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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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