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diff --git a/old/nwclr10.txt b/old/nwclr10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7bafb01 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/nwclr10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2182 @@ + +The Project Gutenberg Etext of New Collected Rhymes by Andrew Lang +#14 in our series by Andrew Lang + + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. 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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 + |