give + Some fifty harvests, chance to live! + + Ah, Fifty harvests! But the corn + Is grown beside the barren main, + Is salt with sea-spray, blown and borne + Across the green unvintaged plain. + And life, lived out for fifty years, + Is briny with the spray of tears! + + Ah, such is Life, to us that live + Here, in the twilight of the Gods, + Who weigh each gift the world can give, + And sigh and murmur, _What’s the odds_ + _So long’s you’re happy_? Nay, what Man + Finds Happiness since Time began? + + + +_Ode of Jubilee_. + + + BY A. C. S. + + ME, that have sung and shrieked, and foamed in praise of Freedom, + _Me_ do you ask to sing + Parochial pomps, and waste, the wail of Jubileedom + For Queen, or Prince, or King! + + * * * * * + + Nay, by the foam that fleeting oars have feathered, + In Grecian seas; + Nay, by the winds that barques Athenian weathered— + By all of these + I bid you each be mute, Bards tamed and tethered, + And fee’d with fees! + + For you the laurel smirched, for you the gold, too, + Of Magazines; + For me the Spirit of Song, unbought, unsold to + Pale Priests or Queens! + + For you the gleam of gain, the fluttering cheque + Of Mr. Knowles, + For me, to soar above the ruins and wreck + Of Snobs and “Souls”! + + When aflush with the dew of the dawn, and the + Rose of the Mystical Vision, + The spirit and soul of the Men of the + Future shall rise and be free, + They shall hail me with hymning and harping, + With eloquent Art and Elysian,— + The Singer who sung not but spurned them, + The slaves that could sing “Jubilee;” + With pinchbeck lyre and tongue, + Praising their tyrant sung, + They shall fail and shall fade in derision, + As wind on the ways of the sea! + + + +_Jubilee Before Revolution_. + + + BY W. M. + + “TELL me, O Muse of the Shifty, the Man who wandered afar,” + So have I chanted of late, and of Troy burg wasted of war— + Now of the sorrows of Menfolk that fifty years have been, + Now of the Grace of the Commune I sing, and the days of a Queen! + Surely I curse rich Menfolk, “the Wights of the Whirlwind” may they— + This is my style of translating ‘Αρπυίαι,—snatch them away! + The Rich Thieves rolling in wealth that make profit of labouring men, + Surely the Wights of the Whirlwind shall swallow them quick in their + den! + O baneful, O wit-straying, in the Burg of London ye dwell, + And ever of Profits and three per cent. are the tales ye tell, + But the stark, strong Polyphemus shall answer you back again, + Him whom “No man slayeth by guile and not by main.” + (By “main” I mean “main force,” if aught at all do I mean. + In the Greek of the blindfold Bard it is simpler the sense to glean.) + You Polyphemus shall swallow and fill his mighty maw, + What time he maketh an end of the Priests, the Police, and the Law, + And then, ah, who shall purchase the poems of old that I sang, + Who shall pay twelve-and-six for an epic in Saga slang? + But perchance even “Hermes the Flitter” could scarcely expound what I + mean, + And I trow that another were fitter to sing you a song for a Queen. + + + + +FOLK SONGS + + +_French Peasant Songs_. + + + I. + + OH, fair apple tree, and oh, fair apple tree, + As heavy and sweet as the blossoms on thee, + My heart is heavy with love. + It wanteth but a little wind + To make the blossoms fall; + It wanteth but a young lover + To win me heart and all. + + II. + + I send my love letters + By larks on the wing; + My love sends me letters + When nightingales sing. + + Without reading or writing, + Their burden we know: + They only say, “Love me, + Who love you so.” + + III. + + And if they ask for me, brother, + Say I come never home, + For I have taken a strange wife + Beyond the salt sea foam. + + The green grass is my bridal bed, + The black tomb my good mother, + The stones and dust within the grave + Are my sister and my brother. + + + + +BALLADS + + +_The Young Ruthven_. + + + THE King has gi’en the Queen a gift, + For her May-day’s propine, + He’s gi’en her a band o’ the diamond-stane, + Set in the siller fine. + + The Queen she walked in _Falkland_ yaird, + Beside the Hollans green, + And there she saw the bonniest man + That ever her eyes had seen. + + His coat was the Ruthven white and red, + Sae sound asleep was he + The Queen she cried on May Beatrix, + That seely lad to see. + + “Oh! wha sleeps here, May Beatrix, + Without the leave o’ me?” + “Oh! wha suld it be but my young brother + Frae _Padua_ ower the sea! + + “My father was the Earl Gowrie, + An Earl o’ high degree, + But they hae slain him by fause treason, + And gar’d my brothers flee. + + “At _Padua_ hae they learned their leir + In the fields o’ _Italie_; + And they hae crossed the saut sea-faem, + And a’ for love o’ me!” + + * * * * + + The Queen has cuist her siller band + About his craig o’ snaw; + But still he slept and naething kenned, + Aneth the Hollans shaw. + + The King he daundered thro’ the yaird, + He saw the siller shine; + “And wha,” quoth he, “is this galliard + That wears yon gift o’ mine?” + + The King has gane till the Queen’s ain bower, + An angry man that day; + But bye there cam’ May Beatrix + And stole the band away. + + And she’s run in by the dern black yett, + Straight till the Queen ran she: + “Oh! tak ye back your siller band, + Or it gar my brother dee!” + + The Queen has linked her siller band + About her middle sma’; + And then she heard her ain gudeman + Come rowting through the ha’. + + “Oh! whare,” he cried, “is the siller band + I gied ye late yestreen? + The knops was a’ o’ the diamond stane, + Set in the siller sheen.” + + “Ye hae camped birling at the wine, + A’ nicht till the day did daw; + Or ye wad ken your siller band + About my middle sma’!” + + The King he stude, the King he glowered, + Sae hard as a man micht stare. + “Deil hae me! Like is a richt ill mark,— + Or I saw it itherwhere! + + “I saw it round young Ruthven’s neck + As he lay sleeping still; + And, faith, but the wine was wondrous guid, + Or my wife is wondrous ill!” + + * * * * + + There was na gane a week, a week, + A week but barely three; + The King has hounded John Ramsay out, + To gar young Ruthven dee! + + They took him in his brother’s house, + Nae sword was in his hand, + And they hae slain him, young Ruthven, + The bonniest in the land! + + And they hae slain his fair brother, + And laid him on the green, + And a’ for a band o’ the siller fine + And a blink o’ the eye o’ the Queen! + + Oh! had they set him man to man, + Or even ae man to three, + There was na a knight o’ the Ramsay bluid + Had gar’d Earl Gowrie dee! + + + +_The Queen O’ Spain and the Bauld Mclean_. + + + A BALLAD OF THE SOUND OF MULL. + + 1588. + + THE Queen o’ Spain had an ill gude-man. + The carle was auld and grey. + She has keeked in the glass at Hallow-een + A better chance to spae. + + She’s kaimit out her lang black hair, + That fell below her knee. + She’s ta’en the apple in her hand, + To see what she might see. + + Then first she saw her ain fair face, + And then the glass grew white, + And syne as black as the mouth o’ Hell + Or the sky on a winter night. + + But last she saw the bonniest man + That ever her eyes had seen, + His hair was gold, and his eyes were grey, + And his plaid was red and green. + + “Oh! the Spanish men are unco black + And unco blate,” she said; + “And they wear their mantles swart and side, + No the bonny green and red.” + + “Oh! where shall _I_ find sic a man? + That is the man for me!” + She has filled a ship wi’ the gude red gold, + And she has ta’en the sea. + + And she’s sailed west and she’s sailed east, + And mony a man she’s seen; + But never the man wi’ the hair o’ gold, + And the plaid o’ red and green. + + And she’s sailed east and she’s sailed west, + Till she cam’ to a narrow sea, + The water ran like a river in spate, + And the hills were wondrous hie. + + And there she spied a bonny bay, + And houses on the strand, + And there the man in the green and red + Came rowing frae the land. + + Says “Welcome here, ye bonny maid, + Ye’re welcome here for me. + Are ye the Lady o’ merry Elfland, + Or the Queen o’ some far countrie?” + + “I am na the Lady o’ fair Elfland, + But I am the Queen o’ Spain.” + He’s lowted low, and kissed her hand, + Says “They ca’ me the McLean!” + + “Then it’s a’ for the aefold love o’ thee + That I hae sailed the faem!” + “But, out and alas!” he has answered her, + “For I hae a wife at hame.” + + “Ye maun cast her into a massymore, + Or away on a tide-swept isle;” + “But, out and alas!” he’s answered her, + “For my wife’s o’ the bluid o’ Argyll!” + + Oh! they twa sat, and they twa grat, + And made their weary maen, + Till McLean has ridden to Dowart Castle, + And left the Queen her lane. + + His wife was a Campbell, fair and fause, + Says “Lachlan, where hae ye been?” + “Oh! I hae been at Tobermory, + And kissed the hand o’ a Queen!” + + “Oh! we maun send the Queen a stag, + And grouse for her propine, + And we’ll send her a cask o’ the usquebaugh, + And a butt o’ the red French wine!” + + She has put a bomb in the clairet butt, + And eke a burning lowe, + She has sent them away wi’ her little foot-page + That cam’ frae the black Lochow. + + * * * * + + The morn McLean rade forth to see + The last blink o’ his Queen, + There stude her ship in the harbour gude, + Upon the water green. + + But there cam’ a crash like a thunder-clap, + And a cloud on the water green. + The bonny ship in flinders flew, + And drooned was the bonny Queen. + + McLean he speirit nor gude nor bad, + His skian dubh he’s ta’en, + And he’s cuttit the throat o’ that fause foot-page, + And sundered his white hausebane. + + + +_Keith of Craigentolly_. + + + O KEITH o’ Craigentolly! + Ye sall live to rue the day + When ye brak the berried holly + Beside St. Andrew’s bay! + When Pitcullo’s kine + Card down to the brine, + And were drooned in the driving spray! + + In the bower o’ Craigentolly + Is a wan and waefu’ bride, + Singing, _O waly_! _waly_! + Through the whole country side; + And a river to wade + For a dying maid, + And a weary way to ride! + + O Keith o’ Craigentolly, + The bairn’s grave by the sea! + O Keith o’ Craigentolly, + The graves of maidens three! + And a bluidy shift, + And a sainless shrift, + For Keith o’ Craigentolly! + + * * * * * + + PRINTED BY + WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, + LONDON AND BECCLES. + + * * * * * + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +{11} One verse and the refrain are of 1750 or thereabouts. At Laffen, +where William, Duke of Cumberland, was defeated and nearly captured by +the Scots and Irish in the French service, Prince Charles is said to have +served as a volunteer. + +{32} So Nyren tells us. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEW COLLECTED RHYMES*** + + +******* This file should be named 1746-0.txt or 1746-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/7/6/1746 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: New Collected Rhymes + + +Author: Andrew Lang + + + +Release Date: September 8, 2014 [eBook #1746] +[This file was first posted on 25 November 1998] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEW COLLECTED RHYMES*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1905 Longmans, Green and Co. edition by +David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>NEW COLLECTED<br /> +RHYMES</h1> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">BY</span><br +/> +ANDREW LANG</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.<br /> +39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">NEW YORK AND BOMBAY</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center">1905</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>All rights reserved</i></p> +<h2><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +v</span>PREFACE</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">This</span> poor little flutter of rhymes +would not have been let down the wind: the project would have +been abandoned but for the too flattering encouragement of a +responsible friend. I trust that he may not “live to +rue the day,” like Keith of Craigentolly in the ballad.</p> +<p>The “Loyal Lyrics” on Charles and James and the +White Rose must not be understood as implying a rebellious desire +for the subversion of the present illustrious dynasty.</p> +<p class="poetry">“These are but symbols that I sing,<br /> +These names of Prince, and rose, and King;<br /> +Types of things dear that do not die,<br /> +But reign in loyal memory.<br /> +<i>Across the water</i> surely they<br /> +Abide their twenty-ninth of May;<br /> +And we shall hail their happy reign,<br /> +When Life comes to his own again,”—</p> +<p>over the water that divides us from the voices and faces of +our desires and dreams.</p> +<p><a name="pagevi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. vi</span>Of the +ballads, <i>The Young Ruthven</i> and <i>The Queen of Spain</i> +were written in competition with the street minstrels of the +close of the sixteenth century. The legend on which <i>The +Young Ruthven</i> is based is well known; <i>The Queen of +Spain</i> is the story of the <i>Florencia</i>, a ship of the +Spanish Armada, wrecked in Tobermory Bay, as it was told to me by +a mariner in the Sound of Mull. In <i>Keith of +Craigentolly</i> the family and territorial names of the hero or +villain are purposely altered, so as to avoid injuring +susceptibilities and arousing unavailing regrets.</p> +<h2><a name="pagevii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vii</span>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">DEDICATORY</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">In Augustinum Dobson</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page3">3</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">LOYAL LYRICS</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">How the Maid Marched from +Blois</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page7">7</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Lone Places of the Deer</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page9">9</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">An Old Song</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page10">10</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Jacobite</span> “<span +class="smcap">Auld Lang Syne</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page12">12</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Prince’s Birthday</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page14">14</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Tenth of June</span>, 1715</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page15">15</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">White Rose Day</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page17">17</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Red and White Roses</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page18">18</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch +Lomond</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page19">19</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Kenmure</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page21">21</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Culloden</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page23">23</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Last of the Leal</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page25">25</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Jeanne d’Arc</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page27">27</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">CRICKET RHYMES</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Helen</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page31">31</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Ballade of Dead Cricketers</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page32">32</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Brahma</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page34">34</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><a +name="pageviii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. viii</span>CRITICAL +OF LIFE, ART, AND LITERATURE</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Gainsborough Ghosts</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page37">37</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Remonstrance with the +Fair</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page39">39</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Rhyme of Rhymes</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page42">42</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Rhyme of Oxford Cockney +Rhymes</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page44">44</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Rococo</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page47">47</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The New Orpheus to his +Eurydice</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page47">47</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Food of Fiction</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page59">59</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>“<span class="smcap">A Highly Valuable Chain of +Thoughts</span>”</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page51">51</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Matrimony</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page53">53</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Piscatori Piscator</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page55">55</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Contented Angler</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page56">56</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Off my Game</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page58">58</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Property of a Gentleman who has +Given up Collecting</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page60">60</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Ballade of the Subconscious +Self</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page62">62</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Ballade of the Optimist</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page64">64</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Zimbabwe</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page66">66</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Love’s Cryptogram</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page68">68</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Tusitala</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page70">70</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Disdainful Diaphenia</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page72">72</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Tall Salmacis</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page73">73</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">JUBILEE POEMS</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">What Francesco said of the +Jubilee</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page72">72</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Poet and the Jubilee</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page79">79</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">On any Beach</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page81">81</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Ode of Jubilee</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page82">82</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Jubilee before Revolution</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page84">84</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><a +name="pageix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. ix</span>FOLK +SONGS</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">French Peasant Songs</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page89">89</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">BALLADS</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Young Ruthven</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page93">93</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Queen o’ Spain and the Bauld +McLean</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page97">97</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Keith of Craigentolly</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page101">101</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +1</span>DEDICATORY</h2> +<h3><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span><i>In +Augustinum Dobson</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Jam Rude +Donatum</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Dear</span> Poet, now +turned out to grass<br /> + (Like him who reigned in +Babylon),<br /> + Forget the seasons overlaid<br /> + By business and the Board of Trade:<br /> +And sing of old-world lad and lass<br /> + As in the summers that are +gone.</p> +<p class="poetry">Back to the golden prime of Anne!<br /> + When you ambassador had been,<br +/> + And brought o’er sea the King again,<br /> + Beatrix Esmond in his train,<br /> +Ah, happy bard to hold her fan,<br /> + And happy land with such a +Queen!</p> +<p class="poetry">We live too early, or too late,<br /> + You should have shared the pint of +Pope,<br /> + And taught, well pleased, the shining shell<br /> + To murmur of the fair Lepel,<br /> +And changed the stars of St. John’s fate<br /> + To some more happy horoscope.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +4</span>By duchesses with roses crowned,<br /> + And fed with chicken and +champagne,<br /> + Urbane and witty, and too wary<br /> + To risk the feud of Lady Mary,<br /> +You should have walked the courtly ground<br /> + Of times that cannot come +again.</p> +<p class="poetry">Bring back these years in verse or prose,<br /> + (I very much prefer your +verse!)<br /> + As on some Twenty-Ninth of May<br /> + Restore the splendour and the sway,<br /> +Forget the sins, the wars, the woes—<br /> + The joys alone must you +rehearse.</p> +<p class="poetry">Forget the dunces (there is none<br /> + So stupid as to snarl at +<i>you</i>);<br /> + So may your years with pen and book<br /> + Run pleasant as an English brook<br /> +Through meadows floral in the sun,<br /> + And shadows fragrant of the +dew.</p> +<p class="poetry">And thus at ending of your span—<br /> + As all must end—the world +shall say,<br /> + “His best he gave: he left us not<br /> + A line that saints could wish to blot,<br /> +For he was blameless, though a man,<br /> + And though the poet, he was +gay!”</p> +<h2><a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 5</span>LOYAL +LYRICS</h2> +<h3><a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span><i>How +the Maid Marched from Blois</i>.</h3> +<p>(Supposed to be narrated by James Power, or Polwarth, her +Scottish banner-painter.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> Maiden called +for her great destrier,<br /> +But he lashed like a fiend when the Maid drew near:<br /> +“Lead him forth to the Cross!” she cried, and he +stood<br /> +Like a steed of bronze by the Holy Rood!</p> +<p class="poetry">Then I saw the Maiden mount and ride,<br /> +With a good steel sperthe that swung by her side,<br /> +And girt with the sword of the Heavenly Bride,<br /> +That is sained with crosses five for a sign,<br /> +The mystical sword of St. Catherine.<br /> +And the lily banner was blowing wide,<br /> +With the flowers of France on the field of fame<br /> +And, blent with the blossoms, the Holy Name!<br /> +And the Maiden’s blazon was shown on a shield,<br /> +<i>Argent</i>, <i>a dove</i>, <i>on an azure field</i>;<br /> +That banner was wrought by this hand, ye see,<br /> +For the love of the Maid and chivalry.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +8</span>Her banner was borne by a page of grace,<br /> +With hair of gold, and a lady’s face;<br /> +And behind it the ranks of her men were dressed—<br /> +Never a man but was clean confessed,<br /> +Jackman and archer, lord and knight,<br /> +Their souls were clean and their hearts were light:<br /> +There was never an oath, there was never a laugh,<br /> +And La Hire swore soft by his leading staff!<br /> +Had we died in that hour we had won the skies,<br /> +And the Maiden had marched us through Paradise!</p> +<p class="poetry">A moment she turned to the people there,<br /> +Who had come to gaze on the Maiden fair;<br /> +A moment she glanced at the ring she wore,<br /> +She murmured the Holy Name it bore,<br /> +Then, “For France and the King, good people pray!”<br +/> +She spoke, and she cried to us, “<i>On and +away</i>!”<br /> +And the shouts broke forth, and the flowers rained down,<br /> +And the Maiden led us to Orleans town.</p> +<h3><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span><i>Lone +Places of the Deer</i>.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Lone</span> places of the +deer,<br /> + Corrie, and Loch, and Ben,<br /> +Fount that wells in the cave,<br /> +Voice of the burn and the wave,<br /> +Softly you sing and clear<br /> + Of Charlie and his men!</p> +<p class="poetry">Here has he lurked, and here<br /> + The heather has been his bed,<br /> +The wastes of the islands knew<br /> +And the Highland hearts were true<br /> +To the bonny, the brave, the dear,<br /> + The royal, the hunted head.</p> +<h3><a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span><i>An +Old Song</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">1750.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Oh</span>, it’s hame, +hame, hame,<br /> + And it’s hame I wadna be,<br /> +Till the Lord calls King James<br /> + To his ain countrie,<br /> +Bids the wind blaw frae France,<br /> + Till the Firth keps the faem,<br /> +And Loch Garry and Lochiel<br /> + Bring Prince Charlie hame.</p> +<p class="poetry">May the lads Prince Charlie led<br /> + That were hard on Willie’s track,<br /> +When frae Laffen field he fled,<br /> + Wi’ the claymore at his back,<br /> +May they stand on Scottish soil<br /> + When the White Rose bears the gree,<br /> +And the Lord calls the King<br /> + To his ain countrie!</p> +<p class="poetry">Bid the seas arise and stand<br /> + Like walls on ilka side,<br /> +<a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 11</span>Till our +Highland lad pass through<br /> + With Jehovah for his guide.<br /> +Dry up the River Forth,<br /> + As Thou didst the Red Sea,<br /> +When Israel cam hame<br /> + To his ain countrie. <a name="citation11"></a><a +href="#footnote11" class="citation">[11]</a></p> +<h3><a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +12</span><i>Jacobite</i> “<i>Auld Lang +Syne</i>.”</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Lochiel’s +Regiment</span>, 1747.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Though</span> now we take +King Lewie’s fee<br /> + And drink King Lewie’s wine,<br /> +We’ll bring the King frae ower the sea,<br /> + As in auld lang syne.</p> +<p class="poetry">For, he that did proud Pharaoh crush,<br /> + And save auld Jacob’s line,<br /> +Will speak to Charlie in the Bush,<br /> + Like Moses, lang syne.</p> +<p class="poetry">For oft we’ve garred the red coats +run,<br /> + Frae Garry to the Rhine,<br /> +Frae Baugé brig to Falkirk moor,<br /> + No that lang syne.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Duke may with the Devil drink,<br /> + And wi’ the deil may dine,<br /> +But Charlie’s dine in Holyrood,<br /> + As in auld lang syne.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +13</span>For he who did proud Pharaoh crush,<br /> + To save auld Jacob’s line,<br /> +Shall speak to Charlie in the Bush,<br /> + Like Moses, lang syne.</p> +<h3><a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 14</span><i>The +Prince’s Birthday</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">Rome</span>, +31<span class="smcap">st</span> <span +class="smcap">December</span>, 1721.</p> +<p>(A new-born star shone, which is figured on an early Medal of +Prince Charles.)</p> +<p class="poetry"> A <span +class="smcap">wonderful</span> star shone forth <br /> + From the frozen skies of the +North<br /> +Upon Rome, for an Old Year’s night:<br /> + And a flower on the dear white +Rose<br /> + Broke, in the season of snows,<br +/> +To bloom for a day’s delight.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Lost is the +star in the night,<br /> + And the Rose of a day’s +delight<br /> +Fled “where the roses go”:<br /> + But the fragrance and light from +afar,<br /> + Born of the Rose and the Star,<br +/> +Breathe o’er the years and the snow.</p> +<h3><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 15</span><i>The +Tenth of June</i>, 1715.</h3> +<p>(Being a Song writ for a lady born on June 10th, the birthday +of his Most Sacred Majesty King James III. and VIII.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Day</span> of the King and +the flower!<br /> + And the girl of my heart’s delight,<br /> +The blackbird sings in the bower,<br /> + And the nightingale sings in the night<br /> + A song to the roses white.</p> +<p class="poetry">Day of the flower and the King!<br /> + When shall the sails of white<br /> +Shine on the seas and bring<br /> + In the day, in the dawn, in the night,<br /> + The King to his land and his right?</p> +<p class="poetry">Day of my love and my may,<br /> + After the long years’ flight,<br /> +Born on the King’s birthday,<br /> + Born for my heart’s delight,<br /> + With the dawn of the roses white!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +16</span>Black as the blackbird’s wing<br /> + Is her hair, and her brow as white<br /> +As the white rose blossoming,<br /> + And her eyes as the falcon’s bright<br /> + And her heart is leal to the right.</p> +<p class="poetry">When shall the joy bells ring?<br /> + When shall the hours unite<br /> +The right with the might of my King,<br /> + And my heart with my heart’s delight;<br /> + In the dawn, in the day, in the night?</p> +<h3><a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +17</span><i>White Rose Day</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">June</span> 10, +1688.</p> +<p class="poetry">’<span class="smcap">Twas</span> a day of +faith and flowers,<br /> + Of honour that could not die,<br /> +Of Hope that counted the hours,<br /> + Of sorrowing Loyalty:<br /> +And the <i>Blackbird</i> sang in the closes,<br /> + The <i>Blackbird</i> piped in the spring,<br /> +For the day of the dawn of the Roses,<br /> + The dawn of the day of the King!</p> +<p class="poetry">White roses over the heather,<br /> + And down by the Lowland lea,<br /> +And far in the faint blue weather,<br /> + A white sail guessed on the sea!<br /> +But the deep night gathers and closes,<br /> + Shall ever a morning bring<br /> +The lord of the leal white roses,<br /> + The face of the rightful King?</p> +<h3><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span><i>Red +and White Roses</i>.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Red</span> roses under the +sun<br /> + For the King who is lord of land;<br /> +But he dies when his day is done,<br /> +For his memory careth none<br /> + When the glass runs empty of sand.</p> +<p class="poetry">White roses under the moon<br /> + For the King without lands to give;<br /> +But he reigns with the reign of June,<br /> +With the rose and the Blackbird’s tune,<br /> + And he lives while Faith shall live.</p> +<p class="poetry">Red roses for beef and beer;<br /> + Red roses for wine and gold;<br /> +But they drank of the water clear,<br /> +In exile and sorry cheer,<br /> + To the kings of our sires of old.</p> +<p class="poetry">Red roses for wealth and might;<br /> + White roses for hopes that flee;<br /> +And the dreams of the day and the night,<br /> +For the Lord of our heart’s delight—<br /> + For the King that is o’er the sea.</p> +<h3><a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 19</span><i>The +Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">1746.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There’s</span> an +ending o’ the dance, and fair Morag’s safe in +France,<br /> +And the Clans they hae paid the lawing,<br /> +And the wuddy has her ain, and we twa are left alane,<br /> +Free o’ Carlisle gaol in the dawing.</p> +<p class="poetry"> So +ye’ll tak the high road, and I’ll tak the laigh +road,<br /> + An’ I’ll be in +Scotland before ye:<br /> + But me and my true love will never +meet again,<br /> + By the bonnie, bonnie banks +o’ Loch Lomond.</p> +<p class="poetry">For my love’s heart brake in twa, when +she kenned the Cause’s fa’,<br /> +And she sleeps where there’s never nane shall waken,<br /> +Where the glen lies a’ in wrack, wi’ the houses toom +and black,<br /> +And her father’s ha’s forsaken.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +20</span>While there’s heather on the hill shall my +vengeance ne’er be still,<br /> +While a bush hides the glint o’ a gun, lad;<br /> +Wi’ the men o’ Sergeant Môr shall I work to pay +the score,<br /> +Till I wither on the wuddy in the sun, lad!</p> +<p class="poetry"> So +ye’ll tak the high road, and I’ll tak the laigh +road,<br /> + An’ I’ll be in +Scotland before ye:<br /> + But me and my true love will never +meet again,<br /> + By the bonnie, bonnie banks +o’ Loch Lomond.</p> +<h3><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +21</span><i>Kenmure</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">1715.</p> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">The</span> +heather’s in a blaze, Willie,<br /> + The White Rose decks the tree,<br /> +The Fiery Cross is on the braes,<br /> + And the King is on the sea!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Remember great Montrose, Willie,<br /> + Remember fair Dundee,<br /> +And strike one stroke at the foreign foes<br /> + Of the King that’s on the sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">“There’s Gordons in the North, +Willie,<br /> + Are rising frank and free,<br /> +Shall a Kenmure Gordon not go forth<br /> + For the King that’s on the sea?</p> +<p class="poetry">“A trusty sword to draw, Willie,<br /> + A comely weird to dree,<br /> +For the Royal Rose that’s like the snaw,<br /> + And the King that’s on the sea!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +22</span>He cast ae look across his lands,<br /> + Looked over loch and lea,<br /> +He took his fortune in his hands,<br /> + For the King was on the sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">Kenmures have fought in Galloway<br /> + For Kirk and Presbyt’rie,<br /> +This Kenmure faced his dying day,<br /> + For King James across the sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">It little skills what faith men vaunt,<br /> + If loyal men they be<br /> +To Christ’s ain Kirk and Covenant,<br /> + Or the King that’s o’er the sea.</p> +<h3><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +23</span><i>Culloden</i>.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Dark</span>, dark was the +day when we looked on Culloden<br /> + And chill was the mist drop that clung to the +tree,<br /> +The oats of the harvest hung heavy and sodden,<br /> + No light on the land and no wind on the sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">There was wind, there was rain, there was fire +on their faces,<br /> + When the clans broke the bayonets and died on the +guns,<br /> +And ’tis Honour that watches the desolate places<br /> + Where they sleep through the change of the snows and +the suns.</p> +<p class="poetry">Unfed and unmarshalled, outworn and +outnumbered,<br /> + All hopeless and fearless, as fiercely they +fought,<br /> +As when Falkirk with heaps of the fallen was cumbered,<br /> + As when Gledsmuir was red with the havoc they +wrought.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +24</span><i>Ah</i>, <i>woe worth you</i>, <i>Sleat</i>, <i>and +the faith that you vowed</i>,<br /> + <i>Ah</i>, <i>woe worth you</i>, <i>Lovat</i>, +<i>Traquair</i>, <i>and Mackay</i>;<br /> +<i>And woe on the false fairy flag of Macleod</i>,<br /> + <i>And the fat squires who drank</i>, <i>but who +dared not to die</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">Where the graves of Clan Chattan are clustered +together,<br /> + Where Macgillavray died by the Well of the Dead,<br +/> +We stooped to the moorland and plucked the pale heather<br /> + That blooms where the hope of the Stuart was +sped.</p> +<p class="poetry">And a whisper awoke on the wilderness, +sighing,<br /> + Like the voice of the heroes who battled in vain,<br +/> +“Not for Tearlach alone the red claymore was plying,<br /> + But to bring back the old life that comes not +again.”</p> +<h3><a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span><i>The +Last of the Leal</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">December</span> +31, 1787.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Here’s</span> a +health to every man<br /> + Bore the brunt of wind and weather;<br /> +Winnowed sore by Fortune’s fan,<br /> +Faded faith of chief and clan:<br /> + Nairne and Caryl stand together;<br /> +Here’s a health to every man<br /> + Bore the brunt of wind and weather!</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, round Charlie many ran,<br /> + When his foot was on the heather,<br /> +When his sword shone in the van.<br /> +Now at ending of his span,<br /> + Gask and Caryl stand together!</p> +<p class="poetry">Ne’er a hope from plot or plan,<br /> + Ne’er a hope from rose or heather;<br /> +Ay, the King’s a broken man;<br /> +Few will bless, and most will ban.<br /> + Nairne and Caryl stand together!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +26</span>Help is none from Crown or clan,<br /> + France is false, a fluttered feather;<br /> +But Kings are not made by man,<br /> +Till God end what God began,<br /> + Nairne and Caryl stand together,<br /> + Gask and Caryl stand together;<br /> +Here’s a health to every man<br /> + Bore the brunt of wind and weather!</p> +<h3><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +27</span><i>Jeanne d’Arc</i>.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> honour of a +loyal boy,<br /> + The courage of a paladin,<br /> +With maiden’s mirth, the soul of joy,<br /> + These dwelt her happy breast within.<br /> +From shame, from doubt, from fear, from sin,<br /> + As God’s own angels was she free;<br /> +Old worlds shall end, and new begin<br /> + + +To be</p> +<p class="poetry">Ere any come like her who fought<br /> + For France, for freedom, for the King;<br /> +Who counsel of redemption brought<br /> + Whence even the armed Archangel’s wing<br /> +Might weary sore in voyaging;<br /> + Who heard her Voices cry “Be free!”<br +/> +Such Maid no later human spring<br /> + + +Shall see!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +28</span>Saints Michael, Catherine, Margaret,<br /> + Who sowed the seed that Thou must reap,<br /> +If eyes of angels may be wet,<br /> + And if the Saints have leave to weep,<br /> +In Paradise one pain they keep,<br /> + Maiden! one mortal memory,<br /> +One sorrow that can never sleep,<br /> + + +For Thee!</p> +<h2><a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +29</span>CRICKET RHYMES</h2> +<h3><a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span><i>To +Helen</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(After seeing her bowl with her +usual success.)</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><span +class="smcap">St. Leonard’s Hall</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Helen</span>, thy bowling +is to me<br /> + Like that wise Alfred Shaw’s of yore,<br /> +Which gently broke the wickets three:<br /> + From Alfred few could smack a four:<br /> + Most difficult to score!</p> +<p class="poetry">The music of the moaning sea,<br /> + The rattle of the flying bails,<br /> +The grey sad spires, the tawny sails—<br /> + What memories they bring to me,<br /> + Beholding thee!</p> +<p class="poetry">Upon our old monastic pitch,<br /> + How sportsmanlike I see thee stand!<br /> +The leather in thy lily hand,<br /> + Oh, Helen of the yorkers, which<br /> + Are nobly planned!</p> +<h3><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +32</span><i>Ballade of Dead Cricketers</i>.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ah</span>, where be Beldham +now, and Brett,<br /> + Barker, and Hogsflesh, where be they?<br /> +Brett, of all bowlers fleetest yet<br /> + That drove the bails in disarray?<br /> +And Small that would, like Orpheus, play<br /> + Till wild bulls followed his minstrelsy? <a +name="citation32"></a><a href="#footnote32" +class="citation">[32]</a><br /> +Booker, and Quiddington, and May?<br /> + Beneath the daisies, there they lie!</p> +<p class="poetry">And where is Lambert, that would get<br /> + The stumps with balls that broke astray?<br /> +And Mann, whose balls would ricochet<br /> + In almost an unholy way<br /> +(So do baseballers “pitch” to-day)<br /> + George Lear, that seldom let a bye,<br /> +And Richard Nyren, grave and gray?<br /> + Beneath the daisies, there they lie!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +33</span>Tom Sueter, too, the ladies’ pet,<br /> + Brown that would bravest hearts affray;<br /> +Walker, invincible when set,<br /> + (Tom, of the spider limbs and splay);<br /> +Think ye that we could match them, pray,<br /> + These heroes of Broad-halfpenny,<br /> +With Buck to hit, and Small to stay?<br /> + Beneath the daisies, there they lie!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince, canst thou moralise the lay?<br /> + How all things change below the sky!<br /> +Of Fry and Grace shall mortals say,<br /> + “Beneath the daisies, there they +lie!”</p> +<h3><a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +34</span><i>Brahma</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">After +Emerson</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">If</span> the wild bowler +thinks he bowls,<br /> + Or if the batsman thinks he’s bowled,<br /> +They know not, poor misguided souls,<br /> + They too shall perish unconsoled.<br /> +<i>I</i> am the batsman and the bat,<br /> + <i>I</i> am the bowler and the ball,<br /> +The umpire, the pavilion cat,<br /> + The roller, pitch, and stumps, and all.</p> +<h2><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +35</span>CRITICAL OF LIFE, ART, AND LITERATURE</h2> +<h3><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +37</span><i>Gainsborough Ghosts</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">In The +Grosvenor Gallery</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">They</span> smile upon the +western wall,<br /> + The lips that laughed an age agone,<br /> +The fops, the dukes, the beauties all,<br /> + Le Brun that sang, and Carr that shone.<br /> +We gaze with idle eyes: we con<br /> + The faces of an elder time—<br /> +Alas! and <i>ours</i> is flitting on;<br /> + Oh, moral for an empty rhyme!</p> +<p class="poetry">Think, when the tumult and the crowd<br /> + Have left the solemn rooms and chill,<br /> +When dilettanti are not loud,<br /> + When lady critics are not shrill—<br /> +Ah, think how strange upon the still<br /> + Dim air may sound these voices faint;<br /> +Once more may Johnson talk his fill<br /> + And fair Dalrymple charm the Saint!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +38</span>Of us they speak as we of them,<br /> + Like us, perchance, they criticise:<br /> +Our wit, they vote, is Brummagem;<br /> + Our beauty—dim to Devon’s eyes!<br /> +Their silks and lace our cloth despise,<br /> + Their pumps—our boots that pad the mud,<br /> +What modern fop with Walpole vies?<br /> + With St. Leger what modern blood?</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, true, we lack the charm, the wit,<br /> + Our very greatest, sure, are small;<br /> +And Mr. Gladstone is not Pitt,<br /> + And Garrick comes not when we call.<br /> +Yet—pass an age—and, after all,<br /> + Even <i>we</i> may please the folk that look<br /> +When we are faces on the wall,<br /> + And voices in a history book!</p> +<p class="poetry">In Art the statesman yet shall live,<br /> + With collars keen, with Roman nose;<br /> +To Beauty yet shall Millais give<br /> + The roses that outlast the rose:<br /> +The lords of verse, the slaves of prose,<br /> + On canvas yet shall seem alive,<br /> +And charm the mob that comes and goes,<br /> + And lives—in 1985.</p> +<h3><a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span><i>A +Remonstrance with the Fair</i>.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> are thoughts +that the mind cannot fathom,<br /> + The mind of the animal male;<br /> +But woman abundantly hath ’em,<br /> + And mostly her notions prevail.<br /> +And why ladies read what they <i>do</i> read<br /> + Is a thing that no man may explain,<br /> +And if any one asks for a true rede<br /> + He asketh in vain.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, why is each “passing +depression”<br /> + Of stories that gloomily bore<br /> +Received as the subtle expression<br /> + Of almost unspeakable lore?<br /> +In the dreary, the sickly, the grimy<br /> + Say, why do our women delight,<br /> +And wherefore so constantly ply me<br /> + With <i>Ships in the Night</i>?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +40</span>Dear ladies, in vain you approach us,<br /> + With books to your taste in your hands;<br /> +For, alas! though you offer to coach us,<br /> + Yet the soul of no man understands<br /> +Why the grubby is always the moral,<br /> + Why the nasty’s preferred to the nice,<br /> +While you keep up a secular quarrel<br /> + With a gay little Vice;</p> +<p class="poetry">Yes, a Vice with her lips full of laughter,<br +/> + A Vice with a rose in her hair,<br /> +You condemn in the present and after,<br /> + To darkness of utter despair:<br /> +But a sin, if no rapture redeem it,<br /> + But a passion that’s pale and played out,<br +/> +Or in surgical hands—you esteem it<br /> + Worth scribbling about!</p> +<p class="poetry">What is sauce for the goose, for the gander<br +/> + Is sauce, ye inconsequent fair!<br /> +It is better to laugh than to maunder,<br /> + And better is mirth than despair;<br /> +And though Life’s not all beer and all skittles,<br /> + Yet the Sun, on occasion, can shine,<br /> +And, <i>mon Dieu</i>! he’s a fool who belittles<br /> + This cosmos of Thine!</p> +<p class="poetry">There are cakes, there is ale—ay, and +ginger<br /> + Shall be hot in the mouth, as of old:<br /> +And a villain, with cloak and with whinger,<br /> + And a hero, in armour of gold,<br /> +<a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span>And a maid +with a face like a lily,<br /> + With a heart that is stainless and gay,<br /> +Make a tale worth a world of the silly<br /> + Sad trash of to-day!</p> +<h3><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +42</span><i>Rhyme of Rhymes</i>.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Wild</span> on the mountain +peak the wind<br /> + Repeats its old refrain,<br /> +Like ghosts of mortals who have sinned,<br /> + And fain would sin again.</p> +<p class="poetry">For “wind” I do not rhyme to +“mind,”<br /> + Like many mortal men,<br /> +“Again” (when one reflects) ’twere kind<br /> + To rhyme as if “agen.”</p> +<p class="poetry">I never met a single soul<br /> + Who <i>spoke</i> of “wind” as +“wined,”<br /> +And yet we use it, on the whole,<br /> + To rhyme to “find” and +“blind.”</p> +<p class="poetry">We <i>say</i>, “Now don’t do that +<i>agen</i>,”<br /> + When people give us pain;<br /> +In poetry, nine times in ten,<br /> + It rhymes to “Spain” or +“Dane.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +43</span>Oh, which are wrong or which are right?<br /> + Oh, which are right or wrong?<br /> +The sounds in prose familiar, quite,<br /> + Or those we meet in song?</p> +<p class="poetry">To hold that “love” can rhyme to +“prove”<br /> + Requires some force of will,<br /> +Yet in the ancient lyric groove<br /> + We meet them rhyming still.</p> +<p class="poetry">This was our learned fathers’ wont<br /> + In prehistoric times,<br /> +We follow it, or if we don’t,<br /> + We oft run short of rhymes.</p> +<h3><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +44</span><i>Rhyme of Oxford Cockney Rhymes</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(Exhibited in the <i>Oxford +Magazine</i>.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Though</span> Keats rhymed +“ear” to “Cytherea,”<br /> + And Morris “dawn” to +“morn,”<br /> +A worse example, it is clear,<br /> + By Oxford Dons is “shorn.”<br /> +G—y, of Magdalen, goes beyond<br /> + These puny Cockneys far,<br /> +And to “Magrath” rhymes—Muse despond!—<br +/> + “Magrath” he rhymes to +“star”!</p> +<p class="poetry">Another poet, X. Y. Z.,<br /> + Employs the word “researcher,”<br /> +And then,—his blood be on his head,—<br /> + He makes it rhyme to “nurture.”<br /> +Ah, never was the English tongue<br /> + So flayed, and racked, and tortured,<br /> +Since one I love (who should be hung)<br /> + Made “tortured” rhyme to +“orchard.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +45</span>Unkindly G—y’s raging pen<br /> + Next craves a rhyme to “sooner;”<br /> +Rejecting “Spooner,” (best of men,)<br /> + He fastens on <i>lacuna</i>(<i>r</i>).<br /> +Nay, worse, in his infatuate mind<br /> + He ends a line “explainer,”<br /> +Nor any rhyme can G—y find<br /> + Until he reaches Jena(r).</p> +<p class="poetry">Yes, G—y shines the worst of all,<br /> + He needs to rhyme “embargo;”<br /> +The man had “Margot” at his call,<br /> + He had the good ship <i>Argo</i>;<br /> +Largo he had; yet doth he seek<br /> + Further, and no embargo<br /> +Restrains him from the odious, weak,<br /> + And Cockney rhyme, “Chicago”!</p> +<p class="poetry">Ye Oxford Dons that Cockneys be,<br /> + Among your gardens tidy,<br /> +If you would ask a maid to tea,<br /> + D’ye call the girl “a lydy”?<br /> +And if you’d sing of Mr. Fry,<br /> + And need a rhyme to “swiper,”<br /> +Are you so cruel as to try<br /> + To fill the blank with “paper”?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +46</span>Oh, Hoxford was a pleasant plice<br /> + To many a poet dear,<br /> +And Saccharissa had the grice<br /> + In Hoxford to appear.<br /> +But Waller, if to Cytherea<br /> + He prayed at any time,<br /> +Did not implore “her friendly ear,”<br /> + And think he had a rhyme.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, if you ask to what are due<br /> + The horrors which I mention,<br /> +I think we owe them to the U-<br /> + Niversity extension.<br /> +From Hoxton and from Poplar come<br /> + The ’Arriets and ’Arries,<br /> +And so the Oxford Muse is dumb,<br /> + Or, when she sings, miscarries.</p> +<h3><a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +47</span><i>Rococo</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(“My name is also named +‘Played Out.’”)</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>When first we heard Rossetti sing</i>,<br /> + <i>We twanged the melancholy lyre</i>,<br /> +<i>We sang like this</i>, <i>like anything</i>,<br /> + <i>When first we heard Rossetti sing</i>.<br /> +<i>And all our song was faded Spring</i>,<br /> + <i>And dead delight and dark desire</i>,<br /> +<i>When first we heard Rossetti sing</i>,<br /> + <i>We twanged the melancholy lyre</i>.</p> +<p>(<i>And this is how we twanged it</i>)—</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>The New Orpheus to his +Eurydice</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Why</span> wilt thou woo, +ah, strange Eurydice,<br /> + A languid laurell’d Orpheus in the shades,<br +/> + For here is company of shadowy maids,<br /> +Hero, and Helen and Psamathoë:</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +48</span>And life is like the blossom on the tree,<br /> + And never tumult of the world invades,<br /> + The low light wanes and waxes, flowers and fades,<br +/> +And sleep is sweet, and dreams suffice for me;</p> +<p class="poetry">“Go back, and seek the sunlight,” +as of old,<br /> + The wise ghost-mother of Odysseus said,<br /> +Here am I half content, and scarce a-cold,<br /> + But one light fits the living, one the dead;<br /> +Good-bye, be glad, forget! thou canst not hold<br /> + In thy kind arms, alas! this powerless head.</p> +<p +class="poetry"> <i>When +first we heard Rossetti sing</i>,<br /> + + +<i>We also wrote this kind of thing</i>!</p> +<h3><a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 49</span><i>The +Food of Fiction</i>.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">To</span> breakfast, +dinner, or to lunch<br /> + My steps are languid, once so speedy;<br /> +E’en though, like the old gent in <i>Punch</i>,<br /> + “Not hungry, but, thank goodness! +greedy.”<br /> +I gaze upon the well-spread board,<br /> + And have to own—oh, contradiction!<br /> +Though every dainty it afford,<br /> + There’s nothing like the food of fiction.</p> +<p class="poetry">“The better half”—how good +the sound!<br /> + Of Scott’s or Ainsworth’s “venison +pasty,”<br /> +In cups of old Canary drowned,<br /> + (Which probably was very nasty).<br /> +The beefsteak pudding made by Ruth<br /> + To cheer Tom Pinch in his affliction,<br /> +Ah me, in all the world of truth,<br /> + There’s nothing like the food of fiction!</p> +<p class="poetry">The cakes and ham and buttered toast<br /> + That graced the board of Gabriel Varden,<br /> +In Bracebridge Hall the Christmas roast,<br /> + Fruits from the Goblin Market Garden.<br /> +<a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 50</span>And if +you’d eat of luscious sweets<br /> + And yet escape from gout’s infliction,<br /> +Just read “St. Agnes’ Eve” by Keats—<br +/> + There’s nothing like the food of fiction.</p> +<p class="poetry">What cups of tea were ever brewed<br /> + Like Sairey Gamp’s—the dear old +sinner?<br /> +What savoury mess was ever stewed<br /> + Like that for Short’s and Codlin’s +dinner?<br /> +What was the flavour of that “poy”—<br /> + To use the Fotheringay’s own diction—<br +/> +Pendennis ate, the love-sick boy?<br /> + There’s nothing like the food of fiction.</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince, you are young—but you will +find<br /> + After life’s years of fret and friction,<br /> +That hunger wanes—but never mind!<br /> + There’s nothing like the food of fiction.</p> +<h3><a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +51</span>“<i>A Highly Valuable chain of +Thoughts</i>.”</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Had</span> cigarettes no +ashes,<br /> + And roses ne’er a thorn,<br /> +No man would be a funker<br /> +Of whin, or burn, or bunker.<br /> +There were no need for mashies,<br /> + The turf would ne’er be torn,<br /> +Had cigarettes no ashes,<br /> + And roses ne’er a thorn.</p> +<p class="poetry">Had cigarettes no ashes,<br /> + And roses ne’er a thorn,<br /> +The big trout would not ever<br /> +Escape into the river.<br /> +No gut the salmon smashes<br /> + Would leave us all forlorn,<br /> +Had cigarettes no ashes,<br /> + And roses ne’er a thorn.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +52</span>But ’tis an unideal,<br /> + Sad world in which we’re born,<br /> +And things will “go contrairy”<br /> +With Martin and with Mary:<br /> +And every day the real<br /> + Comes bleakly in with morn,<br /> +And cigarettes have ashes,<br /> + And every rose a thorn.</p> +<h3><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +53</span><i>Matrimony</i>.</h3> +<p>(Matrimony—Advertiser would like to hear from +well-educated Protestant lady, under thirty, fair, with view to +above, who would have no objection to work Remington type-writer, +at home. Enclose photo. T. 99. This +Office. Cork newspaper.)</p> +<p class="poetry">T. 99 would gladly hear<br /> + From one whose years are few,<br /> +A maid whose doctrines are severe,<br /> + Of Presbyterian blue,<br /> +Also—with view to the above—<br /> + Her photo he would see,<br /> +And trusts that she may live and love<br /> + His Protestant to be!<br /> +But ere the sacred rites are done<br /> + (And by no Priest of Rome)<br /> +He’d ask, if she a Remington<br /> + Type-writer works—at home?</p> +<p class="poetry">If she have no objections to<br /> + This task, and if her hair—<br /> +In keeping with her eyes of blue—<br /> + Be delicately fair,<br /> +<a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 54</span>Ah, +<i>then</i>, let her a photo send<br /> + Of all her charms divine,<br /> +To him who rests her faithful friend,<br /> + Her own T. 99.</p> +<h3><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +55</span><i>Piscatori Piscator</i>.</h3> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">In +Memory of Thomas Tod Stoddart</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">An</span> angler to an +angler here,<br /> + To one who longed not for the bays,<br /> +I bring a little gift and dear,<br /> + A line of love, a word of praise,<br /> +A common memory of the ways,<br /> + By Elibank and Yair that lead;<br /> +Of all the burns, from all the braes,<br /> + That yield their tribute to the Tweed.</p> +<p class="poetry">His boyhood found the waters clean,<br /> + His age deplored them, foul with dye;<br /> +But purple hills, and copses green,<br /> + And these old towers he wandered by,<br /> +Still to the simple strains reply<br /> + Of his pure unrepining reed,<br /> +Who lies where he was fain to lie,<br /> + Like Scott, within the sound of Tweed.</p> +<h3><a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 56</span><i>The +Contented Angler</i>.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> Angler hath a +jolly life<br /> + Who by the rail runs down,<br /> +And leaves his business and his wife,<br /> + And all the din of town.<br /> +The wind down stream is blowing straight,<br /> + And nowhere cast can he:<br /> +Then lo, he doth but sit and wait<br /> + In kindly company.</p> +<p class="poetry">The miller turns the water off,<br /> + Or folk be cutting weed,<br /> +While he doth at misfortune scoff,<br /> + From every trouble freed.<br /> +Or else he waiteth for a rise,<br /> + And ne’er a rise may see;<br /> +For why, there are not any flies<br /> + To bear him company.</p> +<p class="poetry">Or, if he mark a rising trout,<br /> + He straightway is caught up,<br /> +<a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span>And then +he takes his flasket out,<br /> + And drinks a rousing cup.<br /> +Or if a trout he chance to hook,<br /> + Weeded and broke is he,<br /> +And then he finds a godly book<br /> + Instructive company.</p> +<h3><a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 58</span><i>Off +My Game</i>.</h3> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">I’m</span> of +my game,” the golfer said,<br /> + And shook his locks in woe;<br /> +“My putter never lays me dead,<br /> + My drives will never go;<br /> +Howe’er I swing, howe’er I stand,<br /> + Results are still the same,<br /> +I’m in the burn, I’m in the sand—<br /> + I’m off my game!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Oh, would that such mishaps might +fall<br /> + On Laidlay or Macfie,<br /> +That they might toe or heel the ball,<br /> + And sclaff along like me!<br /> +Men hurry from me in the street,<br /> + And execrate my name,<br /> +Old partners shun me when we meet—<br /> + I’m off my game!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Why is it that I play at all?<br /> + Let memory remind me<br /> +How once I smote upon my ball,<br /> + And bunkered it—<i>behind me</i>.<br /> +<a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>I mostly +slice into the whins,<br /> + And my excuse is lame—<br /> +It cannot cover half my sins—<br /> + I’m off my game!</p> +<p class="poetry">“I hate the sight of all my set,<br /> + I grow morose as Byron;<br /> +I never loved a brassey yet,<br /> + And now I hate an iron.<br /> +My cleek seems merely made to top,<br /> + My putting’s wild or tame;<br /> +It’s really time for me to stop—<br /> + I’m off my game!”</p> +<h3><a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span><i>The +Property of a Gentleman who has given up Collecting</i>.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Oh</span> blessed be the +cart that takes<br /> + Away my books, my curse, my clog,<br /> +Blessed the auctioneer who makes<br /> + Their inefficient catalogue.</p> +<p class="poetry">Blessed the purchasers who pay<br /> + However little—less were fit—<br /> +Blessed the rooms, the rainy day,<br /> + The knock-out and the end of it.</p> +<p class="poetry">For I am weary of the sport,<br /> + That seemed a while agone so sweet,<br /> +Of Elzevirs an inch too short,<br /> + And First Editions—incomplete.</p> +<p class="poetry">Weary of crests and coats of arms,<br /> + “Attributed to Padeloup”<br /> +The sham Deromes have lost their charms,<br /> + The things Le Gascon did not do.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +61</span>I never read the catalogues<br /> + Of rubbish that come thick as rooks,<br /> +But most I loathe the dreary dogs<br /> + That write in prose, or worse, on books.</p> +<p class="poetry">Large paper surely cannot hide<br /> + Their grammar, nor excuse their rhyme,<br /> +The anecdotes that they provide<br /> + Are older than the dawn of time.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ye bores, of every shape and size,<br /> + Who make a tedium of delight,<br /> +Good-bye, the last of my good-byes.<br /> + Good night, to all your clan good night!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus in a sullen fit we swore,<br /> + But on mature reflection,<br /> +Went on collecting more and more,<br /> + And kept our old collection!</p> +<h3><a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 62</span><i>The +Ballade of the Subconscious Self</i>.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Who</span> suddenly calls +to our ken<br /> + The knowledge that should not be there;<br /> +Who charms Mr. Stead with the pen,<br /> + Of the Prince of the Powers of the Air;<br /> +Who makes Physiologists stare—<br /> + Is he ghost, is he demon, or elf,<br /> +Who fashions the dream of the fair?<br /> + It is just the Subconscious Self.</p> +<p class="poetry">He’s the ally of Medicine Men<br /> + Who consult the Australian bear,<br /> +And ’tis he, with his lights on the fen,<br /> + Who helps Jack o’ Lanthorn to snare<br /> +The peasants of Devon, who swear<br /> + Under Commonwealth, Stuart, or Guelph,<br /> +That they never had half such a scare—<br /> + It is just the Subconscious Self.</p> +<p class="poetry">It is he, from his cerebral den,<br /> + Who raps upon table and chair,<br /> +Who frightens the housemaid, and then<br /> + Slinks back, like a thief, to his lair:<br /> +<a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span>’Tis +the Brownie (according to Mair)<br /> + Who rattles the pots on the shelf,<br /> +But the Psychical sages declare<br /> + “It is just the Subconscious Self.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince, each of us all is a pair—<br /> + The Conscious, who labours for pelf,<br /> +And the other, who charmed Mr. Blair,<br /> + It is just the Subconscious Self.</p> +<h3><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +64</span><i>Ballade of the Optimist</i>.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Heed</span> not the folk +who sing or say<br /> + In sonnet sad or sermon chill,<br /> +“Alas, alack, and well-a-day,<br /> + This round world’s but a bitter +pill.”<br /> +Poor porcupines of fretful quill!<br /> + Sometimes we quarrel with our lot:<br /> +We, too, are sad and careful; still<br /> + We’d rather be alive than not.</p> +<p class="poetry">What though we wish the cats at play<br /> + Would some one else’s garden till;<br /> +Though Sophonisba drop the tray<br /> + And all our worshipped Worcester spill,<br /> +Though neighbours “practise” loud and shrill,<br /> + Though May be cold and June be hot,<br /> +Though April freeze and August grill,<br /> + We’d rather be alive than not.</p> +<p class="poetry">And, sometimes on a summer’s day<br /> + To self and every mortal ill<br /> +We give the slip, we steal away,<br /> + To walk beside some sedgy rill:<br /> +<a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 65</span>The +darkening years, the cares that kill,<br /> + A little while are well forgot;<br /> +When deep in broom upon the hill,<br /> + We’d rather be alive than not.</p> +<p class="poetry">Pistol, with oaths didst thou fulfil<br /> + The task thy braggart tongue begot,<br /> +We eat our leek with better will,<br /> + We’d rather be alive than not.</p> +<h3><a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +66</span><i>Zimbabwe</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(The ruined Gold Cities of +Rhodesia. The Ophir of Scripture.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Into</span> the darkness +whence they came,<br /> + They passed, their country knoweth none,<br /> +They and their gods without a name<br /> + Partake the same oblivion.<br /> +Their work they did, their work is done,<br /> + Whose gold, it may be, shone like fire<br /> +About the brows of Solomon,<br /> + And in the House of God’s Desire.</p> +<p class="poetry">Hence came the altar all of gold,<br /> + The hinges of the Holy Place,<br /> +The censer with the fragrance rolled<br /> + Skyward to seek Jehovah’s face;<br /> +The golden Ark that did encase<br /> + The Law within Jerusalem,<br /> +The lilies and the rings to grace<br /> + The High Priest’s robe and diadem.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +67</span>The pestilence, the desert spear,<br /> + Smote them; they passed, with none to tell<br /> +The names of them who laboured here:<br /> + Stark walls and crumbling crucible,<br /> +Strait gates, and graves, and ruined well,<br /> + Abide, dumb monuments of old,<br /> +We know but that men fought and fell,<br /> + Like us, like us, for love of Gold.</p> +<h3><a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +68</span><i>Love’s Cryptogram</i>.</h3> +<p>[The author (if he can be so styled) awoke from a restless +sleep, with the first stanza of the following piece in his +mind. He has no memory of composing it, either awake or +asleep. He had long known the perhaps Pythagorean fable of +the bean-juice, but certainly never thought of applying it to an +amorous correspondence! The remaining verses are the +contribution of his Conscious Self!]</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><span +class="smcap">Elle</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">cannot</span> write, I +may not write,<br /> + I dare not write to thee,<br /> +But look on the face of the moon by night,<br /> + And my letters shalt thou see.<br /> +For every letter that lovers write,<br /> + By their loves on the moon is seen,<br /> +If they pen their thought on the paper white,<br /> + With the magic juice of the bean!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><span +class="smcap">Lui</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, I had written this many a year,<br /> + And my letters you had read.<br /> +Had you only told me the spell, my dear,<br /> + Ere ever we twain were wed!<br /> +<a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 69</span>But I have +a lady and you have a lord,<br /> + And their eyes are of the green,<br /> +And we dared not trust to the written word,<br /> + Lest our long, long love be seen!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><span +class="smcap">Elle</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Oh, every thought that your heart has +thought,<br /> + Since the world came us between,<br /> +The birds of the air to my heart have brought,<br /> + With no word heard or seen.”<br /> +’<i>Twas thus in a dream we spoke and said</i><br /> + <i>Myself and my love unseen</i>,<br /> +<i>But I woke and sighed on my weary bed</i>,<br /> + <i>For the spell of the juice of the bean</i>!</p> +<h3><a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +70</span><i>Tusitala</i>.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">We</span> spoke of a rest +in a fairy knowe of the North, but he,<br /> + Far from the firths of the East, and the racing +tides of the West,<br /> +Sleeps in the sight and the sound of the infinite Southern +Sea,<br /> + Weary and well content in his grave on the Vaëa +crest.</p> +<p class="poetry">Tusitala, the lover of children, the teller of +tales,<br /> + Giver of counsel and dreams, a wonder, a +world’s delight,<br /> +Looks o’er the labours of men in the plain and the hill; +and the sails<br /> + Pass and repass on the sea that he loved, in the day +and the night.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +71</span>Winds of the West and the East in the rainy season +blow<br /> + Heavy with perfume, and all his fragrant woods are +wet,<br /> +Winds of the East and West as they wander to and fro,<br /> + Bear him the love of the land he loved, and the long +regret.</p> +<p class="poetry">Once we were kindest, he said, when leagues of +the limitless sea<br /> + Flowed between us, but now that no wash of the +wandering tides<br /> +Sunders us each from each, yet nearer we seem to be,<br /> + Whom only the unbridged stream of the river of Death +divides.</p> +<h3><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +72</span><i>Disdainful Diaphenia</i>.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> is no venom in +the Rose<br /> + That any bee should shrink from it;<br /> +No poison from the Lily flows,<br /> + She hath not a disdainful wit;<br /> +But thou, that Rose and Lily art,<br /> +Thy tongue doth poison Cupid’s dart!</p> +<p class="poetry">Nature herself to deadly flowers<br /> + Refuseth beauty lest the vain<br /> +Insects that hum through August hours<br /> + With beauty should suck in their bane;<br /> +But thou, as Rose or Lily fair,<br /> +Art circled with envenomed air!</p> +<p class="poetry">Like Progne didst thou lose thy tongue,<br /> + Thy lovers might adore and live;<br /> +Like that witch Circe, oft besung,<br /> + Thou hast dear gifts, if thou wouldst give;<br /> +But since thou hast a wicked wit,<br /> +Thy lovers fade, or flee from it.</p> +<h3><a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +73</span><i>Tall Salmacis</i>.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Were</span> an apple tree a +pine,<br /> + Tall and slim, and softly swaying,<br /> +Then her beauty were like thine,<br /> + Salmacis, when boune a Maying,<br /> +Tall as any poplar tree,<br /> +Sweet as apple blossoms be!</p> +<p class="poetry">Had the Amazonian Queen<br /> + Seen thee ’midst thy maiden peers,<br /> +Thou the Coronel hadst been<br /> + Of that lady’s Grenadiers;<br /> +Troy had never mourned her fall,<br /> +With thine axe to guard her wall.</p> +<p class="poetry">As Penthesilea brave<br /> + Is the maiden (in her dreams);<br /> +Ilium she well might save,<br /> + Though Achilles’ armour gleams,<br /> +’Midst the Greeks; all vain it is,<br /> +’Gainst the glance of Salmacis!</p> +<h2><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +75</span>JUBILEE POEMS<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">BY BARDS WHO WERE SILENT</span></h2> +<h3><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +77</span><i>What Francesco said of the Jubilee</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">By</span> R. +B.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">What</span> if we call it +fifty years! ’Tis steep!<br /> +To climb so high a gradient? Prate of Guides?<br /> +Are we not roped? The Danger? Nay, the Turf,<br /> +No less nor more than mountain peaks, my friend,<br /> +Hears talk of Roping,—but the Jubilee!<br /> +Nay, there you have me: old Francesco once<br /> +(This was in Milan, in Visconti’s time,<br /> +Our wild Visconti, with one lip askance,<br /> +And beard tongue-twisted in the nostril’s nook)<br /> +Parlous enough,—these times—what? “So are +ours”?<br /> +Or any times, i’fegs, to him who thinks,—<br /> +Well ’twas in Spring “the frolic myrtle trees<br /> +There gendered the grave olive stocks,”—you cry<br /> +“A miracle!”—Sordello writeth thus,—<br +/> +Believe me that indeed ’twas thus, and he,<br /> +Francesco, you are with me? Well, there’s gloom<br /> +<a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 78</span>No less +than gladness in your fifty years,<br /> +“And so,” said he, “to supper as we +may.”<br /> +“Voltairean?” So you take it; but ’tis +late,<br /> +And dinner seven, sharp, at Primrose Hill.</p> +<h3><a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span><i>The +Poet and the Jubilee</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Poscimur</span>!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">By</span> A. +D.</p> +<p class="poetry">A <i>Birthday Ode</i> for <span +class="smcap">Meg</span> or <span class="smcap">Nan</span>,<br /> +A Rhyme for Lady <span class="smcap">Flora</span>’s Fan,<br +/> +A Verse on <i>Smut</i>, who’s gone astray,<br /> +These Things are in the <i>Poet’s</i> way;<br /> +At Home with praise of <span class="smcap">Julia</span>’s +Lace,<br /> +Or <span class="smcap">Delia</span>’s Ankles, <span +class="smcap">Rose</span>’s Face,<br /> +But “Something <i>overparted</i>” He,<br /> +When asked to rhyme the <i>jubilee</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">He therefore turns, the <i>Poet</i> wary,<br /> +And Thumbs his <i>Carmen Seculare</i>,<br /> +To <span class="smcap">Phœbus</span> and to <span +class="smcap">Dian</span> prays,<br /> +Who tune Men’s Lyres of Holidays,<br /> +He reads of the <i>Sibylline</i> Shades,<br /> +Of Stainless Boys and chosen Maids.<br /> +He turns, and reads the other Page,<br /> +Of docile Youth, and placid Age,<br /> +<a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span>Then Sings +how, in this golden Year<br /> +<i>Fides Pudorque</i> reappear,—<br /> +And if they don’t appear, you know it<br /> +Were quite unjust to blame the Poet!</p> +<h3><a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span><i>On +any Beach</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">By</span> M. +A.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Yes</span>, in the stream +and stress of things,<br /> + That breaks around us like the sea,<br /> +There comes to Peasants and to Kings,<br /> + The solemn Hour of Jubilee.<br /> + If they, till strenuous Nature +give<br /> + Some fifty harvests, chance to +live!</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, Fifty harvests! But the corn<br /> + Is grown beside the barren main,<br /> +Is salt with sea-spray, blown and borne<br /> + Across the green unvintaged plain.<br /> + And life, lived out for fifty +years,<br /> + Is briny with the spray of +tears!</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, such is Life, to us that live<br /> + Here, in the twilight of the Gods,<br /> +Who weigh each gift the world can give,<br /> + And sigh and murmur, <i>What’s the odds</i><br +/> + <i>So long’s you’re +happy</i>? Nay, what Man<br /> + Finds Happiness since Time +began?</p> +<h3><a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span><i>Ode +of Jubilee</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">By</span> A. C. +S.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Me</span>, that have sung +and shrieked, and foamed in praise of Freedom,<br /> + <i>Me</i> do you +ask to sing<br /> +Parochial pomps, and waste, the wail of Jubileedom<br /> + For Queen, or +Prince, or King!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, by the foam that fleeting oars have +feathered,<br /> + In Grecian +seas;<br /> +Nay, by the winds that barques Athenian weathered—<br /> + By all of +these<br /> +I bid you each be mute, Bards tamed and tethered,<br /> + And fee’d +with fees!</p> +<p class="poetry">For you the laurel smirched, for you the gold, +too,<br /> + Of Magazines;<br +/> +For me the Spirit of Song, unbought, unsold to<br /> + Pale Priests or +Queens!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +83</span>For you the gleam of gain, the fluttering cheque<br /> + Of Mr. +Knowles,<br /> +For me, to soar above the ruins and wreck<br /> + Of Snobs and +“Souls”!</p> +<p class="poetry">When aflush with the dew of the dawn, and +the<br /> + Rose of the +Mystical Vision,<br /> +The spirit and soul of the Men of the<br /> + Future shall +rise and be free,<br /> +They shall hail me with hymning and harping,<br /> + With eloquent +Art and Elysian,—<br /> +The Singer who sung not but spurned them,<br /> + The slaves that +could sing “Jubilee;”<br /> + + +With pinchbeck lyre and tongue,<br /> + + +Praising their tyrant sung,<br /> +They shall fail and shall fade in derision,<br /> + As wind on the +ways of the sea!</p> +<h3><a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +84</span><i>Jubilee Before Revolution</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">By</span> W. +M.</p> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">Tell</span> me, O +Muse of the Shifty, the Man who wandered afar,”<br /> +So have I chanted of late, and of Troy burg wasted of +war—<br /> +Now of the sorrows of Menfolk that fifty years have been,<br /> +Now of the Grace of the Commune I sing, and the days of a +Queen!<br /> +Surely I curse rich Menfolk, “the Wights of the +Whirlwind” may they—<br /> +This is my style of translating +‘Αρπυίαι,—snatch +them away!<br /> +The Rich Thieves rolling in wealth that make profit of labouring +men,<br /> +Surely the Wights of the Whirlwind shall swallow them quick in +their den!<br /> +O baneful, O wit-straying, in the Burg of London ye dwell,<br /> +<a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>And ever +of Profits and three per cent. are the tales ye tell,<br /> +But the stark, strong Polyphemus shall answer you back again,<br +/> +Him whom “No man slayeth by guile and not by +main.”<br /> +(By “main” I mean “main force,” if aught +at all do I mean.<br /> +In the Greek of the blindfold Bard it is simpler the sense to +glean.)<br /> +You Polyphemus shall swallow and fill his mighty maw,<br /> +What time he maketh an end of the Priests, the Police, and the +Law,<br /> +And then, ah, who shall purchase the poems of old that I sang,<br +/> +Who shall pay twelve-and-six for an epic in Saga slang?<br /> +But perchance even “Hermes the Flitter” could +scarcely expound what I mean,<br /> +And I trow that another were fitter to sing you a song for a +Queen.</p> +<h2><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>FOLK +SONGS</h2> +<h3><a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +89</span><i>French Peasant Songs</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">I.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Oh</span>, fair apple tree, +and oh, fair apple tree,<br /> +As heavy and sweet as the blossoms on thee,<br /> + My heart is heavy with love.<br /> +It wanteth but a little wind<br /> + To make the blossoms fall;<br /> +It wanteth but a young lover<br /> + To win me heart and all.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">II.</p> +<p class="poetry">I send my love letters<br /> + By larks on the wing;<br /> +My love sends me letters<br /> + When nightingales sing.</p> +<p class="poetry">Without reading or writing,<br /> + Their burden we know:<br /> +They only say, “Love me,<br /> + Who love you so.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>III.</p> +<p class="poetry">And if they ask for me, brother,<br /> + Say I come never home,<br /> +For I have taken a strange wife<br /> + Beyond the salt sea foam.</p> +<p class="poetry">The green grass is my bridal bed,<br /> + The black tomb my good mother,<br /> +The stones and dust within the grave<br /> + Are my sister and my brother.</p> +<h2><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +91</span>BALLADS</h2> +<h3><a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span><i>The +Young Ruthven</i>.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> King has +gi’en the Queen a gift,<br /> + For her May-day’s propine,<br /> +He’s gi’en her a band o’ the diamond-stane,<br +/> + Set in the siller fine.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Queen she walked in <i>Falkland</i> +yaird,<br /> + Beside the Hollans green,<br /> +And there she saw the bonniest man<br /> + That ever her eyes had seen.</p> +<p class="poetry">His coat was the Ruthven white and red,<br /> + Sae sound asleep was he<br /> +The Queen she cried on May Beatrix,<br /> + That seely lad to see.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Oh! wha sleeps here, May Beatrix,<br /> + Without the leave o’ me?”<br /> +“Oh! wha suld it be but my young brother<br /> + Frae <i>Padua</i> ower the sea!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +94</span>“My father was the Earl Gowrie,<br /> + An Earl o’ high degree,<br /> +But they hae slain him by fause treason,<br /> + And gar’d my brothers flee.</p> +<p class="poetry">“At <i>Padua</i> hae they learned their +leir<br /> + In the fields o’ <i>Italie</i>;<br /> +And they hae crossed the saut sea-faem,<br /> + And a’ for love o’ me!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">The Queen has cuist her siller band<br /> + About his craig o’ snaw;<br /> +But still he slept and naething kenned,<br /> + Aneth the Hollans shaw.</p> +<p class="poetry">The King he daundered thro’ the yaird,<br +/> + He saw the siller shine;<br /> +“And wha,” quoth he, “is this galliard<br /> + That wears yon gift o’ mine?”</p> +<p class="poetry">The King has gane till the Queen’s ain +bower,<br /> + An angry man that day;<br /> +But bye there cam’ May Beatrix<br /> + And stole the band away.</p> +<p class="poetry">And she’s run in by the dern black +yett,<br /> + Straight till the Queen ran she:<br /> +“Oh! tak ye back your siller band,<br /> + Or it gar my brother dee!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +95</span>The Queen has linked her siller band<br /> + About her middle sma’;<br /> +And then she heard her ain gudeman<br /> + Come rowting through the ha’.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Oh! whare,” he cried, “is +the siller band<br /> + I gied ye late yestreen?<br /> +The knops was a’ o’ the diamond stane,<br /> + Set in the siller sheen.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ye hae camped birling at the wine,<br /> + A’ nicht till the day did daw;<br /> +Or ye wad ken your siller band<br /> + About my middle sma’!”</p> +<p class="poetry">The King he stude, the King he glowered,<br /> + Sae hard as a man micht stare.<br /> +“Deil hae me! Like is a richt ill mark,—<br /> + Or I saw it itherwhere!</p> +<p class="poetry">“I saw it round young Ruthven’s +neck<br /> + As he lay sleeping still;<br /> +And, faith, but the wine was wondrous guid,<br /> + Or my wife is wondrous ill!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">There was na gane a week, a week,<br /> + A week but barely three;<br /> +The King has hounded John Ramsay out,<br /> + To gar young Ruthven dee!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +96</span>They took him in his brother’s house,<br /> + Nae sword was in his hand,<br /> +And they hae slain him, young Ruthven,<br /> + The bonniest in the land!</p> +<p class="poetry">And they hae slain his fair brother,<br /> + And laid him on the green,<br /> +And a’ for a band o’ the siller fine<br /> + And a blink o’ the eye o’ the Queen!</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh! had they set him man to man,<br /> + Or even ae man to three,<br /> +There was na a knight o’ the Ramsay bluid<br /> + Had gar’d Earl Gowrie dee!</p> +<h3><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span><i>The +Queen O’ Spain and the Bauld Mclean</i>.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">A <span class="smcap">Ballad of the +Sound of Mull</span>.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">1588.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> Queen o’ +Spain had an ill gude-man.<br /> + The carle was auld and grey.<br /> +She has keeked in the glass at Hallow-een<br /> + A better chance to spae.</p> +<p class="poetry">She’s kaimit out her lang black hair,<br +/> + That fell below her knee.<br /> +She’s ta’en the apple in her hand,<br /> + To see what she might see.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then first she saw her ain fair face,<br /> + And then the glass grew white,<br /> +And syne as black as the mouth o’ Hell<br /> + Or the sky on a winter night.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +98</span>But last she saw the bonniest man<br /> + That ever her eyes had seen,<br /> +His hair was gold, and his eyes were grey,<br /> + And his plaid was red and green.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Oh! the Spanish men are unco black<br /> + And unco blate,” she said;<br /> +“And they wear their mantles swart and side,<br /> + No the bonny green and red.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Oh! where shall <i>I</i> find sic a +man?<br /> + That is the man for me!”<br /> +She has filled a ship wi’ the gude red gold,<br /> + And she has ta’en the sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">And she’s sailed west and she’s +sailed east,<br /> + And mony a man she’s seen;<br /> +But never the man wi’ the hair o’ gold,<br /> + And the plaid o’ red and green.</p> +<p class="poetry">And she’s sailed east and she’s +sailed west,<br /> + Till she cam’ to a narrow sea,<br /> +The water ran like a river in spate,<br /> + And the hills were wondrous hie.</p> +<p class="poetry">And there she spied a bonny bay,<br /> + And houses on the strand,<br /> +And there the man in the green and red<br /> + Came rowing frae the land.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +99</span>Says “Welcome here, ye bonny maid,<br /> + Ye’re welcome here for me.<br /> +Are ye the Lady o’ merry Elfland,<br /> + Or the Queen o’ some far countrie?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I am na the Lady o’ fair +Elfland,<br /> + But I am the Queen o’ Spain.”<br /> +He’s lowted low, and kissed her hand,<br /> + Says “They ca’ me the McLean!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Then it’s a’ for the aefold +love o’ thee<br /> + That I hae sailed the faem!”<br /> +“But, out and alas!” he has answered her,<br /> + “For I hae a wife at hame.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ye maun cast her into a massymore,<br /> + Or away on a tide-swept isle;”<br /> +“But, out and alas!” he’s answered her,<br /> + “For my wife’s o’ the bluid +o’ Argyll!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh! they twa sat, and they twa grat,<br /> + And made their weary maen,<br /> +Till McLean has ridden to Dowart Castle,<br /> + And left the Queen her lane.</p> +<p class="poetry">His wife was a Campbell, fair and fause,<br /> + Says “Lachlan, where hae ye been?”<br /> +“Oh! I hae been at Tobermory,<br /> + And kissed the hand o’ a Queen!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +100</span>“Oh! we maun send the Queen a stag,<br /> + And grouse for her propine,<br /> +And we’ll send her a cask o’ the usquebaugh,<br /> + And a butt o’ the red French wine!”</p> +<p class="poetry">She has put a bomb in the clairet butt,<br /> + And eke a burning lowe,<br /> +She has sent them away wi’ her little foot-page<br /> + That cam’ frae the black Lochow.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">The morn McLean rade forth to see<br /> + The last blink o’ his Queen,<br /> +There stude her ship in the harbour gude,<br /> + Upon the water green.</p> +<p class="poetry">But there cam’ a crash like a +thunder-clap,<br /> + And a cloud on the water green.<br /> +The bonny ship in flinders flew,<br /> + And drooned was the bonny Queen.</p> +<p class="poetry">McLean he speirit nor gude nor bad,<br /> + His skian dubh he’s ta’en,<br /> +And he’s cuttit the throat o’ that fause +foot-page,<br /> + And sundered his white hausebane.</p> +<h3><a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +101</span><i>Keith of Craigentolly</i>.</h3> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">Keith</span> o’ +Craigentolly!<br /> + Ye sall live to rue the day<br /> +When ye brak the berried holly<br /> + Beside St. Andrew’s bay!<br /> +When Pitcullo’s kine<br /> +Card down to the brine,<br /> + And were drooned in the driving spray!</p> +<p class="poetry">In the bower o’ Craigentolly<br /> + Is a wan and waefu’ bride,<br /> +Singing, <i>O waly</i>! <i>waly</i>!<br /> + Through the whole country side;<br /> +And a river to wade<br /> +For a dying maid,<br /> + And a weary way to ride!</p> +<p class="poetry">O Keith o’ Craigentolly,<br /> + The bairn’s grave by the sea!<br /> +O Keith o’ Craigentolly,<br /> + The graves of maidens three!<br /> +And a bluidy shift,<br /> +And a sainless shrift,<br /> + For Keith o’ Craigentolly!</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page102"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 102</span><span class="GutSmall">PRINTED +BY</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, +LIMITED,</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">LONDON AND BECCLES.</span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<h2>FOOTNOTES</h2> +<p><a name="footnote11"></a><a href="#citation11" +class="footnote">[11]</a> One verse and the refrain are of +1750 or thereabouts. At Laffen, where William, Duke of +Cumberland, was defeated and nearly captured by the Scots and +Irish in the French service, Prince Charles is said to have +served as a volunteer.</p> +<p><a name="footnote32"></a><a href="#citation32" +class="footnote">[32]</a> So Nyren tells us.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEW COLLECTED RHYMES***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 1746-h.htm or 1746-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/7/6/1746 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +This etext was prepared by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk +from the 1905 Longmans, Green and Co. edition. + + + + + +New Collected Rhymes + +by Andrew Lang + + + + +Contents: + +Preface +In Augustinum Dobson +Loyal Lyrics + How the Maid Marched from Blois + Lone Places of the Deer + An Old Song + Jacobite "Auld Lang Syne" + The Prince's Birthday + The Tenth of June, 1715 + White Rose Day + Red and White Roses + The Bonnie Banks o' Loch Lomond + Kenmure + Culloden + The Last of the Leal + Jeanne d'Arc +Cricket Rhymes + To Helen + Ballade of Dead Cricketers + Brahma +Critical of Life, Art, and Literature + Gainsborough Ghosts + A Remonstrance with the Fair + Rhyme of Rhymes + Rhyme of Oxford Cockney Rhymes + Rococo + The Food of Fiction + "A Highly Valuable Chain of Thoughts" + Matrimony + Piscatori Piscator + The Contented Angler + Off my Game + The Property of a Gentleman who has Given up Collecting + The Ballade of the Subconscious Self + Ballade of the Optimist + Zimbabwe + Love's Cryptogram + Tusitala + Disdainful Diaphenia + Tall Salmacis +Jubilee Poems + What Francesco said of the Jubilee + The Poet and the Jubilee + On any Beach + Ode of Jubilee + Jubilee before Revolution +Folk Songs + French Peasant Songs +Ballads + The Young Ruthven + The Queen o' Spain and the Bauld McLean + Keith of Craigentolly + + + +PREFACE + + + +This poor little flutter of rhymes would not have been let down +the wind: the project would have been abandoned but for the too +flattering encouragement of a responsible friend. I trust that he +may not "live to rue the day," like Keith of Craigentolly in the +ballad. + +The "Loyal Lyrics" on Charles and James and the White Rose must +not be understood as implying a rebellious desire for the +subversion of the present illustrious dynasty. + + +"These are but symbols that I sing, +These names of Prince, and rose, and King; +Types of things dear that do not die, +But reign in loyal memory. +ACROSS THE WATER surely they +Abide their twenty-ninth of May; +And we shall hail their happy reign, +When Life comes to his own again," - + + +over the water that divides us from the voices and faces of our +desires and dreams. + +Of the ballads, The Young Ruthven and The Queen of Spain were +written in competition with the street minstrels of the close of +the sixteenth century. The legend on which The Young Ruthven is +based is well known; The Queen of Spain is the story of the +Florencia, a ship of the Spanish Armada, wrecked in Tobermory Bay, +as it was told to me by a mariner in the Sound of Mull. In Keith +of Craigentolly the family and territorial names of the hero or +villain are purposely altered, so as to avoid injuring +susceptibilities and arousing unavailing regrets. + + + +IN AUGUSTINUM DOBSON--JAM RUDE DONATUM + + + +Dear Poet, now turned out to grass +(Like him who reigned in Babylon), +Forget the seasons overlaid +By business and the Board of Trade: +And sing of old-world lad and lass +As in the summers that are gone. + +Back to the golden prime of Anne! +When you ambassador had been, +And brought o'er sea the King again, +Beatrix Esmond in his train, +Ah, happy bard to hold her fan, +And happy land with such a Queen! + +We live too early, or too late, +You should have shared the pint of Pope, +And taught, well pleased, the shining shell +To murmur of the fair Lepel, +And changed the stars of St. John's fate +To some more happy horoscope. + +By duchesses with roses crowned, +And fed with chicken and champagne, +Urbane and witty, and too wary +To risk the feud of Lady Mary, +You should have walked the courtly ground +Of times that cannot come again. + +Bring back these years in verse or prose, +(I very much prefer your verse!) +As on some Twenty-Ninth of May +Restore the splendour and the sway, +Forget the sins, the wars, the woes - +The joys alone must you rehearse. + +Forget the dunces (there is none +So stupid as to snarl at YOU); +So may your years with pen and book +Run pleasant as an English brook +Through meadows floral in the sun, +And shadows fragrant of the dew. + +And thus at ending of your span - +As all must end--the world shall say, +"His best he gave: he left us not +A line that saints could wish to blot, +For he was blameless, though a man, +And though the poet, he was gay!" + + + +HOW THE MAID MARCHED FROM BLOIS + + + +(Supposed to be narrated by James Power, or Polwarth, her Scottish +banner-painter.) + +The Maiden called for her great destrier, +But he lashed like a fiend when the Maid drew near: +"Lead him forth to the Cross!" she cried, and he stood +Like a steed of bronze by the Holy Rood! + +Then I saw the Maiden mount and ride, +With a good steel sperthe that swung by her side, +And girt with the sword of the Heavenly Bride, +That is sained with crosses five for a sign, +The mystical sword of St. Catherine. +And the lily banner was blowing wide, +With the flowers of France on the field of fame +And, blent with the blossoms, the Holy Name! +And the Maiden's blazon was shown on a shield, +ARGENT, A DOVE, ON AN AZURE FIELD; +That banner was wrought by this hand, ye see, +For the love of the Maid and chivalry. + +Her banner was borne by a page of grace, +With hair of gold, and a lady's face; +And behind it the ranks of her men were dressed - +Never a man but was clean confessed, +Jackman and archer, lord and knight, +Their souls were clean and their hearts were light: +There was never an oath, there was never a laugh, +And La Hire swore soft by his leading staff! +Had we died in that hour we had won the skies, +And the Maiden had marched us through Paradise! + +A moment she turned to the people there, +Who had come to gaze on the Maiden fair; +A moment she glanced at the ring she wore, +She murmured the Holy Name it bore, +Then, "For France and the King, good people pray!" +She spoke, and she cried to us, "ON AND AWAY!" +And the shouts broke forth, and the flowers rained down, +And the Maiden led us to Orleans town. + + + +LONE PLACES OF THE DEER + + + +Lone places of the deer, +Corrie, and Loch, and Ben, +Fount that wells in the cave, +Voice of the burn and the wave, +Softly you sing and clear +Of Charlie and his men! + +Here has he lurked, and here +The heather has been his bed, +The wastes of the islands knew +And the Highland hearts were true +To the bonny, the brave, the dear, +The royal, the hunted head. + + + +AN OLD SONG--1750 + + + +Oh, it's hame, hame, hame, +And it's hame I wadna be, +Till the Lord calls King James +To his ain countrie, +Bids the wind blaw frae France, +Till the Firth keps the faem, +And Loch Garry and Lochiel +Bring Prince Charlie hame. + +May the lads Prince Charlie led +That were hard on Willie's track, +When frae Laffen field he fled, +Wi' the claymore at his back, +May they stand on Scottish soil +When the White Rose bears the gree, +And the Lord calls the King +To his ain countrie! + +Bid the seas arise and stand +Like walls on ilka side, +Till our Highland lad pass through +With Jehovah for his guide. +Dry up the River Forth, +As Thou didst the Red Sea, +When Israel cam hame +To his ain countrie. {1} + + + +JACOBITE "AULD LANG SYNE."--LOCHIEL'S REGIMENT, 1747 + + + +Though now we take King Lewie's fee +And drink King Lewie's wine, +We'll bring the King frae ower the sea, +As in auld lang syne. + +For, he that did proud Pharaoh crush, +And save auld Jacob's line, +Will speak to Charlie in the Bush, +Like Moses, lang syne. + +For oft we've garred the red coats run, +Frae Garry to the Rhine, +Frae Bauge brig to Falkirk moor, +No that lang syne. + +The Duke may with the Devil drink, +And wi' the deil may dine, +But Charlie's dine in Holyrood, +As in auld lang syne. + +For he who did proud Pharaoh crush, +To save auld Jacob's line, +Shall speak to Charlie in the Bush, +Like Moses, lang syne. + + + +THE PRINCE'S BIRTHDAY--ROME, 31ST DECEMBER, 1721 + + + +(A new-born star shone, which is figured on an early Medal of +Prince Charles.) + +A wonderful star shone forth +From the frozen skies of the North +Upon Rome, for an Old Year's night: +And a flower on the dear white Rose +Broke, in the season of snows, +To bloom for a day's delight. + +Lost is the star in the night, +And the Rose of a day's delight +Fled "where the roses go": +But the fragrance and light from afar, +Born of the Rose and the Star, +Breathe o'er the years and the snow. + + + +THE TENTH OF JUNE, 1715 + + + +(Being a Song writ for a lady born on June 10th, the birthday of +his Most Sacred Majesty King James III. and VIII.) + +Day of the King and the flower! +And the girl of my heart's delight, +The blackbird sings in the bower, +And the nightingale sings in the night +A song to the roses white. + +Day of the flower and the King! +When shall the sails of white +Shine on the seas and bring +In the day, in the dawn, in the night, +The King to his land and his right? + +Day of my love and my may, +After the long years' flight, +Born on the King's birthday, +Born for my heart's delight, +With the dawn of the roses white! + +Black as the blackbird's wing +Is her hair, and her brow as white +As the white rose blossoming, +And her eyes as the falcon's bright +And her heart is leal to the right. + +When shall the joy bells ring? +When shall the hours unite +The right with the might of my King, +And my heart with my heart's delight; +In the dawn, in the day, in the night? + + + +WHITE ROSE DAY--JUNE 10, 1688 + + + +'Twas a day of faith and flowers, +Of honour that could not die, +Of Hope that counted the hours, +Of sorrowing Loyalty: +And the Blackbird sang in the closes, +The Blackbird piped in the spring, +For the day of the dawn of the Roses, +The dawn of the day of the King! + +White roses over the heather, +And down by the Lowland lea, +And far in the faint blue weather, +A white sail guessed on the sea! +But the deep night gathers and closes, +Shall ever a morning bring +The lord of the leal white roses, +The face of the rightful King? + + + +RED AND WHITE ROSES + + + +Red roses under the sun +For the King who is lord of land; +But he dies when his day is done, +For his memory careth none +When the glass runs empty of sand. + +White roses under the moon +For the King without lands to give; +But he reigns with the reign of June, +With the rose and the Blackbird's tune, +And he lives while Faith shall live. + +Red roses for beef and beer; +Red roses for wine and gold; +But they drank of the water clear, +In exile and sorry cheer, +To the kings of our sires of old. + +Red roses for wealth and might; +White roses for hopes that flee; +And the dreams of the day and the night, +For the Lord of our heart's delight - +For the King that is o'er the sea. + + + +THE BONNIE BANKS O' LOCH LOMOND--1746 + + + +There's an ending o' the dance, and fair Morag's safe in France, +And the Clans they hae paid the lawing, +And the wuddy has her ain, and we twa are left alane, +Free o' Carlisle gaol in the dawing. + +So ye'll tak the high road, and I'll tak the laigh road, +An' I'll be in Scotland before ye: +But me and my true love will never meet again, +By the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond. + +For my love's heart brake in twa, when she kenned the Cause's fa', +And she sleeps where there's never nane shall waken, +Where the glen lies a' in wrack, wi' the houses toom and black, +And her father's ha's forsaken. + +While there's heather on the hill shall my vengeance ne'er be +still, +While a bush hides the glint o' a gun, lad; +Wi' the men o' Sergeant Mor shall I work to pay the score, +Till I wither on the wuddy in the sun, lad! + +So ye'll tak the high road, and I'll tak the laigh road, +An' I'll be in Scotland before ye: +But me and my true love will never meet again, +By the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond. + + + +KENMURE--1715 + + + +"The heather's in a blaze, Willie, +The White Rose decks the tree, +The Fiery Cross is on the braes, +And the King is on the sea! + +"Remember great Montrose, Willie, +Remember fair Dundee, +And strike one stroke at the foreign foes +Of the King that's on the sea. + +"There's Gordons in the North, Willie, +Are rising frank and free, +Shall a Kenmure Gordon not go forth +For the King that's on the sea? + +"A trusty sword to draw, Willie, +A comely weird to dree, +For the Royal Rose that's like the snaw, +And the King that's on the sea!" + +He cast ae look across his lands, +Looked over loch and lea, +He took his fortune in his hands, +For the King was on the sea. + +Kenmures have fought in Galloway +For Kirk and Presbyt'rie, +This Kenmure faced his dying day, +For King James across the sea. + +It little skills what faith men vaunt, +If loyal men they be +To Christ's ain Kirk and Covenant, +Or the King that's o'er the sea. + + + +CULLODEN + + + +Dark, dark was the day when we looked on Culloden +And chill was the mist drop that clung to the tree, +The oats of the harvest hung heavy and sodden, +No light on the land and no wind on the sea. + +There was wind, there was rain, there was fire on their faces, +When the clans broke the bayonets and died on the guns, +And 'tis Honour that watches the desolate places +Where they sleep through the change of the snows and the suns. + +Unfed and unmarshalled, outworn and outnumbered, +All hopeless and fearless, as fiercely they fought, +As when Falkirk with heaps of the fallen was cumbered, +As when Gledsmuir was red with the havoc they wrought. + +Ah, woe worth you, Sleat, and the faith that you vowed, +Ah, woe worth you, Lovat, Traquair, and Mackay; +And woe on the false fairy flag of Macleod, +And the fat squires who drank, but who dared not to die! + +Where the graves of Clan Chattan are clustered together, +Where Macgillavray died by the Well of the Dead, +We stooped to the moorland and plucked the pale heather +That blooms where the hope of the Stuart was sped. + +And a whisper awoke on the wilderness, sighing, +Like the voice of the heroes who battled in vain, +"Not for Tearlach alone the red claymore was plying, +But to bring back the old life that comes not again." + + + +THE LAST OF THE LEAL--DECEMBER 31, 1787 + + + +Here's a health to every man +Bore the brunt of wind and weather; +Winnowed sore by Fortune's fan, +Faded faith of chief and clan: +Nairne and Caryl stand together; +Here's a health to every man +Bore the brunt of wind and weather! + +Oh, round Charlie many ran, +When his foot was on the heather, +When his sword shone in the van. +Now at ending of his span, +Gask and Caryl stand together! + +Ne'er a hope from plot or plan, +Ne'er a hope from rose or heather; +Ay, the King's a broken man; +Few will bless, and most will ban. +Nairne and Caryl stand together! + +Help is none from Crown or clan, +France is false, a fluttered feather; +But Kings are not made by man, +Till God end what God began, +Nairne and Caryl stand together, +Gask and Caryl stand together; +Here's a health to every man +Bore the brunt of wind and weather! + + + +JEANNE d'ARC + + + +The honour of a loyal boy, +The courage of a paladin, +With maiden's mirth, the soul of joy, +These dwelt her happy breast within. +From shame, from doubt, from fear, from sin, +As God's own angels was she free; +Old worlds shall end, and new begin +To be + +Ere any come like her who fought +For France, for freedom, for the King; +Who counsel of redemption brought +Whence even the armed Archangel's wing +Might weary sore in voyaging; +Who heard her Voices cry "Be free!" +Such Maid no later human spring +Shall see! + +Saints Michael, Catherine, Margaret, +Who sowed the seed that Thou must reap, +If eyes of angels may be wet, +And if the Saints have leave to weep, +In Paradise one pain they keep, +Maiden! one mortal memory, +One sorrow that can never sleep, +For Thee! + + + +TO HELEN + + + +(After seeing her bowl with her usual success.) + +ST. LEONARD'S HALL + +Helen, thy bowling is to me +Like that wise Alfred Shaw's of yore, +Which gently broke the wickets three: +From Alfred few could smack a four: +Most difficult to score! + +The music of the moaning sea, +The rattle of the flying bails, +The grey sad spires, the tawny sails - +What memories they bring to me, +Beholding thee! + +Upon our old monastic pitch, +How sportsmanlike I see thee stand! +The leather in thy lily hand, +Oh, Helen of the yorkers, which +Are nobly planned! + + + +BALLADE OF DEAD CRICKETERS + + + +Ah, where be Beldham now, and Brett, +Barker, and Hogsflesh, where be they? +Brett, of all bowlers fleetest yet +That drove the bails in disarray? +And Small that would, like Orpheus, play +Till wild bulls followed his minstrelsy? {2} +Booker, and Quiddington, and May? +Beneath the daisies, there they lie! + +And where is Lambert, that would get +The stumps with balls that broke astray? +And Mann, whose balls would ricochet +In almost an unholy way +(So do baseballers "pitch" to-day) +George Lear, that seldom let a bye, +And Richard Nyren, grave and gray? +Beneath the daisies, there they lie! + +Tom Sueter, too, the ladies' pet, +Brown that would bravest hearts affray; +Walker, invincible when set, +(Tom, of the spider limbs and splay); +Think ye that we could match them, pray, +These heroes of Broad-halfpenny, +With Buck to hit, and Small to stay? +Beneath the daisies, there they lie! + +ENVOY. + +Prince, canst thou moralise the lay? +How all things change below the sky! +Of Fry and Grace shall mortals say, +"Beneath the daisies, there they lie!" + + + +BRAHMA--AFTER EMERSON + + + +If the wild bowler thinks he bowls, +Or if the batsman thinks he's bowled, +They know not, poor misguided souls, +They too shall perish unconsoled. +I am the batsman and the bat, +I am the bowler and the ball, +The umpire, the pavilion cat, +The roller, pitch, and stumps, and all. + + + +GAINSBOROUGH GHOSTS--IN THE GROSVENOR GALLERY + + + +They smile upon the western wall, +The lips that laughed an age agone, +The fops, the dukes, the beauties all, +Le Brun that sang, and Carr that shone. +We gaze with idle eyes: we con +The faces of an elder time - +Alas! and OURS is flitting on; +Oh, moral for an empty rhyme! + +Think, when the tumult and the crowd +Have left the solemn rooms and chill, +When dilettanti are not loud, +When lady critics are not shrill - +Ah, think how strange upon the still +Dim air may sound these voices faint; +Once more may Johnson talk his fill +And fair Dalrymple charm the Saint! + +Of us they speak as we of them, +Like us, perchance, they criticise: +Our wit, they vote, is Brummagem; +Our beauty--dim to Devon's eyes! +Their silks and lace our cloth despise, +Their pumps--our boots that pad the mud, +What modern fop with Walpole vies? +With St. Leger what modern blood? + +Ah, true, we lack the charm, the wit, +Our very greatest, sure, are small; +And Mr. Gladstone is not Pitt, +And Garrick comes not when we call. +Yet--pass an age--and, after all, +Even WE may please the folk that look +When we are faces on the wall, +And voices in a history book! + +In Art the statesman yet shall live, +With collars keen, with Roman nose; +To Beauty yet shall Millais give +The roses that outlast the rose: +The lords of verse, the slaves of prose, +On canvas yet shall seem alive, +And charm the mob that comes and goes, +And lives--in 1985. + + + +A REMONSTRANCE WITH THE FAIR + + + +There are thoughts that the mind cannot fathom, +The mind of the animal male; +But woman abundantly hath 'em, +And mostly her notions prevail. +And why ladies read what they DO read +Is a thing that no man may explain, +And if any one asks for a true rede +He asketh in vain. + +Ah, why is each "passing depression" +Of stories that gloomily bore +Received as the subtle expression +Of almost unspeakable lore? +In the dreary, the sickly, the grimy +Say, why do our women delight, +And wherefore so constantly ply me +With Ships in the Night? + +Dear ladies, in vain you approach us, +With books to your taste in your hands; +For, alas! though you offer to coach us, +Yet the soul of no man understands +Why the grubby is always the moral, +Why the nasty's preferred to the nice, +While you keep up a secular quarrel +With a gay little Vice; + +Yes, a Vice with her lips full of laughter, +A Vice with a rose in her hair, +You condemn in the present and after, +To darkness of utter despair: +But a sin, if no rapture redeem it, +But a passion that's pale and played out, +Or in surgical hands--you esteem it +Worth scribbling about! + +What is sauce for the goose, for the gander +Is sauce, ye inconsequent fair! +It is better to laugh than to maunder, +And better is mirth than despair; +And though Life's not all beer and all skittles, +Yet the Sun, on occasion, can shine, +And, mon Dieu! he's a fool who belittles +This cosmos of Thine! + +There are cakes, there is ale--ay, and ginger +Shall be hot in the mouth, as of old: +And a villain, with cloak and with whinger, +And a hero, in armour of gold, +And a maid with a face like a lily, +With a heart that is stainless and gay, +Make a tale worth a world of the silly +Sad trash of to-day! + + + +RHYME OF RHYMES + + + +Wild on the mountain peak the wind +Repeats its old refrain, +Like ghosts of mortals who have sinned, +And fain would sin again. + +For "wind" I do not rhyme to "mind," +Like many mortal men, +"Again" (when one reflects) 'twere kind +To rhyme as if "agen." + +I never met a single soul +Who SPOKE of "wind" as "wined," +And yet we use it, on the whole, +To rhyme to "find" and "blind." + +We SAY, "Now don't do that AGEN," +When people give us pain; +In poetry, nine times in ten, +It rhymes to "Spain" or "Dane." + +Oh, which are wrong or which are right? +Oh, which are right or wrong? +The sounds in prose familiar, quite, +Or those we meet in song? + +To hold that "love" can rhyme to "prove" +Requires some force of will, +Yet in the ancient lyric groove +We meet them rhyming still. + +This was our learned fathers' wont +In prehistoric times, +We follow it, or if we don't, +We oft run short of rhymes. + + + +RHYME OF OXFORD COCKNEY RHYMES--(EXHIBITED IN THE OXFORD MAGAZINE) + + + +Though Keats rhymed "ear" to "Cytherea," +And Morris "dawn" to "morn," +A worse example, it is clear, +By Oxford Dons is "shorn." +G-y, of Magdalen, goes beyond +These puny Cockneys far, +And to "Magrath" rhymes--Muse despond! - +"Magrath" he rhymes to "star"! + +Another poet, X. Y. Z., +Employs the word "researcher," +And then,--his blood be on his head, - +He makes it rhyme to "nurture." +Ah, never was the English tongue +So flayed, and racked, and tortured, +Since one I love (who should be hung) +Made "tortured" rhyme to "orchard." + +Unkindly G-y's raging pen +Next craves a rhyme to "sooner;" +Rejecting "Spooner," (best of men,) +He fastens on LACUNA(R). +Nay, worse, in his infatuate mind +He ends a line "explainer," +Nor any rhyme can G-y find +Until he reaches Jena(r). + +Yes, G-y shines the worst of all, +He needs to rhyme "embargo;" +The man had "Margot" at his call, +He had the good ship ARGO; +Largo he had; yet doth he seek +Further, and no embargo +Restrains him from the odious, weak, +And Cockney rhyme, "Chicago"! + +Ye Oxford Dons that Cockneys be, +Among your gardens tidy, +If you would ask a maid to tea, +D'ye call the girl "a lydy"? +And if you'd sing of Mr. Fry, +And need a rhyme to "swiper," +Are you so cruel as to try +To fill the blank with "paper"? + +Oh, Hoxford was a pleasant plice +To many a poet dear, +And Saccharissa had the grice +In Hoxford to appear. +But Waller, if to Cytherea +He prayed at any time, +Did not implore "her friendly ear," +And think he had a rhyme. + +Now, if you ask to what are due +The horrors which I mention, +I think we owe them to the U- +Niversity extension. +From Hoxton and from Poplar come +The 'Arriets and 'Arries, +And so the Oxford Muse is dumb, +Or, when she sings, miscarries. + + + +ROCOCO + + + +("My name is also named 'Played Out.'") + +When first we heard Rossetti sing, +We twanged the melancholy lyre, +We sang like this, like anything, +When first we heard Rossetti sing. +And all our song was faded Spring, +And dead delight and dark desire, +When first we heard Rossetti sing, +We twanged the melancholy lyre. + +(And this is how we twanged it) - + + +THE NEW ORPHEUS TO HIS EURYDICE + + +Why wilt thou woo, ah, strange Eurydice, +A languid laurell'd Orpheus in the shades, +For here is company of shadowy maids, +Hero, and Helen and Psamathoe: + +And life is like the blossom on the tree, +And never tumult of the world invades, +The low light wanes and waxes, flowers and fades, +And sleep is sweet, and dreams suffice for me; + +"Go back, and seek the sunlight," as of old, +The wise ghost-mother of Odysseus said, +Here am I half content, and scarce a-cold, +But one light fits the living, one the dead; +Good-bye, be glad, forget! thou canst not hold +In thy kind arms, alas! this powerless head. + +When first we heard Rossetti sing, +We also wrote this kind of thing! + + + +THE FOOD OF FICTION + + + +To breakfast, dinner, or to lunch +My steps are languid, once so speedy; +E'en though, like the old gent in PUNCH, +"Not hungry, but, thank goodness! greedy." +I gaze upon the well-spread board, +And have to own--oh, contradiction! +Though every dainty it afford, +There's nothing like the food of fiction. + +"The better half"--how good the sound! +Of Scott's or Ainsworth's "venison pasty," +In cups of old Canary drowned, +(Which probably was very nasty). +The beefsteak pudding made by Ruth +To cheer Tom Pinch in his affliction, +Ah me, in all the world of truth, +There's nothing like the food of fiction! + +The cakes and ham and buttered toast +That graced the board of Gabriel Varden, +In Bracebridge Hall the Christmas roast, +Fruits from the Goblin Market Garden. +And if you'd eat of luscious sweets +And yet escape from gout's infliction, +Just read "St. Agnes' Eve" by Keats - +There's nothing like the food of fiction. + +What cups of tea were ever brewed +Like Sairey Gamp's--the dear old sinner? +What savoury mess was ever stewed +Like that for Short's and Codlin's dinner? +What was the flavour of that "poy" - +To use the Fotheringay's own diction - +Pendennis ate, the love-sick boy? +There's nothing like the food of fiction. + +Prince, you are young--but you will find +After life's years of fret and friction, +That hunger wanes--but never mind! +There's nothing like the food of fiction. + + + +"A HIGHLY VALUABLE CHAIN OF THOUGHTS" + + + +Had cigarettes no ashes, +And roses ne'er a thorn, +No man would be a funker +Of whin, or burn, or bunker. +There were no need for mashies, +The turf would ne'er be torn, +Had cigarettes no ashes, +And roses ne'er a thorn. + +Had cigarettes no ashes, +And roses ne'er a thorn, +The big trout would not ever +Escape into the river. +No gut the salmon smashes +Would leave us all forlorn, +Had cigarettes no ashes, +And roses ne'er a thorn. + +But 'tis an unideal, +Sad world in which we're born, +And things will "go contrairy" +With Martin and with Mary: +And every day the real +Comes bleakly in with morn, +And cigarettes have ashes, +And every rose a thorn. + + + +MATRIMONY + + + +(Matrimony--Advertiser would like to hear from well-educated +Protestant lady, under thirty, fair, with view to above, who would +have no objection to work Remington type-writer, at home. Enclose +photo. T. 99. This Office. Cork newspaper.) + +T. 99 would gladly hear +From one whose years are few, +A maid whose doctrines are severe, +Of Presbyterian blue, +Also--with view to the above - +Her photo he would see, +And trusts that she may live and love +His Protestant to be! +But ere the sacred rites are done +(And by no Priest of Rome) +He'd ask, if she a Remington +Type-writer works--at home? + +If she have no objections to +This task, and if her hair - +In keeping with her eyes of blue - +Be delicately fair, +Ah, THEN, let her a photo send +Of all her charms divine, +To him who rests her faithful friend, +Her own T. 99. + + + +PISCATORI PISCATOR--IN MEMORY OF THOMAS TOD STODDART + + + +An angler to an angler here, +To one who longed not for the bays, +I bring a little gift and dear, +A line of love, a word of praise, +A common memory of the ways, +By Elibank and Yair that lead; +Of all the burns, from all the braes, +That yield their tribute to the Tweed. + +His boyhood found the waters clean, +His age deplored them, foul with dye; +But purple hills, and copses green, +And these old towers he wandered by, +Still to the simple strains reply +Of his pure unrepining reed, +Who lies where he was fain to lie, +Like Scott, within the sound of Tweed. + + + +THE CONTENTED ANGLER + + + +The Angler hath a jolly life +Who by the rail runs down, +And leaves his business and his wife, +And all the din of town. +The wind down stream is blowing straight, +And nowhere cast can he: +Then lo, he doth but sit and wait +In kindly company. + +The miller turns the water off, +Or folk be cutting weed, +While he doth at misfortune scoff, +From every trouble freed. +Or else he waiteth for a rise, +And ne'er a rise may see; +For why, there are not any flies +To bear him company. + +Or, if he mark a rising trout, +He straightway is caught up, +And then he takes his flasket out, +And drinks a rousing cup. +Or if a trout he chance to hook, +Weeded and broke is he, +And then he finds a godly book +Instructive company. + + + +OFF MY GAME + + + +"I'm of my game," the golfer said, +And shook his locks in woe; +"My putter never lays me dead, +My drives will never go; +Howe'er I swing, howe'er I stand, +Results are still the same, +I'm in the burn, I'm in the sand - +I'm off my game! + +"Oh, would that such mishaps might fall +On Laidlay or Macfie, +That they might toe or heel the ball, +And sclaff along like me! +Men hurry from me in the street, +And execrate my name, +Old partners shun me when we meet - +I'm off my game! + +"Why is it that I play at all? +Let memory remind me +How once I smote upon my ball, +And bunkered it--BEHIND ME. +I mostly slice into the whins, +And my excuse is lame - +It cannot cover half my sins - +I'm off my game! + +"I hate the sight of all my set, +I grow morose as Byron; +I never loved a brassey yet, +And now I hate an iron. +My cleek seems merely made to top, +My putting's wild or tame; +It's really time for me to stop - +I'm off my game!" + + + +THE PROPERTY OF A GENTLEMAN WHO HAS GIVEN UP COLLECTING + + + +Oh blessed be the cart that takes +Away my books, my curse, my clog, +Blessed the auctioneer who makes +Their inefficient catalogue. + +Blessed the purchasers who pay +However little--less were fit - +Blessed the rooms, the rainy day, +The knock-out and the end of it. + +For I am weary of the sport, +That seemed a while agone so sweet, +Of Elzevirs an inch too short, +And First Editions--incomplete. + +Weary of crests and coats of arms, +"Attributed to Padeloup" +The sham Deromes have lost their charms, +The things Le Gascon did not do. + +I never read the catalogues +Of rubbish that come thick as rooks, +But most I loathe the dreary dogs +That write in prose, or worse, on books. + +Large paper surely cannot hide +Their grammar, nor excuse their rhyme, +The anecdotes that they provide +Are older than the dawn of time. + +Ye bores, of every shape and size, +Who make a tedium of delight, +Good-bye, the last of my good-byes. +Good night, to all your clan good night! + +* * * + +Thus in a sullen fit we swore, +But on mature reflection, +Went on collecting more and more, +And kept our old collection! + + + +THE BALLADE OF THE SUBCONSCIOUS SELF + + + +Who suddenly calls to our ken +The knowledge that should not be there; +Who charms Mr. Stead with the pen, +Of the Prince of the Powers of the Air; +Who makes Physiologists stare - +Is he ghost, is he demon, or elf, +Who fashions the dream of the fair? +It is just the Subconscious Self. + +He's the ally of Medicine Men +Who consult the Australian bear, +And 'tis he, with his lights on the fen, +Who helps Jack o' Lanthorn to snare +The peasants of Devon, who swear +Under Commonwealth, Stuart, or Guelph, +That they never had half such a scare - +It is just the Subconscious Self. + +It is he, from his cerebral den, +Who raps upon table and chair, +Who frightens the housemaid, and then +Slinks back, like a thief, to his lair: +'Tis the Brownie (according to Mair) +Who rattles the pots on the shelf, +But the Psychical sages declare +"It is just the Subconscious Self." + +Prince, each of us all is a pair - +The Conscious, who labours for pelf, +And the other, who charmed Mr. Blair, +It is just the Subconscious Self. + + + +BALLADE OF THE OPTIMIST + + + +Heed not the folk who sing or say +In sonnet sad or sermon chill, +"Alas, alack, and well-a-day, +This round world's but a bitter pill." +Poor porcupines of fretful quill! +Sometimes we quarrel with our lot: +We, too, are sad and careful; still +We'd rather be alive than not. + +What though we wish the cats at play +Would some one else's garden till; +Though Sophonisba drop the tray +And all our worshipped Worcester spill, +Though neighbours "practise" loud and shrill, +Though May be cold and June be hot, +Though April freeze and August grill, +We'd rather be alive than not. + +And, sometimes on a summer's day +To self and every mortal ill +We give the slip, we steal away, +To walk beside some sedgy rill: +The darkening years, the cares that kill, +A little while are well forgot; +When deep in broom upon the hill, +We'd rather be alive than not. + +Pistol, with oaths didst thou fulfil +The task thy braggart tongue begot, +We eat our leek with better will, +We'd rather be alive than not. + + + +ZIMBABWE + + + +(The ruined Gold Cities of Rhodesia. The Ophir of Scripture.) + +Into the darkness whence they came, +They passed, their country knoweth none, +They and their gods without a name +Partake the same oblivion. +Their work they did, their work is done, +Whose gold, it may be, shone like fire +About the brows of Solomon, +And in the House of God's Desire. + +Hence came the altar all of gold, +The hinges of the Holy Place, +The censer with the fragrance rolled +Skyward to seek Jehovah's face; +The golden Ark that did encase +The Law within Jerusalem, +The lilies and the rings to grace +The High Priest's robe and diadem. + +The pestilence, the desert spear, +Smote them; they passed, with none to tell +The names of them who laboured here: +Stark walls and crumbling crucible, +Strait gates, and graves, and ruined well, +Abide, dumb monuments of old, +We know but that men fought and fell, +Like us, like us, for love of Gold. + + + +LOVE'S CRYPTOGRAM + + + +[The author (if he can be so styled) awoke from a restless sleep, +with the first stanza of the following piece in his mind. He has +no memory of composing it, either awake or asleep. He had long +known the perhaps Pythagorean fable of the bean-juice, but +certainly never thought of applying it to an amorous +correspondence! The remaining verses are the contribution of his +Conscious Self!] + +ELLE. + +I cannot write, I may not write, +I dare not write to thee, +But look on the face of the moon by night, +And my letters shalt thou see. +For every letter that lovers write, +By their loves on the moon is seen, +If they pen their thought on the paper white, +With the magic juice of the bean! + +LUI. + +Oh, I had written this many a year, +And my letters you had read. +Had you only told me the spell, my dear, +Ere ever we twain were wed! +But I have a lady and you have a lord, +And their eyes are of the green, +And we dared not trust to the written word, +Lest our long, long love be seen! + +ELLE. + +"Oh, every thought that your heart has thought, +Since the world came us between, +The birds of the air to my heart have brought, +With no word heard or seen." +'Twas thus in a dream we spoke and said +Myself and my love unseen, +But I woke and sighed on my weary bed, +For the spell of the juice of the bean! + + + +TUSITALA + + + +We spoke of a rest in a fairy knowe of the North, but he, +Far from the firths of the East, and the racing tides of the West, +Sleeps in the sight and the sound of the infinite Southern Sea, +Weary and well content in his grave on the Vaea crest. + +Tusitala, the lover of children, the teller of tales, +Giver of counsel and dreams, a wonder, a world's delight, +Looks o'er the labours of men in the plain and the hill; and the +sails +Pass and repass on the sea that he loved, in the day and the +night. + +Winds of the West and the East in the rainy season blow +Heavy with perfume, and all his fragrant woods are wet, +Winds of the East and West as they wander to and fro, +Bear him the love of the land he loved, and the long regret. + +Once we were kindest, he said, when leagues of the limitless sea +Flowed between us, but now that no wash of the wandering tides +Sunders us each from each, yet nearer we seem to be, +Whom only the unbridged stream of the river of Death divides. + + + +DISDAINFUL DIAPHENIA + + + +There is no venom in the Rose +That any bee should shrink from it; +No poison from the Lily flows, +She hath not a disdainful wit; +But thou, that Rose and Lily art, +Thy tongue doth poison Cupid's dart! + +Nature herself to deadly flowers +Refuseth beauty lest the vain +Insects that hum through August hours +With beauty should suck in their bane; +But thou, as Rose or Lily fair, +Art circled with envenomed air! + +Like Progne didst thou lose thy tongue, +Thy lovers might adore and live; +Like that witch Circe, oft besung, +Thou hast dear gifts, if thou wouldst give; +But since thou hast a wicked wit, +Thy lovers fade, or flee from it. + + + +TALL SALMACIS + + + +Were an apple tree a pine, +Tall and slim, and softly swaying, +Then her beauty were like thine, +Salmacis, when boune a Maying, +Tall as any poplar tree, +Sweet as apple blossoms be! + +Had the Amazonian Queen +Seen thee 'midst thy maiden peers, +Thou the Coronel hadst been +Of that lady's Grenadiers; +Troy had never mourned her fall, +With thine axe to guard her wall. + +As Penthesilea brave +Is the maiden (in her dreams); +Ilium she well might save, +Though Achilles' armour gleams, +'Midst the Greeks; all vain it is, +'Gainst the glance of Salmacis! + + + +WHAT FRANCESCO SAID OF THE JUBILEE--BY R. B. + + + +What if we call it fifty years! 'Tis steep! +To climb so high a gradient? Prate of Guides? +Are we not roped? The Danger? Nay, the Turf, +No less nor more than mountain peaks, my friend, +Hears talk of Roping,--but the Jubilee! +Nay, there you have me: old Francesco once +(This was in Milan, in Visconti's time, +Our wild Visconti, with one lip askance, +And beard tongue-twisted in the nostril's nook) +Parlous enough,--these times--what? "So are ours"? +Or any times, i'fegs, to him who thinks, - +Well 'twas in Spring "the frolic myrtle trees +There gendered the grave olive stocks,"--you cry +"A miracle!"--Sordello writeth thus, - +Believe me that indeed 'twas thus, and he, +Francesco, you are with me? Well, there's gloom +No less than gladness in your fifty years, +"And so," said he, "to supper as we may." +"Voltairean?" So you take it; but 'tis late, +And dinner seven, sharp, at Primrose Hill. + + + +THE POET AND THE JUBILEE + + + +POSCIMUR! BY A. D. + +A Birthday Ode for MEG or NAN, +A Rhyme for Lady FLORA's Fan, +A Verse on Smut, who's gone astray, +These Things are in the Poet's way; +At Home with praise of JULIA's Lace, +Or DELIA's Ankles, ROSE's Face, +But "Something overparted" He, +When asked to rhyme the jubilee! + +He therefore turns, the Poet wary, +And Thumbs his Carmen Seculare, +To PHOEBUS and to DIAN prays, +Who tune Men's Lyres of Holidays, +He reads of the Sibylline Shades, +Of Stainless Boys and chosen Maids. +He turns, and reads the other Page, +Of docile Youth, and placid Age, +Then Sings how, in this golden Year +Fides Pudorque reappear, - +And if they don't appear, you know it +Were quite unjust to blame the Poet! + + + +ON ANY BEACH--BY M. A. + + + +Yes, in the stream and stress of things, +That breaks around us like the sea, +There comes to Peasants and to Kings, +The solemn Hour of Jubilee. +If they, till strenuous Nature give +Some fifty harvests, chance to live! + +Ah, Fifty harvests! But the corn +Is grown beside the barren main, +Is salt with sea-spray, blown and borne +Across the green unvintaged plain. +And life, lived out for fifty years, +Is briny with the spray of tears! + +Ah, such is Life, to us that live +Here, in the twilight of the Gods, +Who weigh each gift the world can give, +And sigh and murmur, What's the odds +So long's you're happy? Nay, what Man +Finds Happiness since Time began? + + + +ODE OF JUBILEE--BY A. C. S. + + + +Me, that have sung and shrieked, and foamed in praise of Freedom, +ME do you ask to sing +Parochial pomps, and waste, the wail of Jubileedom +For Queen, or Prince, or King! + +* * * + +Nay, by the foam that fleeting oars have feathered, +In Grecian seas; +Nay, by the winds that barques Athenian weathered - +By all of these +I bid you each be mute, Bards tamed and tethered, +And fee'd with fees! + +For you the laurel smirched, for you the gold, too, +Of Magazines; +For me the Spirit of Song, unbought, unsold to +Pale Priests or Queens! + +For you the gleam of gain, the fluttering cheque +Of Mr. Knowles, +For me, to soar above the ruins and wreck +Of Snobs and "Souls"! + +When aflush with the dew of the dawn, and the +Rose of the Mystical Vision, +The spirit and soul of the Men of the +Future shall rise and be free, +They shall hail me with hymning and harping, +With eloquent Art and Elysian, - +The Singer who sung not but spurned them, +The slaves that could sing "Jubilee;" +With pinchbeck lyre and tongue, +Praising their tyrant sung, +They shall fail and shall fade in derision, +As wind on the ways of the sea! + + +JUBILEE BEFORE REVOLUTION--BY W. M. + + + +"Tell me, O Muse of the Shifty, the Man who wandered afar," +So have I chanted of late, and of Troy burg wasted of war - +Now of the sorrows of Menfolk that fifty years have been, +Now of the Grace of the Commune I sing, and the days of a Queen! +Surely I curse rich Menfolk, "the Wights of the Whirlwind" may +they - +This is my style of translating [Greek text],--snatch them away! +The Rich Thieves rolling in wealth that make profit of labouring +men, +Surely the Wights of the Whirlwind shall swallow them quick in +their den! +O baneful, O wit-straying, in the Burg of London ye dwell, +And ever of Profits and three per cent. are the tales ye tell, +But the stark, strong Polyphemus shall answer you back again, +Him whom "No man slayeth by guile and not by main." +(By "main" I mean "main force," if aught at all do I mean. +In the Greek of the blindfold Bard it is simpler the sense to +glean.) +You Polyphemus shall swallow and fill his mighty maw, +What time he maketh an end of the Priests, the Police, and the +Law, +And then, ah, who shall purchase the poems of old that I sang, +Who shall pay twelve-and-six for an epic in Saga slang? +But perchance even "Hermes the Flitter" could scarcely expound +what I mean, +And I trow that another were fitter to sing you a song for a +Queen. + + + +FRENCH PEASANT SONGS + + + +I. + +Oh, fair apple tree, and oh, fair apple tree, +As heavy and sweet as the blossoms on thee, +My heart is heavy with love. +It wanteth but a little wind +To make the blossoms fall; +It wanteth but a young lover +To win me heart and all. + +II. + +I send my love letters +By larks on the wing; +My love sends me letters +When nightingales sing. + +Without reading or writing, +Their burden we know: +They only say, "Love me, +Who love you so." + +III. + +And if they ask for me, brother, +Say I come never home, +For I have taken a strange wife +Beyond the salt sea foam. + +The green grass is my bridal bed, +The black tomb my good mother, +The stones and dust within the grave +Are my sister and my brother. + + + +THE YOUNG RUTHVEN + + + +The King has gi'en the Queen a gift, +For her May-day's propine, +He's gi'en her a band o' the diamond-stane, +Set in the siller fine. + +The Queen she walked in Falkland yaird, +Beside the Hollans green, +And there she saw the bonniest man +That ever her eyes had seen. + +His coat was the Ruthven white and red, +Sae sound asleep was he +The Queen she cried on May Beatrix, +That seely lad to see. + +"Oh! wha sleeps here, May Beatrix, +Without the leave o' me?" +"Oh! wha suld it be but my young brother +Frae Padua ower the sea! + +"My father was the Earl Gowrie, +An Earl o' high degree, +But they hae slain him by fause treason, +And gar'd my brothers flee. + +"At Padua hae they learned their leir +In the fields o' Italie; +And they hae crossed the saut sea-faem, +And a' for love o' me!" + +* * * + +The Queen has cuist her siller band +About his craig o' snaw; +But still he slept and naething kenned, +Aneth the Hollans shaw. + +The King he daundered thro' the yaird, +He saw the siller shine; +"And wha," quoth he, "is this galliard +That wears yon gift o' mine?" + +The King has gane till the Queen's ain bower, +An angry man that day; +But bye there cam' May Beatrix +And stole the band away. + +And she's run in by the dern black yett, +Straight till the Queen ran she: +"Oh! tak ye back your siller band, +Or it gar my brother dee!" + +The Queen has linked her siller band +About her middle sma'; +And then she heard her ain gudeman +Come rowting through the ha'. + +"Oh! whare," he cried, "is the siller band +I gied ye late yestreen? +The knops was a' o' the diamond stane, +Set in the siller sheen." + +"Ye hae camped birling at the wine, +A' nicht till the day did daw; +Or ye wad ken your siller band +About my middle sma'!" + +The King he stude, the King he glowered, +Sae hard as a man micht stare. +"Deil hae me! Like is a richt ill mark, - +Or I saw it itherwhere! + +"I saw it round young Ruthven's neck +As he lay sleeping still; +And, faith, but the wine was wondrous guid, +Or my wife is wondrous ill!" + +* * * + +There was na gane a week, a week, +A week but barely three; +The King has hounded John Ramsay out, +To gar young Ruthven dee! + +They took him in his brother's house, +Nae sword was in his hand, +And they hae slain him, young Ruthven, +The bonniest in the land! + +And they hae slain his fair brother, +And laid him on the green, +And a' for a band o' the siller fine +And a blink o' the eye o' the Queen! + +Oh! had they set him man to man, +Or even ae man to three, +There was na a knight o' the Ramsay bluid +Had gar'd Earl Gowrie dee! + + + +THE QUEEN O' SPAIN AND THE BAULD MCLEAN + + + +A BALLAD OF THE SOUND OF MULL--1588 + +The Queen o' Spain had an ill gude-man. +The carle was auld and grey. +She has keeked in the glass at Hallow-een +A better chance to spae. + +She's kaimit out her lang black hair, +That fell below her knee. +She's ta'en the apple in her hand, +To see what she might see. + +Then first she saw her ain fair face, +And then the glass grew white, +And syne as black as the mouth o' Hell +Or the sky on a winter night. + +But last she saw the bonniest man +That ever her eyes had seen, +His hair was gold, and his eyes were grey, +And his plaid was red and green. + +"Oh! the Spanish men are unco black +And unco blate," she said; +"And they wear their mantles swart and side, +No the bonny green and red." + +"Oh! where shall I find sic a man? +That is the man for me!" +She has filled a ship wi' the gude red gold, +And she has ta'en the sea. + +And she's sailed west and she's sailed east, +And mony a man she's seen; +But never the man wi' the hair o' gold, +And the plaid o' red and green. + +And she's sailed east and she's sailed west, +Till she cam' to a narrow sea, +The water ran like a river in spate, +And the hills were wondrous hie. + +And there she spied a bonny bay, +And houses on the strand, +And there the man in the green and red +Came rowing frae the land. + +Says "Welcome here, ye bonny maid, +Ye're welcome here for me. +Are ye the Lady o' merry Elfland, +Or the Queen o' some far countrie?" + +"I am na the Lady o' fair Elfland, +But I am the Queen o' Spain." +He's lowted low, and kissed her hand, +Says "They ca' me the McLean!" + +"Then it's a' for the aefold love o' thee +That I hae sailed the faem!" +"But, out and alas!" he has answered her, +"For I hae a wife at hame." + +"Ye maun cast her into a massymore, +Or away on a tide-swept isle;" +"But, out and alas!" he's answered her, +"For my wife's o' the bluid o' Argyll!" + +Oh! they twa sat, and they twa grat, +And made their weary maen, +Till McLean has ridden to Dowart Castle, +And left the Queen her lane. + +His wife was a Campbell, fair and fause, +Says "Lachlan, where hae ye been?" +"Oh! I hae been at Tobermory, +And kissed the hand o' a Queen!" + +"Oh! we maun send the Queen a stag, +And grouse for her propine, +And we'll send her a cask o' the usquebaugh, +And a butt o' the red French wine!" + +She has put a bomb in the clairet butt, +And eke a burning lowe, +She has sent them away wi' her little foot-page +That cam' frae the black Lochow. + +* * * + +The morn McLean rade forth to see +The last blink o' his Queen, +There stude her ship in the harbour gude, +Upon the water green. + +But there cam' a crash like a thunder-clap, +And a cloud on the water green. +The bonny ship in flinders flew, +And drooned was the bonny Queen. + +McLean he speirit nor gude nor bad, +His skian dubh he's ta'en, +And he's cuttit the throat o' that fause foot-page, +And sundered his white hausebane. + + + +KEITH OF CRAIGENTOLLY + + + +O Keith o' Craigentolly! +Ye sall live to rue the day +When ye brak the berried holly +Beside St. Andrew's bay! +When Pitcullo's kine +Card down to the brine, +And were drooned in the driving spray! + +In the bower o' Craigentolly +Is a wan and waefu' bride, +Singing, O waly! waly! +Through the whole country side; +And a river to wade +For a dying maid, +And a weary way to ride! + +O Keith o' Craigentolly, +The bairn's grave by the sea! +O Keith o' Craigentolly, +The graves of maidens three! +And a bluidy shift, +And a sainless shrift, +For Keith o' Craigentolly! + + + +Footnotes: + +{1} One verse and the refrain are of 1750 or thereabouts. At +Laffen, where William, Duke of Cumberland, was defeated and nearly +captured by the Scots and Irish in the French service, Prince +Charles is said to have served as a volunteer. + +{2} So Nyren tells us. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg eText New Collected Rhymes by Andrew Lang + diff --git a/old/nwclr10.zip b/old/nwclr10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a3a1c41 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/nwclr10.zip |