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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/1855-0.txt b/1855-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a0a647f --- /dev/null +++ b/1855-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2676 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Ban and Arriere Ban, by Andrew Lang, +Illustrated by Henry Justice Ford + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 + + + + + +Title: Ban and Arriere Ban + A Rally of Fugitive Rhymes + + +Author: Andrew Lang + + + +Release Date: August 10, 2014 [eBook #1855] +[This file was first posted on December 24, 1998] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BAN AND ARRIERE BAN*** + + +Transcribed from the 1894 Longmans, Green and Co. edition by David Price, +email ccx074@pglaf.org + + [Picture: Book cover] + + [Picture: Ban and Arrière ban frontispiece] + + + + + + Ban and Arrière Ban + + + A RALLY OF FUGITIVE RHYMES + + BY ANDREW LANG + + * * * * * + + LONDON + LONGMANS, GREEN & CO. + AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16TH STREET + 1894 + + * * * * * + + [_All rights reserved_] + + * * * * * + + Edinburgh: T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty + + * * * * * + + + + +TO +ELEANOR CHARLOTTE SELLAR + + + ‘_Ban and Arrière Ban_!’ _a host_ + _Broken_, _beaten_, _all unled_, + _They return as doth a ghost_ + _From the dead_. + + _Sad or glad my rallied rhymes_, + _Sought our dusty papers through_, + _For the sake of other times_ + _Come to you_. + + _Times and places new we know_, + _Faces fresh and seasons strange_ + _But the friends of long ago_ + _Do not change_. + +MANY of the verses in this collection have appeared in Magazines: ‘How +they held the Bass’ was in ‘Blackwood’s Magazine’; the ‘Ballad of the +Philanthropist’ in ‘Punch’; ‘Calais Sands’ in ‘The Magazine of Art’ +(Messrs. Cassell and Co.); and others are recaptured from ‘Longman’s +Magazine,’ ‘Scribner’s,’ ‘The Illustrated London News,’ ‘The English +Illustrated Magazine,’ ‘Wit and Wisdom’ (lines from Omar Khayyam), ‘The +St. James’s Gazette,’ and possibly other serials. Some pieces are from +commendatory verses for books, as for Mr. Jacobs’s ‘Æsop’; some are from +Mr. Rider Haggard’s ‘World’s Desire,’ and ‘Cleopatra,’ two are from +Kirk’s ‘Secret Commonwealth’ (Nutt, 1893), and ‘Neiges d’Antan,’ are from +the author’s ‘Ballads and Lyrics of Old France,’ now long out of print. + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE +A Scot to Jeanne d’Arc 1 +How they held the Bass for King James—1691–1693 4 +Three portraits of Prince Charles 11 +From Omar Khayyam 14 +Æsop 16 +Les Roses de Sâdi 18 +The Haunted Tower 19 +Boat-song 22 +Lost Love 24 +The Promise of Helen 26 +The Restoration of Romance 27 +Central American Antiquities 30 +On Calais Sands 32 +Ballade of Yule 34 +Poscimur 36 +On his Dead Sea-Mew 38 +From Meleager 39 +On the Garland Sent to Rhodocleia 40 +A Galloway Garland 41 +Celia’s Eyes 43 +Britannia 44 +Gallia 45 +The Fairy Minister 46 +To Robert Louis Stevenson 48 +For Mark Twain’s Jubilee 50 + POEMS WRITTEN UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF WORDSWORTH +Mist 55 +Lines 56 +Lines 58 +Ode to Golf 60 +Freshman’s Term 62 +A Toast 64 +Death in June 66 +To Correspondents 68 +Ballade of Difficult Rhymes 70 +Ballant o’ Ballantrae 72 +Song by the Sub-Conscious Self 74 +The Haunted Homes of England 75 +The Disappointment 77 +To the Gentle Reader 80 +The Sonnet 84 +The Tournay of the Heroes 85 +Ballad of the Philanthropist 91 + NEIGES D’ANTAN +In Ercildoune 97 +For a Rose’s Sake 100 +The Brigand’s Grave 102 +The New-Liveried Year 104 +More Strong than Death 105 +Silentia Lunae 107 +His Lady’s Tomb 108 +The Poet’s Apology 109 +Notes 115 + + + + +ERRATUM + + +READER, a blot hath escaped the watchfulness of the setter forth: if thou +wilt thou mayst amend it. The sonnet on the forty-fourth page, against +all right Italianate laws, hath but thirteen lines withal: add another to +thy liking, if thou art a Maker; or, if thou art none, even be content +with what is set before thee. If it be scant measure, be sure it is +choicely good. + + + + +A SCOT TO JEANNE D’ARC + + + DARK Lily without blame, + Not upon us the shame, + Whose sires were to the Auld Alliance true, + They, by the Maiden’s side, + Victorious fought and died, + One stood by thee that fiery torment through, + Till the White Dove from thy pure lips had passed, + And thou wert with thine own St. Catherine at the last. + + Once only didst thou see + In artist’s imagery, + Thine own face painted, and that precious thing + Was in an Archer’s hand + From the leal Northern land. + Alas, what price would not thy people bring + To win that portrait of the ruinous + Gulf of devouring years that hide the Maid from us! + + Born of a lowly line, + Noteless as once was thine, + One of that name I would were kin to me, + Who, in the Scottish Guard + Won this for his reward, + To fight for France, and memory of thee: + Not upon us, dark Lily without blame, + Not on the North may fall the shadow of that shame. + + On France and England both + The shame of broken troth, + Of coward hate and treason black must be; + If England slew thee, France + Sent not one word, one lance, + One coin to rescue or to ransom thee. + And still thy Church unto the Maid denies + The halo and the palms, the Beatific prize. + + But yet thy people calls + Within the rescued walls + Of Orleans; and makes its prayer to thee; + What though the Church have chidden + These orisons forbidden, + Yet art thou with this earth’s immortal Three, + With him in Athens that of hemlock died, + And with thy Master dear whom the world crucified. + + + + +HOW THEY HELD THE BASS FOR KING JAMES—1691–1693 + + + Time of Narrating—1743 + + YE hae heard Whigs crack o’ the Saints in the Bass, my faith, a + gruesome tale; + How the Remnant paid at a tippeny rate, for a quart o’ ha’penny ale! + But I’ll tell ye anither tale o’ the Bass, that’ll hearten ye up to + hear, + Sae I pledge ye to Middleton first in a glass, and a health to the + Young Chevalier! + + The Bass stands frae North Berwick Law a league or less to sea, + About its feet the breakers beat, abune the sea-maws flee, + There’s castle stark and dungeon dark, wherein the godly lay, + That made their rant for the Covenant through mony a weary day. + For twal’ years lang the caverns rang wi’ preaching, prayer, and + psalm, + Ye’d think the winds were soughing wild, when a’ the winds were calm, + There wad they preach, each Saint to each, and glower as the soldiers + pass, + And Peden wared his malison on a bonny leaguer lass, + As she stood and daffed, while the warders laughed, and wha sae blithe + as she, + But a wind o’ ill worked his warlock will, and flang her out to sea. + Then wha sae bright as the Saints that night, and an angel came, say + they, + And sang in the cell where the Righteous dwell, but he took na a Saint + away. + There yet might they be, for nane could flee, and nane daur’d break + the jail, + And still the sobbing o’ the sea might mix wi’ their warlock wail, + But then came in black echty-echt, and bluidy echty-nine, + Wi’ Cess, and Press, and Presbytery, and a’ the dule sin’ syne, + The Saints won free wi’ the power o’ the key, and cavaliers maun pine! + It was Halyburton, Middleton, and Roy and young Dunbar, + That Livingstone took on Cromdale haughs, in the last fight of the + war: + And they were warded in the Bass, till the time they should be slain, + Where bluidy Mitchell, and Blackader, and Earlston lang had lain; + Four lads alone, ’gainst a garrison, but Glory crowns their names, + For they brought it to pass that they took the Bass, and they held it + for King James! + + It isna by preaching half the night, ye’ll burst a dungeon door, + It wasna by dint o’ psalmody they broke the hold, they four, + For lang years three that rock in the sea bade Wullie Wanbeard gae + swing, + And England and Scotland fause may be, but the Bass Rock stands for + the King! + + There’s but ae pass gangs up the Bass, it’s guarded wi’ strong gates + four, + And still as the soldiers went to the sea, they steikit them, door by + door, + And this did they do when they helped a crew that brought their coals + on shore. + Thither all had gone, save three men alone: then Middleton gripped his + man, + Halyburton felled the sergeant lad, Dunbar seized the gunner, Swan; + Roy bound their hands, in hempen bands, and the Cavaliers were free. + And they trained the guns on the soldier loons that were down wi’ the + boat by the sea! + Then Middleton cried frae the high cliff-side, and his voice garr’d + the auld rocks ring, + ‘Will ye stand or flee by the land or sea, for I hold the Bass for the + King?’ + + They had nae desire to face the fire; it was mair than men might do, + So they e’en sailed back in the auld coal-smack, a sorry and + shame-faced crew, + And they hirpled doun to Edinburgh toun, wi’ the story of their + shames, + How the prisoners bold had broken hold, and kept the Bass for King + James. + + King James he has sent them guns and men, and the Whigs they guard the + Bass, + But they never could catch the Cavaliers, who took toll of ships that + pass, + They fared wild and free as the birds o’ the sea, and at night they + went on the wing, + And they lifted the kye o’ Whigs far and nigh, and they revelled and + drank to the King. + + Then Wullie Wanbeard sends his ships to siege the Bass in form, + And first shall they break the fortress down, and syne the Rock + they’ll storm. + After twa days’ fight they fled in the night, and glad eneuch to go, + With their rigging rent, and their powder spent, and many a man laid + low. + + So for lang years three did they sweep the sea, but a closer watch was + set, + Till nae food had they, but twa ounce a day o’ meal was the maist + they’d get. + And men fight but tame on an empty wame, so they sent a flag o’ truce, + And blithe were the Privy Council then, when the Whigs had heard that + news. + Twa Lords they sent wi’ a strang intent to be dour on each Cavalier, + But wi’ French cakes fine, and his last drap o’ wine, did Middleton + make them cheer, + On the muzzles o’ guns he put coats and caps, and he set them aboot + the wa’s, + And the Whigs thocht then he had food and men to stand for the + Rightfu’ Cause. + So he got a’ he craved, and his men were saved, and nane might say + them nay, + Wi’ sword by side, and flag o’ pride, free men might they gang their + way, + They might fare to France, they might bide at hame, and the better + their grace to buy, + Wullie Wanbeard’s purse maun pay the keep o’ the men that did him + defy! + + Men never hae gotten sic terms o’ peace since first men went to war, + As got Halyburton, and Middleton, and Roy, and the young Dunbar. + Sae I drink to ye here, _To the Young Chevalier_! I hae said ye an + auld man’s say, + And there may hae been mightier deeds of arms, but there never was + nane sae gay! + + + + +THREE PORTRAITS OF PRINCE CHARLES + + +1731 + + + BEAUTIFUL face of a child, + Lighted with laughter and glee, + Mirthful, and tender, and wild, + My heart is heavy for thee! + + + +1744 + + + Beautiful face of a youth, + As an eagle poised to fly forth, + To the old land loyal of truth, + To the hills and the sounds of the North: + Fair face, daring and proud, + Lo! the shadow of doom, even now, + The fate of thy line, like a cloud, + Rests on the grace of thy brow! + + + +1773 + + + Cruel and angry face, + Hateful and heavy with wine, + Where are the gladness, the grace, + The beauty, the mirth that were thine? + + Ah, my Prince, it were well,— + Hadst thou to the gods been dear,— + To have fallen where Keppoch fell, + With the war-pipe loud in thine ear! + To have died with never a stain + On the fair White Rose of Renown, + To have fallen, fighting in vain, + For thy father, thy faith, and thy crown! + More than thy marble pile, + With its women weeping for thee, + Were to dream in thine ancient isle, + To the endless dirge of the sea! + But the Fates deemed otherwise, + Far thou sleepest from home, + From the tears of the Northern skies, + In the secular dust of Rome. + + * * * + + A city of death and the dead, + But thither a pilgrim came, + Wearing on weary head + The crowns of years and fame: + Little the Lucrine lake + Or Tivoli said to him, + Scarce did the memories wake + Of the far-off years and dim. + For he stood by Avernus’ shore, + But he dreamed of a Northern glen + And he murmured, over and o’er, + ‘_For Charlie and his men_:’ + And his feet, to death that went, + Crept forth to St. Peter’s shrine, + And the latest Minstrel bent + O’er the last of the Stuart line. + + + + +FROM OMAR KHAYYAM + + + RHYMED FROM THE PROSE VERSION OF + MR. JUSTIN HUNTLY M‘CARTHY + + THE Paradise they bid us fast to win + Hath Wine and Women; is it then a sin + To live as we shall live in Paradise, + And make a Heaven of Earth, ere Heaven begin? + + The wise may search the world from end to end, + From dusty nook to dusty nook, my friend, + And nothing better find than girls and wine, + Of all the things they neither make nor mend. + + Nay, listen thou who, walking on Life’s way, + Hast seen no lovelock of thy love’s grow grey + Listen, and love thy life, and let the Wheel + Of Heaven go spinning its own wilful way. + + Man is a flagon, and his soul the wine, + Man is a lamp, wherein the Soul doth shine, + Man is a shaken reed, wherein that wind, + The Soul, doth ever rustle and repine. + + Each morn I say, to-night I will repent, + Repent! and each night go the way I went— + The way of Wine; but now that reigns the rose, + Lord of Repentance, rage not, but relent. + + I wish to drink of wine—so deep, so deep— + The scent of wine my sepulchre shall steep, + And they, the revellers by Omar’s tomb, + Shall breathe it, and in Wine shall fall asleep. + + Before the rent walls of a ruined town + Lay the King’s skull, whereby a bird flew down + ‘And where,’ he sang, ‘is all thy clash of arms? + Where the sonorous trumps of thy renown?’ + + + + +ÆSOP + + + HE sat among the woods, he heard + The sylvan merriment: he saw + The pranks of butterfly and bird, + The humours of the ape, the daw. + + And in the lion or the frog— + In all the life of moor and fen, + In ass and peacock, stork and dog, + He read similitudes of men. + + ‘Of these, from those,’ he cried, ‘we come, + Our hearts, our brains descend from these.’ + And lo! the Beasts no more were dumb, + But answered out of brakes and trees: + + ‘Not ours,’ they cried; ‘Degenerate, + If ours at all,’ they cried again, + ‘Ye fools, who war with God and Fate, + Who strive and toil: strange race of men. + + ‘For _we_ are neither bond nor free, + For _we_ have neither slaves nor kings, + But near to Nature’s heart are we, + And conscious of her secret things. + + ‘Content are we to fall asleep, + And well content to wake no more, + We do not laugh, we do not weep, + Nor look behind us and before; + + ‘But were there cause for moan or mirth, + ’Tis _we_, not you, should sigh or scorn, + Oh, latest children of the Earth, + Most childish children Earth has borne.’ + + * * * + + They spoke, but that misshapen slave + Told never of the thing he heard, + And unto men their portraits gave, + In likenesses of beast and bird! + + + + +LES ROSES DE SÂDI + + + THIS morning I vowed I would bring thee my Roses, + They were thrust in the band that my bodice encloses, + But the breast-knots were broken, the Roses went free. + The breast-knots were broken; the Roses together + Floated forth on the wings of the wind and the weather, + And they drifted afar down the streams of the sea. + + And the sea was as red as when sunset uncloses, + But my raiment is sweet from the scent of the Roses, + Thou shalt know, Love, how fragrant a memory can be. + + + + +THE HAUNTED TOWER + + + SUGGESTED BY A POEM OF THÉOPHILE GAUTIER + + IN front he saw the donjon tall + Deep in the woods, and stayed to scan + The guards that slept along the wall, + Or dozed upon the bartizan. + He marked the drowsy flag that hung + Unwaved by wind, unfrayed by shower, + He listened to the birds that sung + _Go forth and win the haunted tower_! + The tangled brake made way for him, + The twisted brambles bent aside; + And lo, he pierced the forest dim, + And lo, he won the fairy bride! + For _he_ was young, but ah! we find, + All we, whose beards are flecked with grey, + Our fairy castle’s far behind, + We watch it from the darkling way: + ’Twas ours, that palace, in our youth, + We revelled there in happy cheer: + Who scarce dare visit now in sooth, + Le Vieux Château de Souvenir! + For not the boughs of forest green + Begird that castle far away, + There is a mist where we have been + That weeps about it, cold and grey. + And if we seek to travel back + ’Tis through a thicket dim and sere, + With many a grave beside the track, + And many a haunting form of fear. + Dead leaves are wet among the moss, + With weed and thistle overgrown— + A ruined barge within the fosse, + A castle built of crumbling stone! + The drawbridge drops from rusty chains, + There comes no challenge from the hold; + No squire, nor dame, nor knight remains, + Of all who dwelt with us of old. + And there is silence in the hall + No sound of songs, no ray of fire; + But gloom where all was glad, and all + Is darkened with a vain desire. + And every picture’s fading fast, + Of fair Jehanne, or Cydalise. + Lo, the white shadows hurrying past, + Below the boughs of dripping trees! + + * * * + + Ah rise, and march, and look not back, + Now the long way has brought us here; + We may not turn and seek the track + To the old Château de Souvenir! + + + + +BOAT-SONG + + + ADRIFT, with starlit skies above, + With starlit seas below, + We move with all the suns that move, + With all the seas that flow: + For, bond or free, earth, sky, and sea, + Wheel with one central will, + And thy heart drifteth on to me, + And only Time stands still. + + Between two shores of death we drift, + Behind are things forgot, + Before, the tide is racing swift + To shores man knoweth not. + Above, the sky is far and cold, + Below, the moaning sea + Sweeps o’er the loves that were of old, + But thou, Love, love thou me. + + Ah, lonely are the ocean ways, + And dangerous the deep, + And frail the fairy barque that strays + Above the seas asleep. + Ah, toil no more with helm or oar, + We drift, or bond or free, + On yon far shore the breakers roar, + But thou, Love, love thou me! + + + + +LOST LOVE + + + WHO wins his Love shall lose her, + Who loses her shall gain, + For still the spirit woos her, + A soul without a stain; + And Memory still pursues her + With longings not in vain! + + He loses her who gains her, + Who watches day by day + The dust of time that stains her, + The griefs that leave her grey, + The flesh that yet enchains her + Whose grace hath passed away! + + Oh, happier he who gains not + The Love some seem to gain: + The joy that custom stains not + Shall still with him remain, + The loveliness that wanes not, + The Love that ne’er can wane. + + In dreams she grows not older + The lands of Dream among, + Though all the world wax colder, + Though all the songs be sung, + In dreams doth he behold her + Still fair and kind and young. + + + + +THE PROMISE OF HELEN + + + WHOM hast thou longed for most, + True love of mine? + Whom hast thou loved and lost? + Lo, she is thine! + + She that another wed + Breaks from her vow; + She that hath long been dead + Wakes for thee now. + + Dreams haunt the hapless bed, + Ghosts haunt the night, + Life crowns her living head, + Love and Delight. + + Nay, not a dream nor ghost, + Nay, but Divine, + She that was loved and lost + Waits to be thine! + + + + +THE RESTORATION OF ROMANCE. + + + TO H. R. H., R. L. S., A. C. D., AND S. W. + + KING Romance was wounded deep, + All his knights were dead and gone, + All his court was fallen on sleep, + In a vale of Avalon! + _Nay_, men said, _he will not come_, + _Any night or any morn_. + _Nay_, _his puissant voice is dumb_, + _Silent his enchanted horn_! + + King Romance was forfeited, + Banished from his Royal home, + With a price upon his head, + Driven with sylvan folk to roam. + _King Romance is fallen_, _banned_, + Cried his foemen overbold, + _Broken is the wizard wand_, + _All the stories have been told_! + + Then you came from South and North, + From Tugela, from the Tweed, + Blazoned his achievements forth, + King Romance is come indeed! + All his foes are overthrown, + All their wares cast out in scorn, + King Romance hath won his own, + And the lands where he was born! + + Marsac at adventure rides, + Felon men meet felon scathe, + Micah Clarke is taking sides + For King Monmouth and the Faith; + For a Cause or for a lass + Men are willing to be slain, + And the dungeons of the Bass + Hold a prisoner again. + + King Romance with wand of gold + Sways the realms he ruled of yore. + Hills Dalgetty roamed of old, + Valleys of enchanted Kôr: + Waves his sceptre o’er the isles, + Claims the pirates’ treasuries, + Through innumerable miles + Of the siren-haunted seas! + + Elfin folk of coast and cave, + Laud him in the woven dance, + All the tribes of wold and wave + Bow the knee to King Romance! + Wand’ring voices Chaucer knew + On the mountain and the main, + Cry the haunted forest through, + _King Romance has come again_! + + + + +CENTRAL AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES + + + IN SOUTH KENSINGTON MUSEUM + + ‘YOUTH and crabbed age + Cannot live together;’ + So they say. + + On this little page + See you when and whether + That they may. + + Age was very old— + Stones from Chichimec + Hardly wrung; + + Youth had hair of gold + Knotted on her neck— + Fair and young! + + Age was carved with odd + Slaves, and priests that slew them— + God and Beast; + + Man and Beast and God— + There she sat and drew them, + King and Priest! + + There she sat and drew + Many a monstrous head + And antique; + + Horrors from Peru, + _Huacas_ doubly dead, + Dead cacique! + + Ere Pizarro came + These were lords of men + Long ago; + + Gods without a name, + Born or how or when, + None may know! + + Now from Yucatan + These doth Science bear + Over seas; + + And methinks a man + Finds youth doubly fair, + Sketching these! + + + + +ON CALAIS SANDS + + + ON Calais Sands the grey began, + Then rosy red above the grey, + The morn with many a scarlet van + Leap’d, and the world was glad with May! + The little waves along the bay + Broke white upon the shelving strands; + The sea-mews flitted white as they + On Calais Sands! + + On Calais Sands must man with man + Wash honour clean in blood to-day; + On spaces wet from waters wan + How white the flashing rapiers play, + Parry, riposte! and lunge! The fray + Shifts for a while, then mournful stands + The Victor: life ebbs fast away + On Calais Sands! + + On Calais Sands a little space + Of silence, then the plash and spray, + The sound of eager waves that ran + To kiss the perfumed locks astray, + To touch these lips that ne’er said ‘Nay,’ + To dally with the helpless hands; + Till the deep sea in silence lay + On Calais Sands! + + Between the lilac and the may + She waits her love from alien lands; + Her love is colder than the clay + On Calais Sands! + + + + +BALLADE OF YULE + + + _This life’s most jolly_, Amiens said, + Heigh-ho, the Holly! So sang he. + As the good Duke was comforted + In forest exile, so may we! + The years may darken as they flee, + And Christmas bring his melancholy: + But round the old mahogany tree + We drink, we sing _Heigh-ho_, _the Holly_! + + Though some are dead and some are fled + To lands of summer over sea, + The holly berry keeps his red, + The merry children keep their glee; + They hoard with artless secresy + This gift for Maude, and that for Molly, + And Santa Claus he turns the key + On Christmas Eve, _Heigh-ho_, _the Holly_! + + Amid the snow the birds are fed, + The snow lies deep on lawn and lea, + The skies are shining overhead, + The robin’s tame that was so free. + Far North, at home, the ‘barley bree’ + They brew; they give the hour to folly, + How ‘Rab and Allan cam to pree,’ + They sing, we sing _Heigh-ho_, _the Holly_! + + + +ENVOI + + + Friend, let us pay the wonted fee, + The yearly tithe of mirth: be jolly! + It is a duty so to be, + Though half we sigh, _Heigh-ho_, _the Holly_! + + + + +POSCIMUR + + + FROM HORACE + + HUSH, for they call! If in the shade, + My lute, we twain have idly strayed, + And song for many a season made, + Once more reply; + Once more we’ll play as we have played, + My lute and I! + + Roman the song: the strain you know, + The Lesbian wrought it long ago. + Now singing as he charged the foe, + Now in the bay, + Where safe in the shore-water’s flow + His galleys lay. + + So sang he Bacchus and the Nine, + And Venus and her boy divine, + And Lycus of the dusky eyne, + The dusky hair; + So shalt thou sing, ah, Lute of mine, + Of all things fair; + + Apollo’s glory! Sounding shell, + Thou lute, to Jove desirable, + When soft thine accents sigh and swell + At festival— + Delight more dear than words can tell, + Attend my call! + + + + +ON HIS DEAD SEA-MEW + + + FROM THE GREEK + + + +I + + + BIRD of the graces, dear sea-mew, whose note + Was like the halcyon’s song, + In death thy wings and thy sweet spirit float + Still paths of the night along! + + + +II +THE SAILOR’S GRAVE + + + Tomb of a shipwrecked seafarer am I, + But thou, sail on! + For homeward safe did other vessels fly, + Though we were gone. + + + + +FROM MELEAGER + + + I LOVE not the wine-cup, but if thou art fain + I should drink, do thou taste it, and bring it to me; + If it touch but thy lips it were hard to refrain, + It were hard from the sweet maid who bears it to flee; + For the cup ferries over the kisses, and plain + Does it speak of the grace that was given it by thee. + + + + +ON THE GARLAND SENT TO RHODOCLEIA + + + RUFINUS + + + +GOLDEN EYES + + + ‘AH, Golden Eyes, to win you yet, + I bring mine April coronet, + The lovely blossoms of the spring, + For you I weave, to you I bring + These roses with the lilies set, + The dewy dark-eyed violet, + Narcissus, and the wind-flower wet: + Wilt thou disdain mine offering? + Ah, Golden Eyes! + + Crowned with thy lover’s flowers, forget + The pride wherein thy heart is set, + For thou, like these or anything, + Has but a moment of thy spring, + Thy spring, and then—the long regret! + Ah, Golden Eyes!’ + + + + +A GALLOWAY GARLAND + + + WE know not, on these hills of ours, + The fabled asphodel of Greece, + That filleth with immortal flowers + Fields where the heroes are at peace! + Not ours are myrtle buds like these + That breathe o’er isles where memories dwell + Of Sappho, in enchanted seas! + + We meet not, on our upland moor, + The singing Maid of Helicon, + You may not hear her music pure + Float on the mountain meres withdrawn; + The Muse of Greece, the Muse is gone! + But we have songs that please us well + And flowers we love to look upon. + + More sweet than Southern myrtles far + The bruised Marsh-myrtle breatheth keen; + Parnassus names the flower, the star, + That shines among the well-heads green + The bright Marsh-asphodels between— + Marsh-myrtle and Marsh-asphodel + May crown the Northern Muse a queen + + + + +CELIA’S EYES + + + PASTICHE + + TELL me not that babies dwell + In the deeps of Celia’s eyes; + Cupid in each hazel well + Scans his beauties with surprise, + And would, like Narcissus, drown + In my Celia’s eyes of brown. + + Tell me not that any goes + Safe by that enchanted place; + Eros dwells with Anteros + In the garden of her Face, + Where like friends who late were foes + Meet the white and crimson Rose. + + + + +BRITANNIA + + + FROM JULES LEMAÎTRE + + THY mouth is fresh as cherries on the bough, + Red cherries in the dawning, and more white + Than milk or white camellias is thy brow; + And as the golden corn thy hair is bright, + The corn that drinks the Sun’s less fair than thou; + While through thine eyes the child-soul gazeth now— + Eyes like the flower that was Rousseau’s delight. + + Sister of sad Ophelia, say, shall these + Thy pearly teeth grow like piano keys + Yellow and long; while thou, all skin and bone, + Angles and morals, in a sky-blue veil, + Shalt hosts of children to the sermon hale, + Blare hymns, read chapters, backbite, and intone? + + + + +GALLIA + + + LADY, lady neat + Of the roguish eye, + Wherefore dost thou hie, + Stealthy, down the street, + On well-booted feet? + From French novels I + Gather that you fly, + Guy or Jules to meet. + + Furtive dost thou range, + Oft thy cab dost change; + So, at least, ’tis said: + Oh, the sad old tale + Passionately stale, + We’ve so often read! + + + + +THE FAIRY MINISTER + + + The Rev. Mr. Kirk of Aberfoyle was carried away by the Fairies in 1692. + + PEOPLE of Peace! a peaceful man, + Well worthy of your love was he, + Who, while the roaring Garry ran + Red with the life-blood of Dundee, + While coats were turning, crowns were falling, + Wandered along his valley still, + And heard your mystic voices calling + From fairy knowe and haunted hill. + He heard, he saw, he knew too well + The secrets of your fairy clan; + You stole him from the haunted dell, + Who never more was seen of man. + Now far from heaven, and safe from hell, + Unknown of earth, he wanders free. + Would that he might return and tell + Of his mysterious Company! + For we have tired the Folk of Peace; + No more they tax our corn and oil; + Their dances on the moorland cease, + The Brownie stints his wonted toil. + No more shall any shepherd meet + The ladies of the fairy clan, + Nor are their deathly kisses sweet + On lips of any earthly man. + And half I envy him who now, + Clothed in her Court’s enchanted green, + By moonlit loch or mountain’s brow + Is Chaplain to the Fairy Queen. + + + + +TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + + + WITH KIRK’S ‘SECRET COMMONWEALTH’ + + O LOUIS! you that like them maist, + Ye’re far frae kelpie, wraith, and ghaist, + And fairy dames, no unco chaste, + And haunted cell. + Among a heathen clan ye’re placed, + That kensna hell! + + Ye hae nae heather, peat, nor birks, + Nae trout in a’ yer burnies lurks, + There are nae bonny U.P. kirks, + An awfu’ place! + Nane kens the Covenant o’ Works + Frae that o’ Grace! + + But whiles, maybe, to them ye’ll read + Blads o’ the Covenanting creed, + And whiles their pagan wames ye’ll feed + On halesome parritch; + And syne ye’ll gar them learn a screed + O’ the Shorter Carritch. + + Yet thae uncovenanted shavers + Hae rowth, ye say, o’ clash and clavers + O’ gods and etins—auld wives’ havers, + But their delight; + The voice o’ him that tells them quavers + Just wi’ fair fright. + + And ye might tell, ayont the faem, + Thae Hieland clashes o’ our hame + To speak the truth, I takna shame + To half believe them; + And, stamped wi’ _Tusitala’s_ name, + They’ll a’ receive them. + + And folk to come ayont the sea + May hear the yowl o’ the Banshie, + And frae the water-kelpie flee, + Ere a’ things cease, + And island bairns may stolen be + By the Folk o’ Peace. + + + + +FOR MARK TWAIN’S JUBILEE + + + TO brave Mark Twain, across the sea, + The years have brought his jubilee; + One hears it half with pain, + That fifty years have passed and gone + Since danced the merry star that shone + Above the babe, Mark Twain! + + How many and many a weary day, + When sad enough were we, ‘Mark’s way’ + (Unlike the Laureate’s Mark’s) + Has made us laugh until we cried, + And, sinking back exhausted, sighed, + Like Gargery, _Wot larx_! + + We turn his pages, and we see + The Mississippi flowing free; + We turn again, and grin + O’er all _Tom Sawyer_ did and planned, + With him of the Ensanguined Hand, + With _Huckleberry Finn_! + + Spirit of mirth, whose chime of bells + Shakes on his cap, and sweetly swells + Across the Atlantic main, + Grant that Mark’s laughter never die, + That men, through many a century, + May chuckle o’er Mark Twain! + + + + +III +POEMS +WRITTEN UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF WORDSWORTH + + +MIST + + + MIST, though I love thee not, who puttest down + Trout in the Lochs, (they feed not, as a rule, + At least on fly, in mere or river-pool + When fogs have fallen, and the air is lown, + And on each Ben, a pillow not a crown, + The fat folds rest,) thou, Mist, hast power to cool + The blatant declamations of the fool + Who raves reciting through the heather brown. + + Much do I bar the matron, man, or lass + Who cries ‘How lovely!’ and who does not spare + When light and shadow on the mountain pass,— + Shadow and light, and gleams exceeding fair, + O’er rock, and glade, and glen,—to shout, the Ass, + To me, to me the Poet, ‘Oh, look there!’ + + + +LINES + + +Written under the influence of Wordsworth, with a slate-pencil on a +window of the dining-room at the Lowood Hotel, Windermere, while waiting +for tea, after being present at the Grasmere Sports on a very wet day, +and in consequence of a recent perusal of _Belinda_, a Novel, by Miss +Broughton, whose absence is regretted. + + HOW solemn is the front of this Hotel, + When now the hills are swathed in modest mist, + And none can speak of scenery, nor tell + Of ‘tints of amber,’ or of ‘amethyst.’ + Here once thy daughters, young Romance, did dwell, + Here _Sara_ flirted with whoever list, + _Belinda_ loved not wisely but too well, + And _Mr. Ford_ played the Philologist! + Haunted the house is, and the balcony + Where that fond Matron knew her Lover near, + And here we sit, and wait for tea, and sigh, + While the sad rain sobs in the sullen mere, + And all our hearts go forth into the cry, + Would that the teller of the tale were here! + + + +LINES + + +Written on the window pane of a railway carriage after reading an +advertisement of sunlight soap, and _Poems_, by William Wordsworth. + + I PASSED upon the wings of Steam + Along Tay’s valley fair, + The book I read had such a theme + As bids the Soul despair. + + A tale of miserable men + Of hearts with doubt distraught, + Wherein a melancholy pen + With helpless problems fought. + + Where many a life was brought to dust, + And many a heart laid low, + And many a love was smirched with lust— + I raised mine eyes, and, oh!— + + I marked upon a common wall, + These simple words of hope, + That mute appeal to one and all, + _Cheer up_! _Use Sunlight Soap_! + + Our moral energies have range + Beyond their seeming scope, + How tonic were the words, how strange, + _Cheer up_! _Use Sunlight Soap_! + + ‘Behold,’ I cried, ‘the inner touch + That lifts the Soul through cares!’ + I loved that Soap-boiler so much + I blessed him unawares! + + Perchance he is some vulgar man, + Engrossed in £ s. d. + But, ah! through Nature’s holy plan + He whispered hope to me! + + + +ODE TO GOLF + + + ‘DELUSIVE Nymph, farewell!’ + How oft we’ve said or sung, + When balls evasive fell, + Or in the jaws of ‘Hell,’ + Or salt sea-weeds among, + ’Mid shingle and sea-shell! + + How oft beside the Burn, + We play the sad ‘two more’; + How often at the turn, + The heather must we spurn; + How oft we’ve ‘topped and swore,’ + In bent and whin and fern! + + Yes, when the broken head + Bounds further than the ball, + The heart has inly bled. + Ah! and the lips have said + Words we would fain recall— + Wild words, of passion bred! + + In bunkers all unknown, + Far beyond ‘Walkinshaw, + Where never ball had flown— + Reached by ourselves alone— + Caddies have heard with awe + The music of our moan! + + Yet, Nymph, if once alone, + The ball hath featly fled— + Not smitten from the bone— + That drive doth still atone; + And one long shot laid dead + Our grief to the winds hath blown! + + So, still beside the tee, + We meet in storm or calm, + Lady, and worship thee; + While the loud lark sings free, + Piping his matin psalm + Above the grey sad sea! + + + +FRESHMAN’S TERM + + + RETURN again, thou Freshman’s year, + When bloom was on the rye, + When breakfast came with bottled beer, + When Pleasure walked the High; + When Torpid Bumps were more by far + To every opening mind + Than Trade, or Shares, or Peace, or War, + To senior humankind; + When ribbons of outrageous hues + Were worn with honest pride, + When much was talked of boats and crews, + When Proctors were defied: + When Tick was in its early bloom, + When Schools were far away, + As vaguely distant as the tomb, + Nor more regarded—they! + When arm was freely linked with arm + Beneath the College limes, + When Sunday grinds possessed a charm + Denied to _College Rhymes_: + When ices were in much request + Beside the April fire, + When men were very strangely dressed + By Standen or by Prior. + Return, ye Freshman’s Terms! They _do_ + Return, and much the same, + To boys, who, just like me and you, + Play the absurd old game! + + + +A TOAST + + +Kate Kennedy is the Patron Saint of St. Leonard’s and St. Salvator. Her +history is quite unknown. + + THE learned are all ‘in a swither,’ + (They don’t very often agree,) + They know not her ‘whence’ nor her ‘whither,’ + The Maiden we drink to together, + The College’s Kate Kennedie! + + Did she shine in days early or later? + Did she ever achieve a degree? + Was she pretty or plain? Did she mate, or + Live lonely? And who was the _pater_ + Of mystical Kate Kennedie? + + The learned may scorn her and scout her, + But true to her colours are _we_, + The learned may mock her and flout her, + But surely we’ll rally about her, + In the College that stands by the Sea! + + So here’s to her memory! here to + The mystical Maiden drink we, + We pledge her, and we’ll persevere too, + Though the reason is not very clear to + The critical mind, nor to _me_. + Here’s to Kate! she’s our own, and she’s dear to + The College that stands by the Sea. + + + +DEATH IN JUNE + + + FOR CRICKETERS ONLY + + _June is the month of Suicides_ + + WHY do we slay ourselves in June, + When life, if ever, seems so sweet? + When “Moon,” and “tune,” and “afternoon,” + And other happy rhymes we meet, + When strawberries are coming soon? + Why do we do it?’ you repeat! + + Ah, careless butterfly, to thee + The strawberry seems passing good; + And sweet, on Music’s wings, to flee + Amid the waltzing multitude, + And revel late—perchance till three— + For Love is monarch of thy mood! + + Alas! to _us_ no solace shows + For sorrows we endure—at Lord’s, + When Oxford’s bowling _always_ goes + For ‘fours,’ for ever to the cords— + Or more, perhaps, with ‘overthrows’;— + These things can pierce the heart like swords! + + And thus it is though woods are green, + Though mayflies down the Test are rolling, + Though sweet, the silver showers between, + The finches sing in strains consoling, + We cut our throats for very spleen, + And very shame of Oxford’s bowling! + + + +TO CORRESPONDENTS + + + MY Postman, though I fear thy tread, + And tremble as thy foot draws nearer, + ’Tis not the Christmas Dun I dread, + _My_ mortal foe is much severer,— + The Unknown Correspondent, who, + With undefatigable pen, + And nothing in the world to do, + Perplexes literary men. + + From Pentecost and Ponder’s End + They write: from Deal, and from Dacotah, + The people of the Shetlands send + No inconsiderable quota; + They write for _autographs_; in vain, + In vain does Phyllis write, and Flora, + They write that Allan Quatermain + Is not at all the book for Brora. + + They write to say that they have met + This writer ‘at a garden party, + And though’ this writer ‘_may_ forget,’ + _Their_ recollection’s keen and hearty. + ‘And will you praise in your reviews + A novel by our distant cousin?’ + These letters from Provincial Blues + Assail us daily by the dozen! + + O friends with time upon your hands, + O friends with postage-stamps in plenty, + O poets out of many lands, + O youths and maidens under twenty, + Seek out some other wretch to bore, + Or wreak yourselves upon your neighbours, + And leave me to my dusty lore + And my unprofitable labours! + + + +BALLADE OF DIFFICULT RHYMES + + + WITH certain rhymes ’tis hard to deal; + For ‘silver’ we have ne’er a rhyme. + On ‘orange’ (as on orange peel) + The bard has slipped full many a time. + With ‘babe’ there’s scarce a sound will chime, + Though ‘astrolabe’ fits like a glove; + But, ye that on Parnassus climb, + Why, why are rhymes so rare to _Love_? + + A rhyme to ‘cusp,’ to beg or steal, + I’ve sought, from evensong to prime, + But vain is my poetic zeal, + There’s not one sound is worth a ‘dime’: + ‘Bilge,’ ‘coif,’ ‘scarf,’ ‘window’—deeds of crime + I’d do to gain the rhymes thereof; + Nor shrink from acts of moral grime— + Why, why are rhymes so rare to _Love_? + + To ‘dove’ my fancies flit, and wheel + Like butterflies on banks of thyme. + ‘Above’?—or ‘shove’—alas! I feel, + They’re too much used to be sublime. + I scorn with angry pantomime, + The thought of ‘move’ (pronounced as _muv_). + Ah, in Apollo’s golden clime + Why, why are rhymes so rare to _Love_? + + +ENVOI + + + Prince of the lute and lyre, reveal + New rhymes, fresh minted, from above, + Nor still be deaf to our appeal. + Why, _why_ are rhymes so rare to _Love_? + + + +BALLANT O’ BALLANTRAE + + + TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + +Written in wet weather, this conveyed to the Master of Ballantrae a wrong +idea of a very beautiful and charming place, with links, a river +celebrated by Burns, good sea-fishing, and, on the river, a ruined castle +at every turn of the stream. ‘Try Ballantrae’ is a word of wisdom. + + WHAN suthern wunds gar spindrift flee + Abune the clachan, faddums hie, + Whan for the cluds I canna see + The bonny lift, + I’d fain indite an Ode to _thee_ + Had I the gift! + + Ken ye the coast o’ wastland Ayr? + Oh mon, it’s unco bleak and bare! + Ye daunder here, ye daunder there, + And mak’ your moan, + They’ve rain and wund eneuch to tear + The suthern cone! + + Ye’re seekin’ sport! There’s nane ava’, + Ye’ll sit and glower ahint the wa’ + At bleesin’ breakers till ye staw, + If that’s yer wush; + ‘There’s aye the Stinchar.’ Hoot awa’, + She wunna fush! + + She wunna fush at ony gait, + She’s roarin’ reid in wrathfu’ spate; + Maist like yer kimmer when ye’re late + Frae Girvan Fair! + Forbye to speer for leave I’m blate + For fushin’ there! + + O Louis, you that writes in Scots, + Ye’re far awa’ frae stirks and stots, + Wi’ drookit hurdies, tails in knots, + An unco way! + _My_ mirth’s like thorns aneth the pots + In Ballantrae! + + + +SONG BY THE SUB-CONSCIOUS SELF + + + RHYMES MADE IN A DREAM + + I KNOW not what my secret is, + I know but it is mine; + I know to dwell with it were bliss, + To die for it divine. + I cannot yield it in a kiss, + Nor breathe it in a sigh. + I know that I have lived for this; + For this, my love, I die. + + + +THE HAUNTED HOMES OF ENGLAND + + + THE Haunted Homes of England, + How eerily they stand, + While through them flit their ghosts—to wit, + The Monk with the Red Hand, + The Eyeless Girl—an awful spook— + To stop the boldest breath, + The boy that inked his copybook, + And so got ‘wopped’ to death! + + Call them not shams—from haunted Glamis + To haunted Woodhouselea, + I mark in hosts the grisly ghosts + I hear the fell Banshie! + I know the spectral dog that howls + Before the death of Squires; + In my ‘Ghosts’-guide’ addresses hide + For Podmore and for Myers! + + I see the Vampire climb the stairs + From vaults below the church; + And hark! the Pirate’s spectre swears! + O Psychical Research, + Canst _thou_ not hear what meets my ear, + The viewless wheels that come? + The wild Banshie that wails to thee? + The Drummer with his drum? + + O Haunted Homes of England, + Though tenantless ye stand, + With none content to pay the rent, + Through all the shadowy land, + Now, Science true will find in you + A sympathetic perch, + And take you all, both Grange and Hall, + For Psychical Research! + + + +THE DISAPPOINTMENT + + + A HOUSE I took, and many a spook + Was deemed to haunt that House, + I bade the glum Researchers come + With Bogles to carouse. + That House I’d sought with anxious thought, + ’Twas old, ’twas dark as sin, + And _deeds of bale_, so ran the tale, + Had oft been done therein. + + Full many a child its mother wild, + Men said, had strangled there, + Full many a sire, in heedless ire, + Had slain his daughter fair! + ’Twas rarely let: I can’t forget + A recent tenant’s dread, + This widow lone had heard a moan + Proceeding from her bed. + + The tenants next were chiefly vexed + By spectres grim and grey. + A Headless Ghost annoyed them most, + And so they did not stay. + The next in turn saw corpse lights burn, + And also a Banshie, + A spectral Hand they could not stand, + And left the House to me. + + Then came my friends for divers ends, + Some curious, some afraid; + No direr pest disturbed their rest + Than a neat chambermaid. + The grisly halls were gay with balls, + One melancholy nook + Where ghosts _galore_ were seen before + Now yielded ne’er a spook. + + When man and maid, all unafraid, + ‘Sat out’ upon the stairs, + No spectre dread, with feet of lead, + Came past them unawares. + I know not why, but alway I + Have found that it is so, + That when the glum Researchers come + The brutes of bogeys—go! + + + +TO THE GENTLE READER + + + ‘A French writer (whom I love well) speaks of three kinds of + companions,—men, women, and books.’ + + SIR JOHN DAVYS. + + THREE kinds of companions, men, women, and books, + Were enough, said the elderly Sage, for his ends. + And the women we deem that he chose for their looks, + And the men for their cellars: the books were his friends: + ‘Man delights me not,’ often, ‘nor woman,’ but books + Are the best of good comrades in loneliest nooks. + + For man will be wrangling—for woman will fret + About anything infinitesimal small: + Like the Sage in our Plato, I’m ‘anxious to get + On the side’—on the sunnier side—‘of a wall.’ + Let the wind of the world toss the nations like rooks, + If only you’ll leave me at peace with my Books. + + And which are my books? why, ’tis much as you please, + For, given ’tis a book, it can hardly be wrong, + And Bradshaw himself I can study with ease, + Though for choice I might call for a Sermon or Song; + And Locker on London, and Sala on Cooks, + ‘Tom Brown,’ and Plotinus, they’re all of them Books. + + There’s Fielding to lap one in currents of mirth; + There’s Herrick to sing of a flower or a fay; + Or good Maître Françoys to bring one to earth, + If Shelley or Coleridge have snatched one away: + There’s Müller on Speech, there is Gurney on Spooks, + There is Tylor on Totems, there’s all sorts of Books. + + There’s roaming in regions where every one’s been, + Encounters where no one was ever before, + There’s ‘Leaves’ from the Highlands we owe to the Queen, + There’s Holly’s and Leo’s adventures in Kôr: + There’s Tanner who dwelt with Pawnees and Chinooks, + You can cover a great deal of country in Books. + + There are books, highly thought of, that nobody reads, + There is Geusius’ dearly delectable tome + Of the Cannibal—he on his neighbour who feeds— + And in blood-red morocco ’tis bound, by Derome; + There’s Montaigne here (a Foppens), there’s Roberts (on Flukes), + There’s Elzevirs, Aldines, and Gryphius’ Books. + + There’s Bunyan, there’s Walton, in early editions, + There’s many a quarto uncommonly rare; + There’s quaint old Quevedo adream with his visions, + There’s Johnson the portly, and Burton the spare; + There’s Boston of Ettrick, who preached of the ‘Crooks + In the Lots’ of us mortals, who bargain for Books. + + There’s Ruskin to keep one exclaiming ‘What next?’ + There’s Browning to puzzle, and Gilbert to chaff, + And Marcus Aurelius to soothe one if vexed, + And good MARCUS TVAINUS to lend you a laugh; + There be capital tomes that are filled with fly-hooks, + And I’ve frequently found them the best kind of Books. + + + +THE SONNET + + + POET, beware! The sonnet’s primrose path + Is all too tempting for thy feet to tread. + Not on this journey shalt thou earn thy bread, + Because the sated reader roars in wrath: + ‘Little indeed to say the singer hath, + And little sense in all that he hath said; + Such rhymes are lightly writ but hardly read, + And naught but stubble is his aftermath!’ + + Then shall he cast that bonny book of thine + Where the extreme waste-paper basket gapes, + There shall thy futile fancies peak and pine, + With other minor poets, pallid shapes, + Who come a long way short of the divine, + Tormented souls of imitative apes. + + + +THE TOURNAY OF THE HEROES + + + HO, warders, cry a tournay! ho, heralds, call the knights! + What gallant lance for old Romance ’gainst modern fiction fights? + The lists are set, the Knights are met, I ween, a dread array, + St. Chad to shield, a stricken field shall we behold to-day! + First to the Northern barriers pricks Roland of Roncesvaux, + And by his side, in knightly pride, Wilfred of Ivanhoe, + The Templar rideth by his rein, two gallant foes were they; + And proud to see, _le brave Bussy_ his colours doth display. + + Ready at need he comes with speed, William of Deloraine, + And Hereward the Wake himself is pricking o’er the plain. + The good knight of La Mancha’s here, here is Sir Amyas Leigh, + And Eric of the gold hair, pride of Northern chivalry. + There shines the steel of Alan Breck, the sword of Athos shines, + Dalgetty on Gustavus rides along the marshalled lines, + With many a knight of sunny France the Cid has marched from Spain, + And Götz the Iron-handed leads the lances of Almain. + + But who upon the Modern side are champions? With the sleeve + Adorned of his false lady-love, rides glorious David Grieve, + A bookseller sometime was he, in a provincial town, + But now before his iron mace go horse and rider down. + Ho, Robert Elsmere! count thy beads; lo, champion of the fray, + With brandished colt, comes Felix Holt, all of the Modern day. + And Silas Lapham’s six-shooter is cocked: the Colonel’s spry! + There spurs the wary Egoist, defiance in his eye; + There Zola’s ragged regiment comes, with dynamite in hand, + And Flaubert’s crew of country doctors devastate the land. + On Robert Elsmere Friar Tuck falls with his quarter-staff, + _Nom Dé_! to see the clerics fight might make the sourest laugh! + They meet, they shock, full many a knight is smitten on the crown, + So keep us good St. Geneviève, Umslopogaas is down! + About the mace of David Grieve his blood is flowing red, + Alas for ancient chivalry, _le brave Bussy_ is sped! + Yet where the sombre Templar rides the Modern caitiffs fly, + The Mummer (of _The Mummer’s Wife_) has got it in the eye, + From Felix Holt his patent Colt hath not averted fate, + And Silas Lapham’s smitten fair, right through his gallant pate. + There Dan Deronda reels and falls, a hero sore surprised; + _Ha_, _Beauséant_! still may such fate befall the Circumcised! + The Egoist is flying fast from him of Ivanhoe: + Beneath the axe of Skalagrim fall prigs at every blow: + The ragged Zolaists have fled, screaming ‘_We are betrayed_,’ + But loyal Alan Breck is shent, stabbed through the Stuart plaid; + In sooth it is a grimly sight, so fast the heroes fall, + Three volumes fell could scarcely tell the fortunes of them all. + At length but two are left on ground, and David Grieve is one. + _Ma foy_, what deeds of derring-do that bookseller hath done! + The other, mark the giant frame, the great portentous fist! + ’Tis Porthos! David Grieve may call on Kuenen an he list. + The swords are crossed; _Doublez_, _dégagez_, _vite_! great Porthos + calls, + And David drops, that secret _botte_ hath pierced his overalls! + And goodly Porthos, as of old the famed Orthryades, + Raises the trophy of the fight, then falling on his knees, + He writes in gore upon his shield, ‘Romance, Romance, has won!’ + And blood-red on that stricken field goes down the angry sun. + Night falls upon the field of death, night on the darkling lea: + Oh send us such a tournay soon, and send me there to see! + + + +BALLAD OF THE PHILANTHROPIST + + + POMONA Road and Gardens, N., + Were pure as they were fair— + In other districts much I fear, + That vulgar language shocks the ear, + But brawling wives or noisy men + Were never heard of _there_. + + No burglar fixed his dread abode + In that secure retreat, + There were no public-houses nigh, + But chapels low and churches high, + You might have thought Pomona Road + A quite ideal beat! + + Yet that was not at all the view + Taken by B. 13. + That active and intelligent + Policeman deemed that he was meant + Profound detective deeds to do, + And that repose was mean. + + Now there was nothing to detect + Pomona Road along— + None faked a cly, nor cracked a crib, + Nor prigged a wipe, nor told a fib,— + Minds cultivated and select + Slip rarely into wrong! + + Thus bored to desolation went + The Peeler on his beat; + He know not Love, he did not care, + If Love be born on mountains bare; + Nay, crime to punish, or prevent, + Was more than dalliance sweet! + + The weary wanderer, day by day, + Was marked by Howard Fry— + A neighbouring philanthropist, + Who saw what that Policeman missed— + A sympathetic ‘Well-a-day’ + He’d moan, and pipe his eye. + + ‘What _can_ I do,’ asked Howard Fry, + ‘To soothe that brother’s pain? + His glance when first we met was keen, + Most martial and erect his mien’ + (What mien may mean, I know not I) + ‘But _he_ must joy again.’ + + ‘I’ll start on a career of crime, + I will,’ said Howard Fry— + He spake and acted! Deeds of bale + (With which I do not stain my tale) + He wrought like mad time after time, + Yet wrought them blushfully. + + And now when ’buses night by night + Were stopped, conductors slain, + When youths and men, and maids unwed, + Were stabbed or knocked upon the head, + Then B. 13 grew sternly bright, + And was himself again! + + Pomona Road and Gardens, N., + Are now a name of fear. + Commercial travellers flee in haste, + Revolvers girt about the waist + Are worn by city gentlemen + Who have their mansions near. + + But B. 13 elated goes, + Detection in his eye; + While Howard Fry does deeds of bale + (With which I do not stain my tale) + To lighten that Policeman’s woes, + But does them blushfully. + + +MORAL + + + Such is Philanthropy, my friends, + Too often such her plan, + She shoots, and stabs, and robs, and flings + Bombs, and all sorts of horrid things. + Ah, not to serve her private ends, + But for the good of Man! + + + + +NEIGES D’ANTAN + + +IN ERCILDOUNE + + + IN light of sunrise and sunsetting, + The long days lingered, in forgetting + That ever passion, keen to hold + What may not tarry, was of old + Beyond the doubtful stream whose flood + Runs red waist-high with slain men’s blood. + + Was beauty once a thing that died? + Was pleasure never satisfied? + Was rest still broken by the vain + Desire of action, bringing pain, + To die in vapid rest again? + All this was quite forgotten, there + No winter brought us cold and care, + Nor spring gave promise unfulfilled, + Nor, with the heavy summer killed, + The languid days droop autumnwards. + So magical a season guards + The constant prime of a green June. + So slumbrous is the river’s tune, + That knows no thunder of rushing rains, + Nor ever in the summer wanes, + Like waters of the summer-time + In lands far from the fairy clime. + + Alas! no words can bring the bloom + Of Fairyland, the lost perfume. + The sweet low light, the magic air, + To minds of who have not been there: + Alas! no words, nor any spell + Can lull the heart that knows too well + The towers that by the river stand, + The lost fair world of Fairyland. + + Ah, would that I had never been + The lover of the Fairy Queen. + Or would that I again might be + Asleep below the Eildon Tree, + And see her ride the forest way + As on that morning of the May! + + Or would that through the little town, + The grey old place of Ercildoune, + And all along the sleepy street + The soft fall of the white deer’s feet + Came, with the mystical command, + That I must back to Fairy Land! + + + +FOR A ROSE’S SAKE + + + FRENCH FOLK-SONG + + I LAVED my hands + By the water-side, + With willow leaves + My hands I dried. + + The nightingale sang + On the bough of a tree, + Sing, sweet nightingale, + It is well with thee. + + Thou hast heart’s delight, + I have sad heart’s sorrow, + For a false false maid + That will wed to-morrow. + + It is all for a rose + That I gave her not, + And I would that it grew + In the garden plot, + + And I would the rose-tree + Were still to set, + That my love Marie + Might love me yet! + + + +THE BRIGAND’S GRAVE + + + MODERN GREEK + + THE moon came up above the hill, + The sun went down the sea, + ‘Go, maids, and draw the well-water, + But, lad, come here to me. + + Gird on my jack, and my old sword, + For I have never a son, + And you must be the chief of all + When I am dead and gone. + + But you must take my old broadsword, + And cut the green boughs of the tree, + And strew the green boughs on the ground, + To make a soft death-bed for me. + + And you must bring the holy priest, + That I may sainèd be, + For I have lived a roving life + Fifty years under the greenwood tree. + + And you shall make a grave for me, + And dig it deep and wide, + That I may turn about and dream + With my old gun by my side. + + And leave a window to the east + And the swallows will bring the spring, + And all the merry month of May + The nightingales will sing.’ + + + +THE NEW-LIVERIED YEAR + + + FROM CHARLES D’ORLÉANS + + THE year has changed his mantle cold + Of wind, of rain, of bitter air, + And he goes clad in cloth of gold + Of laughing suns and season fair; + No bird or beast of wood or wold + But doth in cry or song declare + ‘The year has changed his mantle cold!’ + All founts, all rivers seaward rolled + Their pleasant summer livery wear + With silver studs on broidered vair, + The world puts off its raiment old, + The year has changed his mantle cold. + + + +MORE STRONG THAN DEATH + + + FROM VICTOR HUGO + + SINCE I have set my lips to your full cup, my sweet, + Since I my pallid face between your hands have laid, + Since I have known your soul and all the bloom of it, + And all the perfume rare, now buried in the shade, + + Since it was given to me to hear one happy while + The words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries, + Since I have seen you weep, and since I have seen you smile, + Your lips upon my lips, and your eyes upon my eyes; + + Since I have known above my forehead glance and gleam, + A ray, a single ray of your star veiled always, + Since I have felt the fall upon my lifetime’s stream + Of one rose-petal plucked from the roses of your days; + + I now am bold to say to the swift-changing hours, + Pass, pass upon your way, for I grow never old. + Fleet to the dark abyss with all your fading flowers, + One rose that none may pluck within my heart I hold. + + Your flying wings may smite, but they can never spill + The cup fulfilled of love from which my lips are wet, + My heart has far more fire than you have frost to chill. + My soul more love than you can make my soul forget. + + + +SILENTIA LUNAE + + + FROM RONSARD + + HIDE this one night thy crescent, kindly Moon, + So shall Endymion faithful prove, and rest + Loving and unawakened on thy breast; + So shall no foul enchanter importune + Thy quiet course, for now the night is boon, + And through the friendly night unseen I fare + Who dread the face of foemen unaware, + And watch of hostile spies in the bright noon. + + Thou know’st, O Moon, the bitter power of Love. + ’Tis told how shepherd Pan found ways to move + With a small gift thy heart; and of your grace, + Sweet stars, be kind to this not alien fire, + Because on earth ye did not scorn desire, + Bethink ye, now ye hold your heavenly place. + + + +HIS LADY’S TOMB + + + FROM RONSARD + + AS in the gardens, all through May, the Rose, + Lovely, and young, and rich apparelled, + Makes sunrise jealous of her rosy red, + When dawn upon the dew of dawning glows; + Graces and Loves within her breast repose, + The woods are faint with the sweet odour shed, + Till rains and heavy suns have smitten dead + The languid flower and the loose leaves unclose,— + + So this, the perfect beauty of our days, + When heaven and earth were vocal of her praise, + The fates have slain, and her sweet soul reposes: + And tears I bring, and sighs, and on her tomb + Pour milk, and scatter buds of many a bloom, + That, dead as living, Rose may be with roses. + + + +THE POET’S APOLOGY + + + NO, the Muse has gone away, + Does not haunt me much to-day. + Everything she had to say + Has been said! + ’Twas not much at any time + She could hitch into a rhyme, + Never was the Muse sublime, + Who has fled! + + Any one who takes her in + May observe she’s rather thin; + Little more than bone and skin + Is the Muse; + Scanty sacrifice she won + When her very best she’d done, + And at her they poked their fun, + In Reviews. + + ‘Rhymes,’ in truth, ‘are stubborn things.’ + And to Rhyme she clung, and clings, + But whatever song she sings + Scarcely sells. + If her tone be grave, they say + ‘Give us something rather gay.’ + If she’s skittish, then they pray + ‘Something else!’ + + Much she loved, for wading shod, + To go forth with line and rod, + Loved the heather, and the sod, + Loved to rest + On the crystal river’s brim + Where she saw the fishes swim, + And she heard the thrushes’ hymn, + By the Test! + + She, whatever way she went, + Friendly was and innocent, + Little need the Bard repent + Of her lay. + Of the babble and the rhyme, + And the imitative chime + That amused him on a time,— + Now he’s grey. + + + + +NOTES + + +Page 1. + + +Jeanne d’Arc is said to have led a Scottish force at Lagny, when she +defeated the Burgundian, Franquet d’Arras. A Scottish artist painted her +banner; he was a James Polwarth, or a Hume of Polwarth, according to a +conjecture of Mr. Hill Burton’s. A monk of Dunfermline, who continued +Fordun’s Chronicle, avers that he was with the Maiden in her campaigns, +and at her martyrdom. He calls her _Puella a spiritu sancto excitata_. +Unluckily his manuscript breaks off in the middle of a sentence. At her +trial, Jeanne said that she had only once seen her own portrait: it was +in the hands of a Scottish archer. The story of the white dove which +passed from her lips as they opened to her last cry of _Jesus_! was +reported at the trial for her Rehabilitation (1450–56). + + + +Page 2. +_One of that Name_. + + +Two archers of the name of Lang, Lain, or Laing were in the French +service about 1507. See the book on the Scottish Guard, by Father Forbes +Leith, S. J. + + + +_Thy Church unto the Maid Denies_. + + +These verses were written, curiously enough, the day before the Maiden +was raised to the rank of ‘Venerable,’ a step towards her canonisation, +which, we trust, will not be long delayed. It is not easy for any one to +understand the whole miracle of the life and death of Jeanne d’Arc, and +the absolutely unparalleled grandeur and charm of her character, without +studying the full records of both her trials, as collected and published +by M. Quicherat, for the Société de l’Histoire de France. + + + +Page 4. +_How they held the Bass_. + + +This story is versified from the account in _Memoirs of the Rev. John +Blackader_, by Andrew Crichton, Minister of the Gospel. Second Edition. +Edinburgh, 1826. Dunbar was retained as a prisoner, when negotiations +for surrender, in 1691, were broken off by Middleton’s return with +supplies. Halyburton was, it seems, captured later, and only escaped +hanging by virtue of the terms extorted by Middleton. Patrick Walker +tells the tale of Peden and the girl. Wodrow, in his _Analecta_, has the +story of the Angel, or other shining spiritual presence, which is removed +from its context in the ballad. The sufferings from weak beer are quoted +in Mr. Blackader’s Memoirs. Mitchell was the undeniably brave Covenanter +who shot at Sharp, and hit the Bishop of the Orkneys. He was tortured, +and, by an act of perjury (probably unconscious) on the part of +Lauderdale, was hanged. The sentiments of the poem are such as an old +cavalier, surviving to 1743, might perhaps have entertained. ‘Wullie +Wanbeard’ is a Jacobite name for the Prince of Orange, perhaps invented +only by the post-Jacobite sentiment of the early nineteenth century. + + + +Page 44. +_Rousseau’s delight_. + + +The _pervenche_, or periwinkle. + + + +Page 64. + + +One of the college bells of St. Salvator, mentioned by Ferguson, is +called ‘Kate Kennedy’; the heroine is unknown, but Bishop Kennedy founded +the College. ‘Kate Kennedy’s Day’ was a kind of carnival, probably a +survival from that festivity. + + + +Page 77. +_The Disappointment_. + + +As a matter of fact the Haunted House Committee of the Society for +Psychical Research have never succeeded in seeing a ghost. + + * * * * * + + * * * * * + + Printed by T. and A. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Ban and Arriere Ban + A Rally of Fugitive Rhymes + + +Author: Andrew Lang + + + +Release Date: August 10, 2014 [eBook #1855] +[This file was first posted on December 24, 1998] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BAN AND ARRIERE BAN*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1894 Longmans, Green and Co. edition by +David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/coverb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Book cover" +title= +"Book cover" +src="images/covers.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/fpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Ban and Arrière ban frontispiece" +title= +"Ban and Arrière ban frontispiece" +src="images/fps.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h1>Ban and Arrière Ban</h1> +<p style="text-align: center">A RALLY OF FUGITIVE RHYMES</p> +<p style="text-align: center">BY ANDREW LANG</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">LONDON<br /> +LONGMANS, GREEN & CO.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16TH +STREET</span><br /> +1894</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>All rights reserved</i>]</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="pagevi"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. vi</span><span class="GutSmall">Edinburgh: T. +and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty</span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<h2><a name="pagevii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vii</span><span class="GutSmall">TO</span><br /> +ELEANOR CHARLOTTE SELLAR</h2> +<p class="poetry">‘<i>Ban and Arrière +Ban</i>!’ <i>a host</i><br /> + <i>Broken</i>, <i>beaten</i>, <i>all unled</i>,<br +/> +<i>They return as doth a ghost</i><br /> + <i>From the dead</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Sad or glad my rallied rhymes</i>,<br /> + <i>Sought our dusty papers through</i>,<br /> +<i>For the sake of other times</i><br /> + <i>Come to you</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Times and places new we know</i>,<br /> + <i>Faces fresh and seasons strange</i><br /> +<i>But the friends of long ago</i><br /> + <i>Do not change</i>.</p> +<p><a name="pageix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. ix</span><span +class="smcap">Many</span> of the verses in this collection have +appeared in Magazines: ‘How they held the Bass’ was +in ‘Blackwood’s Magazine’; the ‘Ballad of +the Philanthropist’ in ‘Punch’; ‘Calais +Sands’ in ‘The Magazine of Art’ (Messrs. +Cassell and Co.); and others are recaptured from +‘Longman’s Magazine,’ +‘Scribner’s,’ ‘The Illustrated London +News,’ ‘The English Illustrated Magazine,’ +‘Wit and Wisdom’ (lines from Omar Khayyam), +‘The St. James’s Gazette,’ and possibly other +serials. Some pieces are from commendatory verses for +books, as for Mr. Jacobs’s ‘Æsop’; some +are from Mr. Rider Haggard’s ‘World’s +Desire,’ and ‘Cleopatra,’ two are from +Kirk’s ‘Secret Commonwealth’ (Nutt, 1893), and +‘Neiges d’Antan,’ are from the author’s +‘Ballads and Lyrics of Old France,’ now long out of +print.</p> +<h2><a name="pagexi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xi</span>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>A Scot to Jeanne d’Arc</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page1">1</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>How they held the Bass for King +James—1691–1693</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page4">4</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Three portraits of Prince Charles</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page11">11</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>From Omar Khayyam</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page14">14</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Æsop</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page16">16</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Les Roses de Sâdi</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page18">18</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Haunted Tower</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page19">19</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Boat-song</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page22">22</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Lost Love</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page24">24</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Promise of Helen</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page26">26</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Restoration of Romance</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page27">27</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Central American Antiquities</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page30">30</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>On Calais Sands</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page32">32</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pagexii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xii</span>Ballade of Yule</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page34">34</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Poscimur</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page36">36</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>On his Dead Sea-Mew</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page38">38</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>From Meleager</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page39">39</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>On the Garland Sent to Rhodocleia</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page40">40</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>A Galloway Garland</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page41">41</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Celia’s Eyes</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page43">43</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Britannia</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page44">44</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Gallia</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page45">45</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Fairy Minister</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page46">46</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>To Robert Louis Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page48">48</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>For Mark Twain’s Jubilee</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page50">50</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Poems Written under the Influence of +Wordsworth</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Mist</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page55">55</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Lines</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page56">56</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Lines</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page58">58</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pagexiii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xiii</span>Ode to Golf</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page60">60</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Freshman’s Term</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page62">62</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>A Toast</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page64">64</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Death in June</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page66">66</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>To Correspondents</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page68">68</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Difficult Rhymes</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page70">70</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballant o’ Ballantrae</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page72">72</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Song by the Sub-Conscious Self</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page74">74</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Haunted Homes of England</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page75">75</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Disappointment</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page77">77</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>To the Gentle Reader</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page80">80</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Sonnet</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page84">84</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Tournay of the Heroes</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page85">85</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballad of the Philanthropist</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page91">91</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Neiges d’Antan</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>In Ercildoune</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page97">97</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>For a Rose’s Sake</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page100">100</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Brigand’s Grave</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page102">102</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pagexiv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xiv</span>The New-Liveried Year</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page104">104</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>More Strong than Death</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page105">105</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Silentia Lunae</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page107">107</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>His Lady’s Tomb</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page108">108</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Poet’s Apology</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page109">109</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Notes</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page115">115</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2>ERRATUM</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Reader</span>, a blot hath escaped the +watchfulness of the setter forth: if thou wilt thou mayst amend +it. The sonnet on the forty-fourth page, against all right +Italianate laws, hath but thirteen lines withal: add another to +thy liking, if thou art a Maker; or, if thou art none, even be +content with what is set before thee. If it be scant +measure, be sure it is choicely good.</p> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span>A SCOT +TO JEANNE D’ARC</h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Dark</span> Lily without blame,<br /> + Not upon us the shame,<br /> +Whose sires were to the Auld Alliance true,<br /> + They, by the Maiden’s +side,<br /> + Victorious fought and died,<br /> +One stood by thee that fiery torment through,<br /> + Till the White Dove from thy pure lips had +passed,<br /> +And thou wert with thine own St. Catherine at the last.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Once only +didst thou see<br /> + In artist’s imagery,<br /> +Thine own face painted, and that precious thing<br /> + Was in an Archer’s hand<br +/> + From the leal Northern land.<br /> +<a name="page2"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 2</span>Alas, what +price would not thy people bring<br /> + To win that portrait of the ruinous<br /> +Gulf of devouring years that hide the Maid from us!</p> +<p class="poetry"> Born of a +lowly line,<br /> + Noteless as once was thine,<br /> +One of that name I would were kin to me,<br /> + Who, in the Scottish Guard<br /> + Won this for his reward,<br /> +To fight for France, and memory of thee:<br /> + Not upon us, dark Lily without blame,<br /> +Not on the North may fall the shadow of that shame.</p> +<p class="poetry"> On France +and England both<br /> + The shame of broken troth,<br /> +Of coward hate and treason black must be;<br /> + If England slew thee, France<br /> + Sent not one word, one lance,<br +/> +One coin to rescue or to ransom thee.<br /> + And still thy Church unto the Maid denies<br /> +The halo and the palms, the Beatific prize.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a +name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span>But yet thy +people calls<br /> + Within the rescued walls<br /> +Of Orleans; and makes its prayer to thee;<br /> + What though the Church have +chidden<br /> + These orisons forbidden,<br /> +Yet art thou with this earth’s immortal Three,<br /> + With him in Athens that of hemlock died,<br /> +And with thy Master dear whom the world crucified.</p> +<h2><a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 4</span>HOW THEY +HELD THE BASS FOR KING JAMES—1691–1693</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">Time of Narrating—1743</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ye</span> hae heard Whigs +crack o’ the Saints in the Bass, my faith, a gruesome +tale;<br /> +How the Remnant paid at a tippeny rate, for a quart o’ +ha’penny ale!<br /> +But I’ll tell ye anither tale o’ the Bass, +that’ll hearten ye up to hear,<br /> +Sae I pledge ye to Middleton first in a glass, and a health to +the Young Chevalier!</p> +<p class="poetry">The Bass stands frae North Berwick Law a league +or less to sea,<br /> +About its feet the breakers beat, abune the sea-maws flee,<br /> +There’s castle stark and dungeon dark, wherein the godly +lay,<br /> +<a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 5</span>That made +their rant for the Covenant through mony a weary day.<br /> +For twal’ years lang the caverns rang wi’ preaching, +prayer, and psalm,<br /> +Ye’d think the winds were soughing wild, when a’ the +winds were calm,<br /> +There wad they preach, each Saint to each, and glower as the +soldiers pass,<br /> +And Peden wared his malison on a bonny leaguer lass,<br /> +As she stood and daffed, while the warders laughed, and wha sae +blithe as she,<br /> +But a wind o’ ill worked his warlock will, and flang her +out to sea.<br /> +Then wha sae bright as the Saints that night, and an angel came, +say they,<br /> +And sang in the cell where the Righteous dwell, but he took na a +Saint away.<br /> +There yet might they be, for nane could flee, and nane +daur’d break the jail,<br /> +And still the sobbing o’ the sea might mix wi’ their +warlock wail,<br /> +<a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span>But then +came in black echty-echt, and bluidy echty-nine,<br /> +Wi’ Cess, and Press, and Presbytery, and a’ the dule +sin’ syne,<br /> +The Saints won free wi’ the power o’ the key, and +cavaliers maun pine!<br /> +It was Halyburton, Middleton, and Roy and young Dunbar,<br /> +That Livingstone took on Cromdale haughs, in the last fight of +the war:<br /> +And they were warded in the Bass, till the time they should be +slain,<br /> +Where bluidy Mitchell, and Blackader, and Earlston lang had +lain;<br /> +Four lads alone, ’gainst a garrison, but Glory crowns their +names,<br /> +For they brought it to pass that they took the Bass, and they +held it for King James!</p> +<p class="poetry">It isna by preaching half the night, +ye’ll burst a dungeon door,<br /> +<a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span>It wasna by +dint o’ psalmody they broke the hold, they four,<br /> +For lang years three that rock in the sea bade Wullie Wanbeard +gae swing,<br /> +And England and Scotland fause may be, but the Bass Rock stands +for the King!</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s but ae pass gangs up the Bass, +it’s guarded wi’ strong gates four,<br /> +And still as the soldiers went to the sea, they steikit them, +door by door,<br /> +And this did they do when they helped a crew that brought their +coals on shore.<br /> +Thither all had gone, save three men alone: then Middleton +gripped his man,<br /> +Halyburton felled the sergeant lad, Dunbar seized the gunner, +Swan;<br /> +Roy bound their hands, in hempen bands, and the Cavaliers were +free.<br /> +And they trained the guns on the soldier loons that were down +wi’ the boat by the sea!<br /> +<a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 8</span>Then +Middleton cried frae the high cliff-side, and his voice +garr’d the auld rocks ring,<br /> +‘Will ye stand or flee by the land or sea, for I hold the +Bass for the King?’</p> +<p class="poetry">They had nae desire to face the fire; it was +mair than men might do,<br /> +So they e’en sailed back in the auld coal-smack, a sorry +and shame-faced crew,<br /> +And they hirpled doun to Edinburgh toun, wi’ the story of +their shames,<br /> +How the prisoners bold had broken hold, and kept the Bass for +King James.</p> +<p class="poetry">King James he has sent them guns and men, and +the Whigs they guard the Bass,<br /> +But they never could catch the Cavaliers, who took toll of ships +that pass,<br /> +They fared wild and free as the birds o’ the sea, and at +night they went on the wing,<br /> +And they lifted the kye o’ Whigs far and nigh, and they +revelled and drank to the King.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +9</span>Then Wullie Wanbeard sends his ships to siege the Bass in +form,<br /> +And first shall they break the fortress down, and syne the Rock +they’ll storm.<br /> +After twa days’ fight they fled in the night, and glad +eneuch to go,<br /> +With their rigging rent, and their powder spent, and many a man +laid low.</p> +<p class="poetry">So for lang years three did they sweep the sea, +but a closer watch was set,<br /> +Till nae food had they, but twa ounce a day o’ meal was the +maist they’d get.<br /> +And men fight but tame on an empty wame, so they sent a flag +o’ truce,<br /> +And blithe were the Privy Council then, when the Whigs had heard +that news.<br /> +Twa Lords they sent wi’ a strang intent to be dour on each +Cavalier,<br /> +But wi’ French cakes fine, and his last drap o’ wine, +did Middleton make them cheer,<br /> +<a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span>On the +muzzles o’ guns he put coats and caps, and he set them +aboot the wa’s,<br /> +And the Whigs thocht then he had food and men to stand for the +Rightfu’ Cause.<br /> +So he got a’ he craved, and his men were saved, and nane +might say them nay,<br /> +Wi’ sword by side, and flag o’ pride, free men might +they gang their way,<br /> +They might fare to France, they might bide at hame, and the +better their grace to buy,<br /> +Wullie Wanbeard’s purse maun pay the keep o’ the men +that did him defy!</p> +<p class="poetry">Men never hae gotten sic terms o’ peace +since first men went to war,<br /> +As got Halyburton, and Middleton, and Roy, and the young +Dunbar.<br /> +Sae I drink to ye here, <i>To the Young Chevalier</i>! I +hae said ye an auld man’s say,<br /> +And there may hae been mightier deeds of arms, but there never +was nane sae gay!</p> +<h2><a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 11</span>THREE +PORTRAITS OF PRINCE CHARLES</h2> +<h3>1731</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Beautiful</span> face of a +child,<br /> + Lighted with laughter and glee,<br /> +Mirthful, and tender, and wild,<br /> + My heart is heavy for thee!</p> +<h3>1744</h3> +<p class="poetry">Beautiful face of a youth,<br /> + As an eagle poised to fly forth,<br /> +To the old land loyal of truth,<br /> + To the hills and the sounds of the North:<br /> +Fair face, daring and proud,<br /> + Lo! the shadow of doom, even now,<br /> +The fate of thy line, like a cloud,<br /> + Rests on the grace of thy brow!</p> +<h3><a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +12</span>1773</h3> +<p class="poetry">Cruel and angry face,<br /> + Hateful and heavy with wine,<br /> +Where are the gladness, the grace,<br /> + The beauty, the mirth that were thine?</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, my Prince, it were well,—<br /> + Hadst thou to the gods been dear,—<br /> +To have fallen where Keppoch fell,<br /> + With the war-pipe loud in thine ear!<br /> +To have died with never a stain<br /> + On the fair White Rose of Renown,<br /> +To have fallen, fighting in vain,<br /> + For thy father, thy faith, and thy crown!<br /> +More than thy marble pile,<br /> + With its women weeping for thee,<br /> +Were to dream in thine ancient isle,<br /> + To the endless dirge of the sea!<br /> +But the Fates deemed otherwise,<br /> + Far thou sleepest from home,<br /> +From the tears of the Northern skies,<br /> + In the secular dust of Rome.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * *</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +13</span>A city of death and the dead,<br /> + But thither a pilgrim came,<br /> +Wearing on weary head<br /> + The crowns of years and fame:<br /> +Little the Lucrine lake<br /> + Or Tivoli said to him,<br /> +Scarce did the memories wake<br /> + Of the far-off years and dim.<br /> +For he stood by Avernus’ shore,<br /> + But he dreamed of a Northern glen<br /> +And he murmured, over and o’er,<br /> + ‘<i>For Charlie and his men</i>:’<br /> +And his feet, to death that went,<br /> + Crept forth to St. Peter’s shrine,<br /> +And the latest Minstrel bent<br /> + O’er the last of the Stuart line.</p> +<h2><a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 14</span>FROM +OMAR KHAYYAM</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">RHYMED FROM +THE PROSE VERSION OF</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">MR. JUSTIN HUNTLY +M‘CARTHY</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> Paradise they +bid us fast to win<br /> +Hath Wine and Women; is it then a sin<br /> + To live as we shall live in Paradise,<br /> +And make a Heaven of Earth, ere Heaven begin?</p> +<p class="poetry">The wise may search the world from end to +end,<br /> +From dusty nook to dusty nook, my friend,<br /> + And nothing better find than girls and wine,<br /> +Of all the things they neither make nor mend.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, listen thou who, walking on Life’s +way,<br /> +Hast seen no lovelock of thy love’s grow grey<br /> + Listen, and love thy life, and let the Wheel<br /> +Of Heaven go spinning its own wilful way.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +15</span>Man is a flagon, and his soul the wine,<br /> +Man is a lamp, wherein the Soul doth shine,<br /> + Man is a shaken reed, wherein that wind,<br /> +The Soul, doth ever rustle and repine.</p> +<p class="poetry">Each morn I say, to-night I will repent,<br /> +Repent! and each night go the way I went—<br /> + The way of Wine; but now that reigns the rose,<br /> +Lord of Repentance, rage not, but relent.</p> +<p class="poetry">I wish to drink of wine—so deep, so +deep—<br /> +The scent of wine my sepulchre shall steep,<br /> + And they, the revellers by Omar’s tomb,<br /> +Shall breathe it, and in Wine shall fall asleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">Before the rent walls of a ruined town<br /> +Lay the King’s skull, whereby a bird flew down<br /> + ‘And where,’ he sang, ‘is all thy +clash of arms?<br /> +Where the sonorous trumps of thy renown?’</p> +<h2><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +16</span>ÆSOP</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">He</span> sat among the +woods, he heard<br /> + The sylvan merriment: he saw<br /> +The pranks of butterfly and bird,<br /> + The humours of the ape, the daw.</p> +<p class="poetry">And in the lion or the frog—<br /> + In all the life of moor and fen,<br /> +In ass and peacock, stork and dog,<br /> + He read similitudes of men.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Of these, from those,’ he cried, +‘we come,<br /> + Our hearts, our brains descend from these.’<br +/> +And lo! the Beasts no more were dumb,<br /> + But answered out of brakes and trees:</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Not ours,’ they cried; +‘Degenerate,<br /> + If ours at all,’ they cried again,<br /> +<a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 17</span>‘Ye +fools, who war with God and Fate,<br /> + Who strive and toil: strange race of men.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘For <i>we</i> are neither bond nor +free,<br /> + For <i>we</i> have neither slaves nor kings,<br /> +But near to Nature’s heart are we,<br /> + And conscious of her secret things.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Content are we to fall asleep,<br /> + And well content to wake no more,<br /> +We do not laugh, we do not weep,<br /> + Nor look behind us and before;</p> +<p class="poetry">‘But were there cause for moan or +mirth,<br /> + ’Tis <i>we</i>, not you, should sigh or +scorn,<br /> +Oh, latest children of the Earth,<br /> + Most childish children Earth has borne.’</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * *</p> +<p class="poetry">They spoke, but that misshapen slave<br /> + Told never of the thing he heard,<br /> +And unto men their portraits gave,<br /> + In likenesses of beast and bird!</p> +<h2><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span>LES +ROSES DE SÂDI</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">This</span> morning I vowed +I would bring thee my Roses,<br /> +They were thrust in the band that my bodice encloses,<br /> +But the breast-knots were broken, the Roses went free.<br /> +The breast-knots were broken; the Roses together<br /> +Floated forth on the wings of the wind and the weather,<br /> +And they drifted afar down the streams of the sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">And the sea was as red as when sunset +uncloses,<br /> +But my raiment is sweet from the scent of the Roses,<br /> +Thou shalt know, Love, how fragrant a memory can be.</p> +<h2><a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 19</span>THE +HAUNTED TOWER</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">SUGGESTED BY +A POEM OF THÉOPHILE GAUTIER</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> front he saw the +donjon tall<br /> + Deep in the woods, and stayed to scan<br /> +The guards that slept along the wall,<br /> + Or dozed upon the bartizan.<br /> +He marked the drowsy flag that hung<br /> + Unwaved by wind, unfrayed by shower,<br /> +He listened to the birds that sung<br /> + <i>Go forth and win the haunted tower</i>!<br /> +The tangled brake made way for him,<br /> + The twisted brambles bent aside;<br /> +And lo, he pierced the forest dim,<br /> + And lo, he won the fairy bride!<br /> +For <i>he</i> was young, but ah! we find,<br /> + All we, whose beards are flecked with grey,<br /> +Our fairy castle’s far behind,<br /> + We watch it from the darkling way:<br /> +<a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +20</span>’Twas ours, that palace, in our youth,<br /> + We revelled there in happy cheer:<br /> +Who scarce dare visit now in sooth,<br /> + Le Vieux Château de Souvenir!<br /> +For not the boughs of forest green<br /> + Begird that castle far away,<br /> +There is a mist where we have been<br /> + That weeps about it, cold and grey.<br /> +And if we seek to travel back<br /> + ’Tis through a thicket dim and sere,<br /> +With many a grave beside the track,<br /> + And many a haunting form of fear.<br /> +Dead leaves are wet among the moss,<br /> + With weed and thistle overgrown—<br /> +A ruined barge within the fosse,<br /> + A castle built of crumbling stone!<br /> +The drawbridge drops from rusty chains,<br /> + There comes no challenge from the hold;<br /> +No squire, nor dame, nor knight remains,<br /> + Of all who dwelt with us of old.<br /> +And there is silence in the hall<br /> + No sound of songs, no ray of fire;<br /> +<a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span>But gloom +where all was glad, and all<br /> + Is darkened with a vain desire.<br /> +And every picture’s fading fast,<br /> + Of fair Jehanne, or Cydalise.<br /> +Lo, the white shadows hurrying past,<br /> + Below the boughs of dripping trees!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * *</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah rise, and march, and look not back,<br /> + Now the long way has brought us here;<br /> +We may not turn and seek the track<br /> + To the old Château de Souvenir!</p> +<h2><a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +22</span>BOAT-SONG</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Adrift</span>, with starlit +skies above,<br /> + With starlit seas below,<br /> +We move with all the suns that move,<br /> + With all the seas that flow:<br /> +For, bond or free, earth, sky, and sea,<br /> + Wheel with one central will,<br /> +And thy heart drifteth on to me,<br /> + And only Time stands still.</p> +<p class="poetry">Between two shores of death we drift,<br /> + Behind are things forgot,<br /> +Before, the tide is racing swift<br /> + To shores man knoweth not.<br /> +Above, the sky is far and cold,<br /> + Below, the moaning sea<br /> +Sweeps o’er the loves that were of old,<br /> + But thou, Love, love thou me.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +23</span>Ah, lonely are the ocean ways,<br /> + And dangerous the deep,<br /> +And frail the fairy barque that strays<br /> + Above the seas asleep.<br /> +Ah, toil no more with helm or oar,<br /> + We drift, or bond or free,<br /> +On yon far shore the breakers roar,<br /> + But thou, Love, love thou me!</p> +<h2><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 24</span>LOST +LOVE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Who</span> wins his Love +shall lose her,<br /> + Who loses her shall gain,<br /> +For still the spirit woos her,<br /> + A soul without a stain;<br /> +And Memory still pursues her<br /> + With longings not in vain!</p> +<p class="poetry">He loses her who gains her,<br /> + Who watches day by day<br /> +The dust of time that stains her,<br /> + The griefs that leave her grey,<br /> +The flesh that yet enchains her<br /> + Whose grace hath passed away!</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, happier he who gains not<br /> + The Love some seem to gain:<br /> +<a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>The joy +that custom stains not<br /> + Shall still with him remain,<br /> +The loveliness that wanes not,<br /> + The Love that ne’er can wane.</p> +<p class="poetry">In dreams she grows not older<br /> + The lands of Dream among,<br /> +Though all the world wax colder,<br /> + Though all the songs be sung,<br /> +In dreams doth he behold her<br /> + Still fair and kind and young.</p> +<h2><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 26</span>THE +PROMISE OF HELEN</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Whom</span> hast thou +longed for most,<br /> + True love of mine?<br /> +Whom hast thou loved and lost?<br /> + Lo, she is thine!</p> +<p class="poetry">She that another wed<br /> + Breaks from her vow;<br /> +She that hath long been dead<br /> + Wakes for thee now.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dreams haunt the hapless bed,<br /> + Ghosts haunt the night,<br /> +Life crowns her living head,<br /> + Love and Delight.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, not a dream nor ghost,<br /> + Nay, but Divine,<br /> +She that was loved and lost<br /> + Waits to be thine!</p> +<h2><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>THE +RESTORATION OF ROMANCE.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">TO H. R. H., +R. L. S., A. C. D., AND S. W.</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">King</span> Romance was +wounded deep,<br /> + All his knights were dead and gone,<br /> +All his court was fallen on sleep,<br /> + In a vale of Avalon!<br /> +<i>Nay</i>, men said, <i>he will not come</i>,<br /> + <i>Any night or any morn</i>.<br /> +<i>Nay</i>, <i>his puissant voice is dumb</i>,<br /> + <i>Silent his enchanted horn</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">King Romance was forfeited,<br /> + Banished from his Royal home,<br /> +With a price upon his head,<br /> + Driven with sylvan folk to roam.<br /> +<i>King Romance is fallen</i>, <i>banned</i>,<br /> + Cried his foemen overbold,<br /> +<i>Broken is the wizard wand</i>,<br /> + <i>All the stories have been told</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +28</span>Then you came from South and North,<br /> + From Tugela, from the Tweed,<br /> +Blazoned his achievements forth,<br /> + King Romance is come indeed!<br /> +All his foes are overthrown,<br /> + All their wares cast out in scorn,<br /> +King Romance hath won his own,<br /> + And the lands where he was born!</p> +<p class="poetry">Marsac at adventure rides,<br /> + Felon men meet felon scathe,<br /> +Micah Clarke is taking sides<br /> + For King Monmouth and the Faith;<br /> +For a Cause or for a lass<br /> + Men are willing to be slain,<br /> +And the dungeons of the Bass<br /> + Hold a prisoner again.</p> +<p class="poetry">King Romance with wand of gold<br /> + Sways the realms he ruled of yore.<br /> +Hills Dalgetty roamed of old,<br /> + Valleys of enchanted Kôr:<br /> +<a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>Waves his +sceptre o’er the isles,<br /> + Claims the pirates’ treasuries,<br /> +Through innumerable miles<br /> + Of the siren-haunted seas!</p> +<p class="poetry">Elfin folk of coast and cave,<br /> + Laud him in the woven dance,<br /> +All the tribes of wold and wave<br /> + Bow the knee to King Romance!<br /> +Wand’ring voices Chaucer knew<br /> + On the mountain and the main,<br /> +Cry the haunted forest through,<br /> + <i>King Romance has come again</i>!</p> +<h2><a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +30</span>CENTRAL AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">IN SOUTH +KENSINGTON MUSEUM</span></p> +<p class="poetry">‘<span class="smcap">Youth</span> and +crabbed age<br /> + Cannot live together;’<br /> + + +So they say.</p> +<p class="poetry">On this little page<br /> + See you when and whether<br /> + + +That they may.</p> +<p class="poetry">Age was very old—<br /> + Stones from Chichimec<br /> + + +Hardly wrung;</p> +<p class="poetry">Youth had hair of gold<br /> + Knotted on her neck—<br /> + + +Fair and young!</p> +<p class="poetry">Age was carved with odd<br /> + Slaves, and priests that slew +them—<br /> + + +God and Beast;</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +31</span>Man and Beast and God—<br /> + There she sat and drew them,<br /> + + +King and Priest!</p> +<p class="poetry">There she sat and drew<br /> + Many a monstrous head<br /> + + +And antique;</p> +<p class="poetry">Horrors from Peru,<br /> + <i>Huacas</i> doubly dead,<br /> + + +Dead cacique!</p> +<p class="poetry">Ere Pizarro came<br /> + These were lords of men<br /> + + +Long ago;</p> +<p class="poetry">Gods without a name,<br /> + Born or how or when,<br /> + + +None may know!</p> +<p class="poetry">Now from Yucatan<br /> + These doth Science bear<br /> + + +Over seas;</p> +<p class="poetry">And methinks a man<br /> + Finds youth doubly fair,<br /> + + +Sketching these!</p> +<h2><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 32</span>ON +CALAIS SANDS</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">On</span> Calais Sands the +grey began,<br /> + Then rosy red above the grey,<br /> +The morn with many a scarlet van<br /> + Leap’d, and the world was glad with May!<br /> +The little waves along the bay<br /> + Broke white upon the shelving strands;<br /> +The sea-mews flitted white as they<br /> + + +On Calais Sands!</p> +<p class="poetry">On Calais Sands must man with man<br /> + Wash honour clean in blood to-day;<br /> +On spaces wet from waters wan<br /> + How white the flashing rapiers play,<br /> +Parry, riposte! and lunge! The fray<br /> + Shifts for a while, then mournful stands<br /> +The Victor: life ebbs fast away<br /> + + +On Calais Sands!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +33</span>On Calais Sands a little space<br /> + Of silence, then the plash and spray,<br /> +The sound of eager waves that ran<br /> + To kiss the perfumed locks astray,<br /> +To touch these lips that ne’er said ‘Nay,’<br +/> + To dally with the helpless hands;<br /> +Till the deep sea in silence lay<br /> + + +On Calais Sands!</p> +<p class="poetry">Between the lilac and the may<br /> + She waits her love from alien lands;<br /> +Her love is colder than the clay<br /> + + +On Calais Sands!</p> +<h2><a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +34</span>BALLADE OF YULE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><i>This life’s most jolly</i>, Amiens +said,<br /> + Heigh-ho, the Holly! So sang he.<br /> +As the good Duke was comforted<br /> + In forest exile, so may we!<br /> +The years may darken as they flee,<br /> + And Christmas bring his melancholy:<br /> +But round the old mahogany tree<br /> + We drink, we sing <i>Heigh-ho</i>, <i>the +Holly</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">Though some are dead and some are fled<br /> + To lands of summer over sea,<br /> +The holly berry keeps his red,<br /> + The merry children keep their glee;<br /> +They hoard with artless secresy<br /> + This gift for Maude, and that for Molly,<br /> +And Santa Claus he turns the key<br /> + On Christmas Eve, <i>Heigh-ho</i>, <i>the +Holly</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +35</span>Amid the snow the birds are fed,<br /> + The snow lies deep on lawn and lea,<br /> +The skies are shining overhead,<br /> + The robin’s tame that was so free.<br /> +Far North, at home, the ‘barley bree’<br /> + They brew; they give the hour to folly,<br /> +How ‘Rab and Allan cam to pree,’<br /> + They sing, we sing <i>Heigh-ho</i>, <i>the +Holly</i>!</p> +<h3>ENVOI</h3> +<p class="poetry">Friend, let us pay the wonted fee,<br /> + The yearly tithe of mirth: be jolly!<br /> +It is a duty so to be,<br /> + Though half we sigh, <i>Heigh-ho</i>, <i>the +Holly</i>!</p> +<h2><a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +36</span>POSCIMUR</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">FROM +HORACE</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Hush</span>, for they +call! If in the shade,<br /> +My lute, we twain have idly strayed,<br /> +And song for many a season made,<br /> + Once more +reply;<br /> +Once more we’ll play as we have played,<br /> + My lute and +I!</p> +<p class="poetry">Roman the song: the strain you know,<br /> +The Lesbian wrought it long ago.<br /> +Now singing as he charged the foe,<br /> + Now in the +bay,<br /> +Where safe in the shore-water’s flow<br /> + His galleys +lay.</p> +<p class="poetry">So sang he Bacchus and the Nine,<br /> +And Venus and her boy divine,<br /> +<a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>And Lycus +of the dusky eyne,<br /> + The dusky +hair;<br /> +So shalt thou sing, ah, Lute of mine,<br /> + Of all things +fair;</p> +<p class="poetry">Apollo’s glory! Sounding shell,<br +/> +Thou lute, to Jove desirable,<br /> +When soft thine accents sigh and swell<br /> + At +festival—<br /> +Delight more dear than words can tell,<br /> + Attend my +call!</p> +<h2><a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 38</span>ON HIS +DEAD SEA-MEW</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">FROM THE +GREEK</span></p> +<h3>I</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bird</span> of the graces, +dear sea-mew, whose note<br /> + Was like the halcyon’s +song,<br /> +In death thy wings and thy sweet spirit float<br /> + Still paths of the night +along!</p> +<h3>II<br /> +THE SAILOR’S GRAVE</h3> +<p class="poetry">Tomb of a shipwrecked seafarer am I,<br /> + But thou, sail on!<br /> +For homeward safe did other vessels fly,<br /> + Though we were gone.</p> +<h2><a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span>FROM +MELEAGER</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">love</span> not the +wine-cup, but if thou art fain<br /> + I should drink, do thou taste it, and bring it to +me;<br /> +If it touch but thy lips it were hard to refrain,<br /> + It were hard from the sweet maid who bears it to +flee;<br /> +For the cup ferries over the kisses, and plain<br /> + Does it speak of the grace that was given it by +thee.</p> +<h2><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span>ON THE +GARLAND SENT TO RHODOCLEIA</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">RUFINUS</span></p> +<h3>GOLDEN EYES</h3> +<p class="poetry">‘<span class="smcap">Ah</span>, Golden +Eyes, to win you yet,<br /> +I bring mine April coronet,<br /> +The lovely blossoms of the spring,<br /> +For you I weave, to you I bring<br /> +These roses with the lilies set,<br /> +The dewy dark-eyed violet,<br /> +Narcissus, and the wind-flower wet:<br /> +Wilt thou disdain mine offering?<br /> + + +Ah, Golden Eyes!</p> +<p class="poetry">Crowned with thy lover’s flowers, +forget<br /> +The pride wherein thy heart is set,<br /> +For thou, like these or anything,<br /> +Has but a moment of thy spring,<br /> +Thy spring, and then—the long regret!<br /> + + +Ah, Golden Eyes!’</p> +<h2><a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span>A +GALLOWAY GARLAND</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">We</span> know not, on +these hills of ours,<br /> + The fabled asphodel of Greece,<br /> +That filleth with immortal flowers<br /> + Fields where the heroes are at peace!<br /> + Not ours are myrtle buds like these<br /> +That breathe o’er isles where memories dwell<br /> + Of Sappho, in enchanted seas!</p> +<p class="poetry">We meet not, on our upland moor,<br /> + The singing Maid of Helicon,<br /> +You may not hear her music pure<br /> + Float on the mountain meres withdrawn;<br /> + The Muse of Greece, the Muse is gone!<br /> +But we have songs that please us well<br /> + And flowers we love to look upon.</p> +<p class="poetry">More sweet than Southern myrtles far<br /> + The bruised Marsh-myrtle breatheth keen;<br /> +<a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 42</span>Parnassus +names the flower, the star,<br /> + That shines among the well-heads green<br /> + The bright Marsh-asphodels between—<br /> +Marsh-myrtle and Marsh-asphodel<br /> + May crown the Northern Muse a queen</p> +<h2><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +43</span>CELIA’S EYES</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">PASTICHE</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Tell</span> me not that +babies dwell<br /> + In the deeps of Celia’s eyes;<br /> +Cupid in each hazel well<br /> + Scans his beauties with surprise,<br /> + And would, like Narcissus, +drown<br /> + In my Celia’s eyes of +brown.</p> +<p class="poetry">Tell me not that any goes<br /> + Safe by that enchanted place;<br /> +Eros dwells with Anteros<br /> + In the garden of her Face,<br /> + Where like friends who late were +foes<br /> + Meet the white and crimson +Rose.</p> +<h2><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +44</span>BRITANNIA</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">FROM JULES +LEMAÎTRE</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Thy</span> mouth is fresh +as cherries on the bough,<br /> + Red cherries in the dawning, and more white<br /> +Than milk or white camellias is thy brow;<br /> + And as the golden corn thy hair is bright,<br /> +The corn that drinks the Sun’s less fair than thou;<br /> +While through thine eyes the child-soul gazeth now—<br /> + Eyes like the flower that was Rousseau’s +delight.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sister of sad Ophelia, say, shall these<br /> +Thy pearly teeth grow like piano keys<br /> + Yellow and long; while thou, all skin and bone,<br +/> +Angles and morals, in a sky-blue veil,<br /> +Shalt hosts of children to the sermon hale,<br /> + Blare hymns, read chapters, backbite, and +intone?</p> +<h2><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +45</span>GALLIA</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Lady</span>, lady neat<br +/> + Of the roguish eye,<br /> + Wherefore dost thou hie,<br /> +Stealthy, down the street,<br /> +On well-booted feet?<br /> + From French novels I<br /> + Gather that you fly,<br /> +Guy or Jules to meet.</p> +<p class="poetry">Furtive dost thou range,<br /> +Oft thy cab dost change;<br /> + So, at least, ’tis said:<br /> +Oh, the sad old tale<br /> +Passionately stale,<br /> + We’ve so often read!</p> +<h2><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 46</span>THE +FAIRY MINISTER</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">The Rev. Mr. Kirk of Aberfoyle was +carried away by the Fairies in 1692.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">People</span> of Peace! a +peaceful man,<br /> + Well worthy of your love was he,<br /> +Who, while the roaring Garry ran<br /> + Red with the life-blood of Dundee,<br /> +While coats were turning, crowns were falling,<br /> + Wandered along his valley still,<br /> +And heard your mystic voices calling<br /> + From fairy knowe and haunted hill.<br /> +He heard, he saw, he knew too well<br /> + The secrets of your fairy clan;<br /> +You stole him from the haunted dell,<br /> + Who never more was seen of man.<br /> +Now far from heaven, and safe from hell,<br /> + Unknown of earth, he wanders free.<br /> +<a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>Would that +he might return and tell<br /> + Of his mysterious Company!<br /> +For we have tired the Folk of Peace;<br /> + No more they tax our corn and oil;<br /> +Their dances on the moorland cease,<br /> + The Brownie stints his wonted toil.<br /> +No more shall any shepherd meet<br /> + The ladies of the fairy clan,<br /> +Nor are their deathly kisses sweet<br /> + On lips of any earthly man.<br /> +And half I envy him who now,<br /> + Clothed in her Court’s enchanted green,<br /> +By moonlit loch or mountain’s brow<br /> + Is Chaplain to the Fairy Queen.</p> +<h2><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span>TO +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">WITH +KIRK’S ‘SECRET COMMONWEALTH’</span></p> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">Louis</span>! you that +like them maist,<br /> +Ye’re far frae kelpie, wraith, and ghaist,<br /> +And fairy dames, no unco chaste,<br /> + And haunted +cell.<br /> +Among a heathen clan ye’re placed,<br /> + That kensna +hell!</p> +<p class="poetry">Ye hae nae heather, peat, nor birks,<br /> +Nae trout in a’ yer burnies lurks,<br /> +There are nae bonny U.P. kirks,<br /> + An awfu’ +place!<br /> +Nane kens the Covenant o’ Works<br /> + Frae that +o’ Grace!</p> +<p class="poetry">But whiles, maybe, to them ye’ll read<br +/> +Blads o’ the Covenanting creed,<br /> +And whiles their pagan wames ye’ll feed<br /> + On halesome +parritch;<br /> +<a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 49</span>And syne +ye’ll gar them learn a screed<br /> + O’ the +Shorter Carritch.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet thae uncovenanted shavers<br /> +Hae rowth, ye say, o’ clash and clavers<br /> +O’ gods and etins—auld wives’ havers,<br /> + But their +delight;<br /> +The voice o’ him that tells them quavers<br /> + Just wi’ +fair fright.</p> +<p class="poetry">And ye might tell, ayont the faem,<br /> +Thae Hieland clashes o’ our hame<br /> +To speak the truth, I takna shame<br /> + To half believe +them;<br /> +And, stamped wi’ <i>Tusitala’s</i> name,<br /> + They’ll +a’ receive them.</p> +<p class="poetry">And folk to come ayont the sea<br /> +May hear the yowl o’ the Banshie,<br /> +And frae the water-kelpie flee,<br /> + Ere a’ +things cease,<br /> +And island bairns may stolen be<br /> + By the Folk +o’ Peace.</p> +<h2><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 50</span>FOR +MARK TWAIN’S JUBILEE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">To</span> brave Mark Twain, +across the sea,<br /> +The years have brought his jubilee;<br /> + One hears it half with pain,<br /> +That fifty years have passed and gone<br /> +Since danced the merry star that shone<br /> + Above the babe, Mark Twain!</p> +<p class="poetry">How many and many a weary day,<br /> +When sad enough were we, ‘Mark’s way’<br /> + (Unlike the Laureate’s Mark’s)<br /> +Has made us laugh until we cried,<br /> +And, sinking back exhausted, sighed,<br /> + Like Gargery, <i>Wot larx</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">We turn his pages, and we see<br /> +The Mississippi flowing free;<br /> + We turn again, and grin<br /> +<a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>O’er +all <i>Tom Sawyer</i> did and planned,<br /> +With him of the Ensanguined Hand,<br /> + With <i>Huckleberry Finn</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">Spirit of mirth, whose chime of bells<br /> +Shakes on his cap, and sweetly swells<br /> + Across the Atlantic main,<br /> +Grant that Mark’s laughter never die,<br /> +That men, through many a century,<br /> + May chuckle o’er Mark Twain!</p> +<h2><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span><span +class="GutSmall">III</span><br /> +POEMS<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">WRITTEN UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF +WORDSWORTH</span></h2> +<h3><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +55</span>MIST</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Mist</span>, though I love +thee not, who puttest down<br /> + Trout in the Lochs, (they feed not, as a rule,<br /> + At least on fly, in mere or river-pool<br /> +When fogs have fallen, and the air is lown,<br /> +And on each Ben, a pillow not a crown,<br /> + The fat folds rest,) thou, Mist, hast power to +cool<br /> + The blatant declamations of the fool<br /> +Who raves reciting through the heather brown.</p> +<p class="poetry">Much do I bar the matron, man, or lass<br /> + Who cries ‘How lovely!’ and who does not +spare<br /> +When light and shadow on the mountain pass,—<br /> + Shadow and light, and gleams exceeding fair,<br /> +O’er rock, and glade, and glen,—to shout, the Ass,<br +/> + To me, to me the Poet, ‘Oh, look +there!’</p> +<h3><a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +56</span>LINES</h3> +<p>Written under the influence of Wordsworth, with a slate-pencil +on a window of the dining-room at the Lowood Hotel, Windermere, +while waiting for tea, after being present at the Grasmere Sports +on a very wet day, and in consequence of a recent perusal of +<i>Belinda</i>, a Novel, by Miss Broughton, whose absence is +regretted.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">How</span> solemn is the +front of this Hotel,<br /> + When now the hills are swathed in modest mist,<br /> +And none can speak of scenery, nor tell<br /> + Of ‘tints of amber,’ or of +‘amethyst.’<br /> +Here once thy daughters, young Romance, did dwell,<br /> + Here <i>Sara</i> flirted with whoever list,<br /> +<i>Belinda</i> loved not wisely but too well,<br /> + And <i>Mr. Ford</i> played the Philologist!<br /> +<a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span>Haunted +the house is, and the balcony<br /> + Where that fond Matron knew her Lover near,<br /> +And here we sit, and wait for tea, and sigh,<br /> + While the sad rain sobs in the sullen mere,<br /> +And all our hearts go forth into the cry,<br /> + Would that the teller of the tale were here!</p> +<h3><a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +58</span>LINES</h3> +<p>Written on the window pane of a railway carriage after reading +an advertisement of sunlight soap, and <i>Poems</i>, by William +Wordsworth.</p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">passed</span> upon the +wings of Steam<br /> + Along Tay’s valley fair,<br /> +The book I read had such a theme<br /> + As bids the Soul despair.</p> +<p class="poetry">A tale of miserable men<br /> + Of hearts with doubt distraught,<br /> +Wherein a melancholy pen<br /> + With helpless problems fought.</p> +<p class="poetry">Where many a life was brought to dust,<br /> + And many a heart laid low,<br /> +And many a love was smirched with lust—<br /> + I raised mine eyes, and, oh!—</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +59</span>I marked upon a common wall,<br /> + These simple words of hope,<br /> +That mute appeal to one and all,<br /> + <i>Cheer up</i>! <i>Use Sunlight Soap</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">Our moral energies have range<br /> + Beyond their seeming scope,<br /> +How tonic were the words, how strange,<br /> + <i>Cheer up</i>! <i>Use Sunlight Soap</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Behold,’ I cried, ‘the inner +touch<br /> + That lifts the Soul through cares!’<br /> +I loved that Soap-boiler so much<br /> + I blessed him unawares!</p> +<p class="poetry">Perchance he is some vulgar man,<br /> + Engrossed in £ s. d.<br /> +But, ah! through Nature’s holy plan<br /> + He whispered hope to me!</p> +<h3><a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>ODE TO +GOLF</h3> +<p class="poetry">‘<span class="smcap">Delusive</span> +Nymph, farewell!’<br /> + How oft we’ve said or sung,<br /> +When balls evasive fell,<br /> +Or in the jaws of ‘Hell,’<br /> + Or salt sea-weeds among,<br /> +’Mid shingle and sea-shell!</p> +<p class="poetry">How oft beside the Burn,<br /> + We play the sad ‘two more’;<br /> +How often at the turn,<br /> +The heather must we spurn;<br /> + How oft we’ve ‘topped and +swore,’<br /> +In bent and whin and fern!</p> +<p class="poetry">Yes, when the broken head<br /> + Bounds further than the ball,<br /> +The heart has inly bled.<br /> +<a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span>Ah! and +the lips have said<br /> + Words we would fain recall—<br /> +Wild words, of passion bred!</p> +<p class="poetry">In bunkers all unknown,<br /> + Far beyond ‘Walkinshaw,<br /> +Where never ball had flown—<br /> +Reached by ourselves alone—<br /> + Caddies have heard with awe<br /> +The music of our moan!</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet, Nymph, if once alone,<br /> + The ball hath featly fled—<br /> +Not smitten from the bone—<br /> +That drive doth still atone;<br /> + And one long shot laid dead<br /> +Our grief to the winds hath blown!</p> +<p class="poetry">So, still beside the tee,<br /> + We meet in storm or calm,<br /> +Lady, and worship thee;<br /> +While the loud lark sings free,<br /> + Piping his matin psalm<br /> +Above the grey sad sea!</p> +<h3><a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +62</span>FRESHMAN’S TERM</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Return</span> again, thou +Freshman’s year,<br /> + When bloom was on the rye,<br /> +When breakfast came with bottled beer,<br /> + When Pleasure walked the High;<br +/> +When Torpid Bumps were more by far<br /> + To every opening mind<br /> +Than Trade, or Shares, or Peace, or War,<br /> + To senior humankind;<br /> +When ribbons of outrageous hues<br /> + Were worn with honest pride,<br /> +When much was talked of boats and crews,<br /> + When Proctors were defied:<br /> +When Tick was in its early bloom,<br /> + When Schools were far away,<br /> +As vaguely distant as the tomb,<br /> + Nor more regarded—they!<br +/> +<a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span>When arm +was freely linked with arm<br /> + Beneath the College limes,<br /> +When Sunday grinds possessed a charm<br /> + Denied to <i>College +Rhymes</i>:<br /> +When ices were in much request<br /> + Beside the April fire,<br /> +When men were very strangely dressed<br /> + By Standen or by Prior.<br /> +Return, ye Freshman’s Terms! They <i>do</i><br /> + Return, and much the same,<br /> +To boys, who, just like me and you,<br /> + Play the absurd old game!</p> +<h3><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 64</span>A +TOAST</h3> +<p>Kate Kennedy is the Patron Saint of St. Leonard’s and +St. Salvator. Her history is quite unknown.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> learned are all +‘in a swither,’<br /> + (They don’t very often +agree,)<br /> +They know not her ‘whence’ nor her +‘whither,’<br /> +The Maiden we drink to together,<br /> + The College’s Kate +Kennedie!</p> +<p class="poetry">Did she shine in days early or later?<br /> + Did she ever achieve a degree?<br +/> +Was she pretty or plain? Did she mate, or<br /> +Live lonely? And who was the <i>pater</i><br /> + Of mystical Kate Kennedie?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +65</span>The learned may scorn her and scout her,<br /> + But true to her colours are +<i>we</i>,<br /> +The learned may mock her and flout her,<br /> +But surely we’ll rally about her,<br /> + In the College that stands by the +Sea!</p> +<p class="poetry">So here’s to her memory! here to<br /> + The mystical Maiden drink we,<br +/> +We pledge her, and we’ll persevere too,<br /> +Though the reason is not very clear to<br /> + The critical mind, nor to +<i>me</i>.<br /> +Here’s to Kate! she’s our own, and she’s dear +to<br /> + The College that stands by the +Sea.</p> +<h3><a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>DEATH +IN JUNE</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">FOR +CRICKETERS ONLY</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>June is the month of +Suicides</i></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Why</span> do we slay +ourselves in June,<br /> + When life, if ever, seems so sweet?<br /> +When “Moon,” and “tune,” and +“afternoon,”<br /> + And other happy rhymes we meet,<br /> +When strawberries are coming soon?<br /> + Why do we do it?’ you repeat!</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, careless butterfly, to thee<br /> + The strawberry seems passing good;<br /> +And sweet, on Music’s wings, to flee<br /> + Amid the waltzing multitude,<br /> +And revel late—perchance till three—<br /> + For Love is monarch of thy mood!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +67</span>Alas! to <i>us</i> no solace shows<br /> + For sorrows we endure—at Lord’s,<br /> +When Oxford’s bowling <i>always</i> goes<br /> + For ‘fours,’ for ever to the +cords—<br /> +Or more, perhaps, with ‘overthrows’;—<br /> + These things can pierce the heart like swords!</p> +<p class="poetry">And thus it is though woods are green,<br /> + Though mayflies down the Test are rolling,<br /> +Though sweet, the silver showers between,<br /> + The finches sing in strains consoling,<br /> +We cut our throats for very spleen,<br /> + And very shame of Oxford’s bowling!</p> +<h3><a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 68</span>TO +CORRESPONDENTS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">My</span> Postman, though I +fear thy tread,<br /> + And tremble as thy foot draws nearer,<br /> +’Tis not the Christmas Dun I dread,<br /> + <i>My</i> mortal foe is much severer,—<br /> +The Unknown Correspondent, who,<br /> + With undefatigable pen,<br /> +And nothing in the world to do,<br /> + Perplexes literary men.</p> +<p class="poetry">From Pentecost and Ponder’s End<br /> + They write: from Deal, and from Dacotah,<br /> +The people of the Shetlands send<br /> + No inconsiderable quota;<br /> +They write for <i>autographs</i>; in vain,<br /> + In vain does Phyllis write, and Flora,<br /> +They write that Allan Quatermain<br /> + Is not at all the book for Brora.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +69</span>They write to say that they have met<br /> + This writer ‘at a garden party,<br /> +And though’ this writer ‘<i>may</i> forget,’<br +/> + <i>Their</i> recollection’s keen and +hearty.<br /> +‘And will you praise in your reviews<br /> + A novel by our distant cousin?’<br /> +These letters from Provincial Blues<br /> + Assail us daily by the dozen!</p> +<p class="poetry">O friends with time upon your hands,<br /> + O friends with postage-stamps in plenty,<br /> +O poets out of many lands,<br /> + O youths and maidens under twenty,<br /> +Seek out some other wretch to bore,<br /> + Or wreak yourselves upon your neighbours,<br /> +And leave me to my dusty lore<br /> + And my unprofitable labours!</p> +<h3><a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +70</span>BALLADE OF DIFFICULT RHYMES</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">With</span> certain rhymes +’tis hard to deal;<br /> + For ‘silver’ we have ne’er a +rhyme.<br /> +On ‘orange’ (as on orange peel)<br /> + The bard has slipped full many a time.<br /> +With ‘babe’ there’s scarce a sound will +chime,<br /> + Though ‘astrolabe’ fits like a glove;<br +/> +But, ye that on Parnassus climb,<br /> + Why, why are rhymes so rare to <i>Love</i>?</p> +<p class="poetry">A rhyme to ‘cusp,’ to beg or +steal,<br /> + I’ve sought, from evensong to prime,<br /> +But vain is my poetic zeal,<br /> + There’s not one sound is worth a +‘dime’:<br /> +‘Bilge,’ ‘coif,’ ‘scarf,’ +‘window’—deeds of crime<br /> + I’d do to gain the rhymes thereof;<br /> +Nor shrink from acts of moral grime—<br /> + Why, why are rhymes so rare to <i>Love</i>?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +71</span>To ‘dove’ my fancies flit, and wheel<br /> + Like butterflies on banks of thyme.<br /> +‘Above’?—or ‘shove’—alas! I +feel,<br /> + They’re too much used to be sublime.<br /> +I scorn with angry pantomime,<br /> + The thought of ‘move’ (pronounced as +<i>muv</i>).<br /> +Ah, in Apollo’s golden clime<br /> + Why, why are rhymes so rare to <i>Love</i>?</p> +<h4>ENVOI</h4> +<p class="poetry">Prince of the lute and lyre, reveal<br /> + New rhymes, fresh minted, from above,<br /> +Nor still be deaf to our appeal.<br /> + Why, <i>why</i> are rhymes so rare to +<i>Love</i>?</p> +<h3><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +72</span>BALLANT O’ BALLANTRAE</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">TO ROBERT +LOUIS STEVENSON</span></p> +<p>Written in wet weather, this conveyed to the Master of +Ballantrae a wrong idea of a very beautiful and charming place, +with links, a river celebrated by Burns, good sea-fishing, and, +on the river, a ruined castle at every turn of the stream. +‘Try Ballantrae’ is a word of wisdom.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Whan</span> suthern wunds +gar spindrift flee<br /> +Abune the clachan, faddums hie,<br /> +Whan for the cluds I canna see<br /> + The bonny +lift,<br /> +I’d fain indite an Ode to <i>thee</i><br /> + Had I the +gift!</p> +<p class="poetry">Ken ye the coast o’ wastland Ayr?<br /> +Oh mon, it’s unco bleak and bare!<br /> +Ye daunder here, ye daunder there,<br /> + And mak’ +your moan,<br /> +They’ve rain and wund eneuch to tear<br /> + The suthern +cone!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +73</span>Ye’re seekin’ sport! There’s +nane ava’,<br /> +Ye’ll sit and glower ahint the wa’<br /> +At bleesin’ breakers till ye staw,<br /> + If that’s +yer wush;<br /> +‘There’s aye the Stinchar.’ Hoot +awa’,<br /> + She wunna +fush!</p> +<p class="poetry">She wunna fush at ony gait,<br /> +She’s roarin’ reid in wrathfu’ spate;<br /> +Maist like yer kimmer when ye’re late<br /> + Frae Girvan +Fair!<br /> +Forbye to speer for leave I’m blate<br /> + For +fushin’ there!</p> +<p class="poetry">O Louis, you that writes in Scots,<br /> +Ye’re far awa’ frae stirks and stots,<br /> +Wi’ drookit hurdies, tails in knots,<br /> + An unco way!<br +/> +<i>My</i> mirth’s like thorns aneth the pots<br /> + In +Ballantrae!</p> +<h3><a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 74</span>SONG +BY THE SUB-CONSCIOUS SELF</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">RHYMES MADE +IN A DREAM</span></p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">know</span> not what my +secret is,<br /> + I know but it is mine;<br /> +I know to dwell with it were bliss,<br /> + To die for it divine.<br /> +I cannot yield it in a kiss,<br /> + Nor breathe it in a sigh.<br /> +I know that I have lived for this;<br /> + For this, my love, I die.</p> +<h3><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>THE +HAUNTED HOMES OF ENGLAND</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> Haunted Homes of +England,<br /> + How eerily they stand,<br /> +While through them flit their ghosts—to wit,<br /> + The Monk with the Red Hand,<br /> +The Eyeless Girl—an awful spook—<br /> + To stop the boldest breath,<br /> +The boy that inked his copybook,<br /> + And so got ‘wopped’ to death!</p> +<p class="poetry">Call them not shams—from haunted +Glamis<br /> + To haunted Woodhouselea,<br /> +I mark in hosts the grisly ghosts<br /> + I hear the fell Banshie!<br /> +I know the spectral dog that howls<br /> + Before the death of Squires;<br /> +In my ‘Ghosts’-guide’ addresses hide<br /> + For Podmore and for Myers!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +76</span>I see the Vampire climb the stairs<br /> + From vaults below the church;<br /> +And hark! the Pirate’s spectre swears!<br /> + O Psychical Research,<br /> +Canst <i>thou</i> not hear what meets my ear,<br /> + The viewless wheels that come?<br /> +The wild Banshie that wails to thee?<br /> + The Drummer with his drum?</p> +<p class="poetry">O Haunted Homes of England,<br /> + Though tenantless ye stand,<br /> +With none content to pay the rent,<br /> + Through all the shadowy land,<br /> +Now, Science true will find in you<br /> + A sympathetic perch,<br /> +And take you all, both Grange and Hall,<br /> + For Psychical Research!</p> +<h3><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 77</span>THE +DISAPPOINTMENT</h3> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">house</span> I took, and +many a spook<br /> + Was deemed to haunt that House,<br /> +I bade the glum Researchers come<br /> + With Bogles to carouse.<br /> +That House I’d sought with anxious thought,<br /> + ’Twas old, ’twas dark as sin,<br /> +And <i>deeds of bale</i>, so ran the tale,<br /> + Had oft been done therein.</p> +<p class="poetry">Full many a child its mother wild,<br /> + Men said, had strangled there,<br /> +Full many a sire, in heedless ire,<br /> + Had slain his daughter fair!<br /> +’Twas rarely let: I can’t forget<br /> + A recent tenant’s dread,<br /> +This widow lone had heard a moan<br /> + Proceeding from her bed.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +78</span>The tenants next were chiefly vexed<br /> + By spectres grim and grey.<br /> +A Headless Ghost annoyed them most,<br /> + And so they did not stay.<br /> +The next in turn saw corpse lights burn,<br /> + And also a Banshie,<br /> +A spectral Hand they could not stand,<br /> + And left the House to me.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then came my friends for divers ends,<br /> + Some curious, some afraid;<br /> +No direr pest disturbed their rest<br /> + Than a neat chambermaid.<br /> +The grisly halls were gay with balls,<br /> + One melancholy nook<br /> +Where ghosts <i>galore</i> were seen before<br /> + Now yielded ne’er a spook.</p> +<p class="poetry">When man and maid, all unafraid,<br /> + ‘Sat out’ upon the stairs,<br /> +No spectre dread, with feet of lead,<br /> + Came past them unawares.<br /> +<a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span>I know not +why, but alway I<br /> + Have found that it is so,<br /> +That when the glum Researchers come<br /> + The brutes of bogeys—go!</p> +<h3><a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span>TO THE +GENTLE READER</h3> +<blockquote><p>‘A French writer (whom I love well) speaks +of three kinds of companions,—men, women, and +books.’</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Sir John +Davys</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Three</span> kinds of +companions, men, women, and books,<br /> +Were enough, said the elderly Sage, for his ends.<br /> +And the women we deem that he chose for their looks,<br /> +And the men for their cellars: the books were his friends:<br /> +‘Man delights me not,’ often, ‘nor +woman,’ but books<br /> +Are the best of good comrades in loneliest nooks.</p> +<p class="poetry">For man will be wrangling—for woman will +fret<br /> +About anything infinitesimal small:<br /> +Like the Sage in our Plato, I’m ‘anxious to get<br /> +On the side’—on the sunnier side—‘of a +wall.’<br /> +<a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>Let the +wind of the world toss the nations like rooks,<br /> +If only you’ll leave me at peace with my Books.</p> +<p class="poetry">And which are my books? why, ’tis much as +you please,<br /> +For, given ’tis a book, it can hardly be wrong,<br /> +And Bradshaw himself I can study with ease,<br /> +Though for choice I might call for a Sermon or Song;<br /> +And Locker on London, and Sala on Cooks,<br /> +‘Tom Brown,’ and Plotinus, they’re all of them +Books.</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s Fielding to lap one in currents +of mirth;<br /> +There’s Herrick to sing of a flower or a fay;<br /> +Or good Maître Françoys to bring one to earth,<br /> +If Shelley or Coleridge have snatched one away:<br /> +There’s Müller on Speech, there is Gurney on +Spooks,<br /> +There is Tylor on Totems, there’s all sorts of Books.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +82</span>There’s roaming in regions where every one’s +been,<br /> +Encounters where no one was ever before,<br /> +There’s ‘Leaves’ from the Highlands we owe to +the Queen,<br /> +There’s Holly’s and Leo’s adventures in +Kôr:<br /> +There’s Tanner who dwelt with Pawnees and Chinooks,<br /> +You can cover a great deal of country in Books.</p> +<p class="poetry">There are books, highly thought of, that nobody +reads,<br /> +There is Geusius’ dearly delectable tome<br /> +Of the Cannibal—he on his neighbour who feeds—<br /> +And in blood-red morocco ’tis bound, by Derome;<br /> +There’s Montaigne here (a Foppens), there’s Roberts +(on Flukes),<br /> +There’s Elzevirs, Aldines, and Gryphius’ Books.</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s Bunyan, there’s Walton, in +early editions,<br /> +There’s many a quarto uncommonly rare;<br /> +<a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +83</span>There’s quaint old Quevedo adream with his +visions,<br /> +There’s Johnson the portly, and Burton the spare;<br /> +There’s Boston of Ettrick, who preached of the +‘Crooks<br /> +In the Lots’ of us mortals, who bargain for Books.</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s Ruskin to keep one exclaiming +‘What next?’<br /> +There’s Browning to puzzle, and Gilbert to chaff,<br /> +And Marcus Aurelius to soothe one if vexed,<br /> +And good <span class="smcap">Marcus Tvainus</span> to lend you a +laugh;<br /> +There be capital tomes that are filled with fly-hooks,<br /> +And I’ve frequently found them the best kind of Books.</p> +<h3><a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>THE +SONNET</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Poet</span>, beware! +The sonnet’s primrose path<br /> + Is all too tempting for thy feet to tread.<br /> + Not on this journey shalt thou earn thy bread,<br /> +Because the sated reader roars in wrath:<br /> +‘Little indeed to say the singer hath,<br /> + And little sense in all that he hath said;<br /> + Such rhymes are lightly writ but hardly read,<br /> +And naught but stubble is his aftermath!’</p> +<p class="poetry">Then shall he cast that bonny book of thine<br +/> + Where the extreme waste-paper basket gapes,<br /> +There shall thy futile fancies peak and pine,<br /> + With other minor poets, pallid shapes,<br /> +Who come a long way short of the divine,<br /> + Tormented souls of imitative apes.</p> +<h3><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>THE +TOURNAY OF THE HEROES</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ho</span>, warders, cry a +tournay! ho, heralds, call the knights!<br /> +What gallant lance for old Romance ’gainst modern fiction +fights?<br /> +The lists are set, the Knights are met, I ween, a dread array,<br +/> +St. Chad to shield, a stricken field shall we behold to-day!<br +/> +First to the Northern barriers pricks Roland of Roncesvaux,<br /> +And by his side, in knightly pride, Wilfred of Ivanhoe,<br /> +The Templar rideth by his rein, two gallant foes were they;<br /> +And proud to see, <i>le brave Bussy</i> his colours doth +display.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +86</span>Ready at need he comes with speed, William of +Deloraine,<br /> +And Hereward the Wake himself is pricking o’er the +plain.<br /> +The good knight of La Mancha’s here, here is Sir Amyas +Leigh,<br /> +And Eric of the gold hair, pride of Northern chivalry.<br /> +There shines the steel of Alan Breck, the sword of Athos +shines,<br /> +Dalgetty on Gustavus rides along the marshalled lines,<br /> +With many a knight of sunny France the Cid has marched from +Spain,<br /> +And Götz the Iron-handed leads the lances of Almain.</p> +<p class="poetry">But who upon the Modern side are +champions? With the sleeve<br /> +Adorned of his false lady-love, rides glorious David Grieve,<br +/> +<a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>A +bookseller sometime was he, in a provincial town,<br /> +But now before his iron mace go horse and rider down.<br /> +Ho, Robert Elsmere! count thy beads; lo, champion of the fray,<br +/> +With brandished colt, comes Felix Holt, all of the Modern day.<br +/> +And Silas Lapham’s six-shooter is cocked: the +Colonel’s spry!<br /> +There spurs the wary Egoist, defiance in his eye;<br /> +There Zola’s ragged regiment comes, with dynamite in +hand,<br /> +And Flaubert’s crew of country doctors devastate the +land.<br /> +On Robert Elsmere Friar Tuck falls with his quarter-staff,<br /> +<i>Nom Dé</i>! to see the clerics fight might make the +sourest laugh!<br /> +They meet, they shock, full many a knight is smitten on the +crown,<br /> +<a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>So keep us +good St. Geneviève, Umslopogaas is down!<br /> +About the mace of David Grieve his blood is flowing red,<br /> +Alas for ancient chivalry, <i>le brave Bussy</i> is sped!<br /> +Yet where the sombre Templar rides the Modern caitiffs fly,<br /> +The Mummer (of <i>The Mummer’s Wife</i>) has got it in the +eye,<br /> +From Felix Holt his patent Colt hath not averted fate,<br /> +And Silas Lapham’s smitten fair, right through his gallant +pate.<br /> +There Dan Deronda reels and falls, a hero sore surprised;<br /> +<i>Ha</i>, <i>Beauséant</i>! still may such fate befall +the Circumcised!<br /> +The Egoist is flying fast from him of Ivanhoe:<br /> +Beneath the axe of Skalagrim fall prigs at every blow:<br /> +The ragged Zolaists have fled, screaming ‘<i>We are +betrayed</i>,’<br /> +<a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 89</span>But loyal +Alan Breck is shent, stabbed through the Stuart plaid;<br /> +In sooth it is a grimly sight, so fast the heroes fall,<br /> +Three volumes fell could scarcely tell the fortunes of them +all.<br /> +At length but two are left on ground, and David Grieve is one.<br +/> +<i>Ma foy</i>, what deeds of derring-do that bookseller hath +done!<br /> +The other, mark the giant frame, the great portentous fist!<br /> +’Tis Porthos! David Grieve may call on Kuenen an he +list.<br /> +The swords are crossed; <i>Doublez</i>, <i>dégagez</i>, +<i>vite</i>! great Porthos calls,<br /> +And David drops, that secret <i>botte</i> hath pierced his +overalls!<br /> +And goodly Porthos, as of old the famed Orthryades,<br /> +Raises the trophy of the fight, then falling on his knees,<br /> +<a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>He writes +in gore upon his shield, ‘Romance, Romance, has +won!’<br /> +And blood-red on that stricken field goes down the angry sun.<br +/> +Night falls upon the field of death, night on the darkling +lea:<br /> +Oh send us such a tournay soon, and send me there to see!</p> +<h3><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>BALLAD +OF THE PHILANTHROPIST</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Pomona</span> Road and +Gardens, N.,<br /> +Were pure as they were fair—<br /> +In other districts much I fear,<br /> +That vulgar language shocks the ear,<br /> +But brawling wives or noisy men<br /> +Were never heard of <i>there</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">No burglar fixed his dread abode<br /> +In that secure retreat,<br /> +There were no public-houses nigh,<br /> +But chapels low and churches high,<br /> +You might have thought Pomona Road<br /> +A quite ideal beat!</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet that was not at all the view<br /> +Taken by B. 13.<br /> +That active and intelligent<br /> +Policeman deemed that he was meant<br /> +<a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 92</span>Profound +detective deeds to do,<br /> +And that repose was mean.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now there was nothing to detect<br /> +Pomona Road along—<br /> +None faked a cly, nor cracked a crib,<br /> +Nor prigged a wipe, nor told a fib,—<br /> +Minds cultivated and select<br /> +Slip rarely into wrong!</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus bored to desolation went<br /> +The Peeler on his beat;<br /> +He know not Love, he did not care,<br /> +If Love be born on mountains bare;<br /> +Nay, crime to punish, or prevent,<br /> +Was more than dalliance sweet!</p> +<p class="poetry">The weary wanderer, day by day,<br /> +Was marked by Howard Fry—<br /> +A neighbouring philanthropist,<br /> +Who saw what that Policeman missed—<br /> +A sympathetic ‘Well-a-day’<br /> +He’d moan, and pipe his eye.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +93</span>‘What <i>can</i> I do,’ asked Howard Fry,<br +/> +‘To soothe that brother’s pain?<br /> +His glance when first we met was keen,<br /> +Most martial and erect his mien’<br /> +(What mien may mean, I know not I)<br /> +‘But <i>he</i> must joy again.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I’ll start on a career of +crime,<br /> +I will,’ said Howard Fry—<br /> +He spake and acted! Deeds of bale<br /> +(With which I do not stain my tale)<br /> +He wrought like mad time after time,<br /> +Yet wrought them blushfully.</p> +<p class="poetry">And now when ’buses night by night<br /> +Were stopped, conductors slain,<br /> +When youths and men, and maids unwed,<br /> +Were stabbed or knocked upon the head,<br /> +Then B. 13 grew sternly bright,<br /> +And was himself again!</p> +<p class="poetry">Pomona Road and Gardens, N.,<br /> +Are now a name of fear.<br /> +<a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 94</span>Commercial +travellers flee in haste,<br /> +Revolvers girt about the waist<br /> +Are worn by city gentlemen<br /> +Who have their mansions near.</p> +<p class="poetry">But B. 13 elated goes,<br /> +Detection in his eye;<br /> +While Howard Fry does deeds of bale<br /> +(With which I do not stain my tale)<br /> +To lighten that Policeman’s woes,<br /> +But does them blushfully.</p> +<h4>MORAL</h4> +<p class="poetry">Such is Philanthropy, my friends,<br /> +Too often such her plan,<br /> +She shoots, and stabs, and robs, and flings<br /> +Bombs, and all sorts of horrid things.<br /> +Ah, not to serve her private ends,<br /> +But for the good of Man!</p> +<h2><a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 95</span>NEIGES +D’ANTAN</h2> +<h3><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span>IN +ERCILDOUNE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> light of sunrise +and sunsetting,<br /> +The long days lingered, in forgetting<br /> +That ever passion, keen to hold<br /> +What may not tarry, was of old<br /> +Beyond the doubtful stream whose flood<br /> +Runs red waist-high with slain men’s blood.</p> +<p class="poetry">Was beauty once a thing that died?<br /> +Was pleasure never satisfied?<br /> +Was rest still broken by the vain<br /> +Desire of action, bringing pain,<br /> +To die in vapid rest again?<br /> +All this was quite forgotten, there<br /> +No winter brought us cold and care,<br /> +Nor spring gave promise unfulfilled,<br /> +Nor, with the heavy summer killed,<br /> +The languid days droop autumnwards.<br /> +So magical a season guards<br /> +<a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 98</span>The +constant prime of a green June.<br /> +So slumbrous is the river’s tune,<br /> +That knows no thunder of rushing rains,<br /> +Nor ever in the summer wanes,<br /> +Like waters of the summer-time<br /> +In lands far from the fairy clime.</p> +<p class="poetry">Alas! no words can bring the bloom<br /> +Of Fairyland, the lost perfume.<br /> +The sweet low light, the magic air,<br /> +To minds of who have not been there:<br /> +Alas! no words, nor any spell<br /> +Can lull the heart that knows too well<br /> +The towers that by the river stand,<br /> +The lost fair world of Fairyland.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, would that I had never been<br /> +The lover of the Fairy Queen.<br /> +Or would that I again might be<br /> +Asleep below the Eildon Tree,<br /> +And see her ride the forest way<br /> +As on that morning of the May!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +99</span>Or would that through the little town,<br /> +The grey old place of Ercildoune,<br /> +And all along the sleepy street<br /> +The soft fall of the white deer’s feet<br /> +Came, with the mystical command,<br /> +That I must back to Fairy Land!</p> +<h3><a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 100</span>FOR +A ROSE’S SAKE</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">FRENCH +FOLK-SONG</span></p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">laved</span> my hands<br +/> + By the water-side,<br /> +With willow leaves<br /> + My hands I dried.</p> +<p class="poetry">The nightingale sang<br /> + On the bough of a tree,<br /> +Sing, sweet nightingale,<br /> + It is well with thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou hast heart’s delight,<br /> + I have sad heart’s sorrow,<br /> +For a false false maid<br /> + That will wed to-morrow.</p> +<p class="poetry">It is all for a rose<br /> + That I gave her not,<br /> +<a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 101</span>And I +would that it grew<br /> + In the garden plot,</p> +<p class="poetry">And I would the rose-tree<br /> + Were still to set,<br /> +That my love Marie<br /> + Might love me yet!</p> +<h3><a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 102</span>THE +BRIGAND’S GRAVE</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">MODERN +GREEK</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> moon came up +above the hill,<br /> + The sun went down the sea,<br /> +‘Go, maids, and draw the well-water,<br /> + But, lad, come here to me.</p> +<p class="poetry">Gird on my jack, and my old sword,<br /> + For I have never a son,<br /> +And you must be the chief of all<br /> + When I am dead and gone.</p> +<p class="poetry">But you must take my old broadsword,<br /> + And cut the green boughs of the tree,<br /> +And strew the green boughs on the ground,<br /> + To make a soft death-bed for me.</p> +<p class="poetry">And you must bring the holy priest,<br /> + That I may sainèd be,<br /> +<a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 103</span>For I +have lived a roving life<br /> + Fifty years under the greenwood tree.</p> +<p class="poetry">And you shall make a grave for me,<br /> + And dig it deep and wide,<br /> +That I may turn about and dream<br /> + With my old gun by my side.</p> +<p class="poetry">And leave a window to the east<br /> + And the swallows will bring the spring,<br /> +And all the merry month of May<br /> + The nightingales will sing.’</p> +<h3><a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 104</span>THE +NEW-LIVERIED YEAR</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">FROM CHARLES +D’ORLÉANS</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> year has changed +his mantle cold<br /> + Of wind, of rain, of bitter air,<br /> +And he goes clad in cloth of gold<br /> + Of laughing suns and season fair;<br /> +No bird or beast of wood or wold<br /> + But doth in cry or song declare<br /> +‘The year has changed his mantle cold!’<br /> +All founts, all rivers seaward rolled<br /> + Their pleasant summer livery +wear<br /> + With silver studs on broidered +vair,<br /> +The world puts off its raiment old,<br /> +The year has changed his mantle cold.</p> +<h3><a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 105</span>MORE +STRONG THAN DEATH</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">FROM VICTOR +HUGO</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Since</span> I have set my +lips to your full cup, my sweet,<br /> +Since I my pallid face between your hands have laid,<br /> +Since I have known your soul and all the bloom of it,<br /> +And all the perfume rare, now buried in the shade,</p> +<p class="poetry">Since it was given to me to hear one happy +while<br /> +The words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries,<br /> +Since I have seen you weep, and since I have seen you smile,<br +/> +Your lips upon my lips, and your eyes upon my eyes;</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +106</span>Since I have known above my forehead glance and +gleam,<br /> +A ray, a single ray of your star veiled always,<br /> +Since I have felt the fall upon my lifetime’s stream<br /> +Of one rose-petal plucked from the roses of your days;</p> +<p class="poetry">I now am bold to say to the swift-changing +hours,<br /> +Pass, pass upon your way, for I grow never old.<br /> +Fleet to the dark abyss with all your fading flowers,<br /> +One rose that none may pluck within my heart I hold.</p> +<p class="poetry">Your flying wings may smite, but they can never +spill<br /> +The cup fulfilled of love from which my lips are wet,<br /> +My heart has far more fire than you have frost to chill.<br /> +My soul more love than you can make my soul forget.</p> +<h3><a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +107</span>SILENTIA LUNAE</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">FROM +RONSARD</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Hide</span> this one night +thy crescent, kindly Moon,<br /> + So shall Endymion faithful prove, +and rest<br /> + Loving and unawakened on thy +breast;<br /> +So shall no foul enchanter importune<br /> +Thy quiet course, for now the night is boon,<br /> + And through the friendly night +unseen I fare<br /> + Who dread the face of foemen +unaware,<br /> +And watch of hostile spies in the bright noon.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou know’st, O Moon, the bitter power of +Love.<br /> +’Tis told how shepherd Pan found ways to move<br /> + With a small gift thy heart; and +of your grace,<br /> +Sweet stars, be kind to this not alien fire,<br /> +Because on earth ye did not scorn desire,<br /> + Bethink ye, now ye hold your +heavenly place.</p> +<h3><a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 108</span>HIS +LADY’S TOMB</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">FROM +RONSARD</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">As</span> in the gardens, +all through May, the Rose,<br /> + Lovely, and young, and rich +apparelled,<br /> + Makes sunrise jealous of her rosy +red,<br /> +When dawn upon the dew of dawning glows;<br /> + Graces and Loves within her breast repose,<br /> + The woods are faint with the sweet +odour shed,<br /> + Till rains and heavy suns have +smitten dead<br /> +The languid flower and the loose leaves unclose,—</p> +<p class="poetry">So this, the perfect beauty of our days,<br /> +When heaven and earth were vocal of her praise,<br /> + The fates have slain, and her +sweet soul reposes:<br /> +And tears I bring, and sighs, and on her tomb<br /> +Pour milk, and scatter buds of many a bloom,<br /> + That, dead as living, Rose may be +with roses.</p> +<h3><a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 109</span>THE +POET’S APOLOGY</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">No</span>, the Muse has +gone away,<br /> +Does not haunt me much to-day.<br /> +Everything she had to say<br /> + + +Has been said!<br /> +’Twas not much at any time<br /> +She could hitch into a rhyme,<br /> +Never was the Muse sublime,<br /> + + +Who has fled!</p> +<p class="poetry">Any one who takes her in<br /> +May observe she’s rather thin;<br /> +Little more than bone and skin<br /> + + +Is the Muse;<br /> +Scanty sacrifice she won<br /> +When her very best she’d done,<br /> +And at her they poked their fun,<br /> + + +In Reviews.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +110</span>‘Rhymes,’ in truth, ‘are stubborn +things.’<br /> +And to Rhyme she clung, and clings,<br /> +But whatever song she sings<br /> + + +Scarcely sells.<br /> +If her tone be grave, they say<br /> +‘Give us something rather gay.’<br /> +If she’s skittish, then they pray<br /> + + +‘Something else!’</p> +<p class="poetry">Much she loved, for wading shod,<br /> +To go forth with line and rod,<br /> +Loved the heather, and the sod,<br /> + + +Loved to rest<br /> +On the crystal river’s brim<br /> +Where she saw the fishes swim,<br /> +And she heard the thrushes’ hymn,<br /> + + +By the Test!</p> +<p class="poetry">She, whatever way she went,<br /> +Friendly was and innocent,<br /> +Little need the Bard repent<br /> + + +Of her lay.<br /> +<a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>Of the +babble and the rhyme,<br /> +And the imitative chime<br /> +That amused him on a time,—<br /> + + +Now he’s grey.</p> +<h2><a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +113</span>NOTES</h2> +<h3><a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 115</span>Page +1.</h3> +<p>Jeanne d’Arc is said to have led a Scottish force at +Lagny, when she defeated the Burgundian, Franquet +d’Arras. A Scottish artist painted her banner; he was +a James Polwarth, or a Hume of Polwarth, according to a +conjecture of Mr. Hill Burton’s. A monk of +Dunfermline, who continued Fordun’s Chronicle, avers that +he was with the Maiden in her campaigns, and at her +martyrdom. He calls her <i>Puella a spiritu sancto +excitata</i>. Unluckily his manuscript breaks off in the +middle of a sentence. At her trial, Jeanne said that she +had only once seen her own portrait: it was in the hands of a +Scottish archer. The story of the white dove which passed +from her lips as they opened to her last cry of <i>Jesus</i>! was +reported at the trial for her Rehabilitation (1450–56).</p> +<h3><a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 116</span>Page +2.<br /> +<i>One of that Name</i>.</h3> +<p>Two archers of the name of Lang, Lain, or Laing were in the +French service about 1507. See the book on the Scottish +Guard, by Father Forbes Leith, S. J.</p> +<h3><i>Thy Church unto the Maid Denies</i>.</h3> +<p>These verses were written, curiously enough, the day before +the Maiden was raised to the rank of ‘Venerable,’ a +step towards her canonisation, which, we trust, will not be long +delayed. It is not easy for any one to understand the whole +miracle of the life and death of Jeanne d’Arc, and the +absolutely unparalleled grandeur and charm of her character, +without studying the full records of both her trials, as +collected and published by M. Quicherat, for the +Société de l’Histoire de France.</p> +<h3>Page 4.<br /> +<i>How they held the Bass</i>.</h3> +<p>This story is versified from the account in <i>Memoirs of the +Rev. John Blackader</i>, by Andrew Crichton, <a +name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 117</span>Minister of +the Gospel. Second Edition. Edinburgh, 1826. +Dunbar was retained as a prisoner, when negotiations for +surrender, in 1691, were broken off by Middleton’s return +with supplies. Halyburton was, it seems, captured later, +and only escaped hanging by virtue of the terms extorted by +Middleton. Patrick Walker tells the tale of Peden and the +girl. Wodrow, in his <i>Analecta</i>, has the story of the +Angel, or other shining spiritual presence, which is removed from +its context in the ballad. The sufferings from weak beer +are quoted in Mr. Blackader’s Memoirs. Mitchell was +the undeniably brave Covenanter who shot at Sharp, and hit the +Bishop of the Orkneys. He was tortured, and, by an act of +perjury (probably unconscious) on the part of Lauderdale, was +hanged. The sentiments of the poem are such as an old +cavalier, surviving to 1743, might perhaps have +entertained. ‘Wullie Wanbeard’ is a Jacobite +name for the Prince of Orange, perhaps invented only by the +post-Jacobite sentiment of the early nineteenth century.</p> +<h3>Page 44.<br /> +<i>Rousseau’s delight</i>.</h3> +<p>The <i>pervenche</i>, or periwinkle.</p> +<h3><a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 118</span>Page +64.</h3> +<p>One of the college bells of St. Salvator, mentioned by +Ferguson, is called ‘Kate Kennedy’; the heroine is +unknown, but Bishop Kennedy founded the College. +‘Kate Kennedy’s Day’ was a kind of carnival, +probably a survival from that festivity.</p> +<h3>Page 77.<br /> +<i>The Disappointment</i>.</h3> +<p>As a matter of fact the Haunted House Committee of the Society +for Psychical Research have never succeeded in seeing a +ghost.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> + +<div class="gapmediumline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">Printed by T. and A. <span +class="smcap">Constable</span>, Printers to Her Majesty,<br /> +at the Edinburgh University Press</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BAN AND ARRIERE BAN***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 1855-h.htm or 1855-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/5/1855 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +This etext was prepared by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk +from the 1894 Longmans, Green and Co. edition. + + + + + +Ban and Arriere Ban--A Rally of Fugitive Rhymes + + + + +Contents + +Dedication +A Scot to Jeanne d'Arc +How they held the Bass for King James +Three portraits of Prince Charles +From Omar Khayyam +Aesop +Les Roses de Sadi +The Haunted Tower +Boat-song +Lost Love +The Promise of Helen +The Restoration of Romance +Central American Antiquities in South Kensington Museum +On Calais Sands +Ballade of Yule +Poscimur +On his Dead Sea-Mew +From Meleager +On the Garland Sent to Rhodocleia +A Galloway Garland +Celia's Eyes +Britannia +Gallia +The Fairy Minister +To Robert Louis Stevenson +For Mark Twain's Jubilee +Poems Written under the Influence of Wordsworth + Mist + Lines + Lines + Ode to Golf + Freshman's Term + A toast + Death in June + To Correspondents + Ballade of Difficult Rhymes + Ballant o'Ballantrae + Song by the Sub-Conscious Self + The Haunted Homes of England + The Disappointment + To the Gentle Reader + The Sonnet + The Tournay of the Heroes + Ballad of the Philanthropist +Neiges d'Antan + In Ercildoune + For a Rose's Sake + The Brigand's Grave + The New-Liveried Year + More Strong than Death + Silentia Lunae + His Lady's Tomb + The Poet's Apology +Notes + + + +DEDICATION: TO ELEANOR CHARLOTTE SELLAR + + + +'Ban and Arriere Ban!' a host +Broken, beaten, all unled, +They return as doth a ghost +From the dead. + +Sad or glad my rallied rhymes, +Sought our dusty papers through, +For the sake of other times +Come to you. + +Times and places new we know, +Faces fresh and seasons strange +But the friends of long ago +Do not change. + + + +ERRATUM: Reader, a blot hath escaped the watchfulness of the +setter forth: if thou wilt thou mayst amend it. The sonnet on the +forty-fourth page, against all right Italianate laws, hath but +thirteen lines withal: add another to thy liking, if thou art a +Maker; or, if thou art none, even be content with what is set +before thee. If it be scant measure, be sure it is choicely good. + + + +A SCOT TO JEANNE D'ARC + + + +Dark Lily without blame, +Not upon us the shame, +Whose sires were to the Auld Alliance true, +They, by the Maiden's side, +Victorious fought and died, +One stood by thee that fiery torment through, +Till the White Dove from thy pure lips had passed, +And thou wert with thine own St. Catherine at the last. + +Once only didst thou see +In artist's imagery, +Thine own face painted, and that precious thing +Was in an Archer's hand +From the leal Northern land. +Alas, what price would not thy people bring +To win that portrait of the ruinous +Gulf of devouring years that hide the Maid from us! + +Born of a lowly line, +Noteless as once was thine, +One of that name I would were kin to me, +Who, in the Scottish Guard +Won this for his reward, +To fight for France, and memory of thee: +Not upon us, dark Lily without blame, +Not on the North may fall the shadow of that shame. + +On France and England both +The shame of broken troth, +Of coward hate and treason black must be; +If England slew thee, France +Sent not one word, one lance, +One coin to rescue or to ransom thee. +And still thy Church unto the Maid denies +The halo and the palms, the Beatific prize. + +But yet thy people calls +Within the rescued walls +Of Orleans; and makes its prayer to thee; +What though the Church have chidden +These orisons forbidden, +Yet art thou with this earth's immortal Three, +With him in Athens that of hemlock died, +And with thy Master dear whom the world crucified. + + + +HOW THEY HELD THE BASS FOR KING JAMES--1691-1693 + + + +[Time of Narrating--1743] + +Ye hae heard Whigs crack o' the Saints in the Bass, my faith, a +gruesome tale; +How the Remnant paid at a tippeny rate, for a quart o' ha'penny +ale! +But I'll tell ye anither tale o' the Bass, that'll hearten ye up to +hear, +Sae I pledge ye to Middleton first in a glass, and a health to the +Young Chevalier! + +The Bass stands frae North Berwick Law a league or less to sea, +About its feet the breakers beat, abune the sea-maws flee, +There's castle stark and dungeon dark, wherein the godly lay, +That made their rant for the Covenant through mony a weary day. +For twal' years lang the caverns rang wi' preaching, prayer, and +psalm, +Ye'd think the winds were soughing wild, when a' the winds were +calm, +There wad they preach, each Saint to each, and glower as the +soldiers pass, +And Peden wared his malison on a bonny leaguer lass, +As she stood and daffed, while the warders laughed, and wha sae +blithe as she, +But a wind o' ill worked his warlock will, and flang her out to +sea. +Then wha sae bright as the Saints that night, and an angel came, +say they, +And sang in the cell where the Righteous dwell, but he took na a +Saint away. +There yet might they be, for nane could flee, and nane daur'd break +the jail, +And still the sobbing o' the sea might mix wi' their warlock wail, +But then came in black echty-echt, and bluidy echty-nine, +Wi' Cess, and Press, and Presbytery, and a' the dule sin' syne, +The Saints won free wi' the power o' the key, and cavaliers maun +pine! +It was Halyburton, Middleton, and Roy and young Dunbar, +That Livingstone took on Cromdale haughs, in the last fight of the +war: +And they were warded in the Bass, till the time they should be +slain, +Where bluidy Mitchell, and Blackader, and Earlston lang had lain; +Four lads alone, 'gainst a garrison, but Glory crowns their names, +For they brought it to pass that they took the Bass, and they held +it for King James! + +It isna by preaching half the night, ye'll burst a dungeon door, +It wasna by dint o' psalmody they broke the hold, they four, +For lang years three that rock in the sea bade Wullie Wanbeard gae +swing, +And England and Scotland fause may be, but the Bass Rock stands for +the King! + +There's but ae pass gangs up the Bass, it's guarded wi' strong +gates four, +And still as the soldiers went to the sea, they steikit them, door +by door, +And this did they do when they helped a crew that brought their +coals on shore. +Thither all had gone, save three men alone: then Middleton gripped +his man, +Halyburton felled the sergeant lad, Dunbar seized the gunner, Swan; +Roy bound their hands, in hempen bands, and the Cavaliers were +free. +And they trained the guns on the soldier loons that were down wi' +the boat by the sea! +Then Middleton cried frae the high cliff-side, and his voice garr'd +the auld rocks ring, +'Will ye stand or flee by the land or sea, for I hold the Bass for +the King?' + +They had nae desire to face the fire; it was mair than men might +do, +So they e'en sailed back in the auld coal-smack, a sorry and shame- +faced crew, +And they hirpled doun to Edinburgh toun, wi' the story of their +shames, +How the prisoners bold had broken hold, and kept the Bass for King +James. + +King James he has sent them guns and men, and the Whigs they guard +the Bass, +But they never could catch the Cavaliers, who took toll of ships +that pass, +They fared wild and free as the birds o' the sea, and at night they +went on the wing, +And they lifted the kye o' Whigs far and nigh, and they revelled +and drank to the King. + +Then Wullie Wanbeard sends his ships to siege the Bass in form, +And first shall they break the fortress down, and syne the Rock +they'll storm. +After twa days' fight they fled in the night, and glad eneuch to +go, +With their rigging rent, and their powder spent, and many a man +laid low. + +So for lang years three did they sweep the sea, but a closer watch +was set, +Till nae food had they, but twa ounce a day o' meal was the maist +they'd get. +And men fight but tame on an empty wame, so they sent a flag o' +truce, +And blithe were the Privy Council then, when the Whigs had heard +that news. +Twa Lords they sent wi' a strang intent to be dour on each +Cavalier, +But wi' French cakes fine, and his last drap o' wine, did Middleton +make them cheer, +On the muzzles o' guns he put coats and caps, and he set them aboot +the wa's, +And the Whigs thocht then he had food and men to stand for the +Rightfu' Cause. +So he got a' he craved, and his men were saved, and nane might say +them nay, +Wi' sword by side, and flag o' pride, free men might they gang +their way, +They might fare to France, they might bide at hame, and the better +their grace to buy, +Wullie Wanbeard's purse maun pay the keep o' the men that did him +defy! + +Men never hae gotten sic terms o' peace since first men went to +war, +As got Halyburton, and Middleton, and Roy, and the young Dunbar. +Sae I drink to ye here, To the Young Chevalier! I hae said ye an +auld man's say, +And there may hae been mightier deeds of arms, but there never was +nane sae gay! + + + +THREE PORTRAITS OF PRINCE CHARLES + + + +1731 + +Beautiful face of a child, +Lighted with laughter and glee, +Mirthful, and tender, and wild, +My heart is heavy for thee! + +1744 + +Beautiful face of a youth, +As an eagle poised to fly forth, +To the old land loyal of truth, +To the hills and the sounds of the North: +Fair face, daring and proud, +Lo! the shadow of doom, even now, +The fate of thy line, like a cloud, +Rests on the grace of thy brow! + +1773 + +Cruel and angry face, +Hateful and heavy with wine, +Where are the gladness, the grace, +The beauty, the mirth that were thine? + +Ah, my Prince, it were well,-- +Hadst thou to the gods been dear, - +To have fallen where Keppoch fell, +With the war-pipe loud in thine ear! +To have died with never a stain +On the fair White Rose of Renown, +To have fallen, fighting in vain, +For thy father, thy faith, and thy crown! +More than thy marble pile, +With its women weeping for thee, +Were to dream in thine ancient isle, +To the endless dirge of the sea! +But the Fates deemed otherwise, +Far thou sleepest from home, +From the tears of the Northern skies, +In the secular dust of Rome. + +* * * + +A city of death and the dead, +But thither a pilgrim came, +Wearing on weary head +The crowns of years and fame: +Little the Lucrine lake +Or Tivoli said to him, +Scarce did the memories wake +Of the far-off years and dim. +For he stood by Avernus' shore, +But he dreamed of a Northern glen +And he murmured, over and o'er, +'For Charlie and his men:' +And his feet, to death that went, +Crept forth to St. Peter's shrine, +And the latest Minstrel bent +O'er the last of the Stuart line. + + + +FROM OMAR KHAYYAM + + + +[Rhymed from the prose version of Mr. Justin Huntly M'Carthy] + +The Paradise they bid us fast to win +Hath Wine and Women; is it then a sin +To live as we shall live in Paradise, +And make a Heaven of Earth, ere Heaven begin? + +The wise may search the world from end to end, +From dusty nook to dusty nook, my friend, +And nothing better find than girls and wine, +Of all the things they neither make nor mend. + +Nay, listen thou who, walking on Life's way, +Hast seen no lovelock of thy love's grow grey +Listen, and love thy life, and let the Wheel +Of Heaven go spinning its own wilful way. + +Man is a flagon, and his soul the wine, +Man is a lamp, wherein the Soul doth shine, +Man is a shaken reed, wherein that wind, +The Soul, doth ever rustle and repine. + +Each morn I say, to-night I will repent, +Repent! and each night go the way I went - +The way of Wine; but now that reigns the rose, +Lord of Repentance, rage not, but relent. + +I wish to drink of wine--so deep, so deep - +The scent of wine my sepulchre shall steep, +And they, the revellers by Omar's tomb, +Shall breathe it, and in Wine shall fall asleep. + +Before the rent walls of a ruined town +Lay the King's skull, whereby a bird flew down +'And where,' he sang, 'is all thy clash of arms? +Where the sonorous trumps of thy renown?' + + + +AESOP + + + +He sat among the woods, he heard +The sylvan merriment: he saw +The pranks of butterfly and bird, +The humours of the ape, the daw. + +And in the lion or the frog - +In all the life of moor and fen, +In ass and peacock, stork and dog, +He read similitudes of men. + +'Of these, from those,' he cried, 'we come, +Our hearts, our brains descend from these.' +And lo! the Beasts no more were dumb, +But answered out of brakes and trees: + +'Not ours,' they cried; 'Degenerate, +If ours at all,' they cried again, +'Ye fools, who war with God and Fate, +Who strive and toil: strange race of men. + +'For WE are neither bond nor free, +For WE have neither slaves nor kings, +But near to Nature's heart are we, +And conscious of her secret things. + +'Content are we to fall asleep, +And well content to wake no more, +We do not laugh, we do not weep, +Nor look behind us and before; + +'But were there cause for moan or mirth, +'Tis WE, not you, should sigh or scorn, +Oh, latest children of the Earth, +Most childish children Earth has borne.' + +* * * + +They spoke, but that misshapen slave +Told never of the thing he heard, +And unto men their portraits gave, +In likenesses of beast and bird! + + + +LES ROSES DE SADI + + + +This morning I vowed I would bring thee my Roses, +They were thrust in the band that my bodice encloses, +But the breast-knots were broken, the Roses went free. +The breast-knots were broken; the Roses together +Floated forth on the wings of the wind and the weather, +And they drifted afar down the streams of the sea. + +And the sea was as red as when sunset uncloses, +But my raiment is sweet from the scent of the Roses, +Thou shalt know, Love, how fragrant a memory can be. + + + +THE HAUNTED TOWER + + + +[Suggested by a poem of Theophile Gautier] + +In front he saw the donjon tall +Deep in the woods, and stayed to scan +The guards that slept along the wall, +Or dozed upon the bartizan. +He marked the drowsy flag that hung +Unwaved by wind, unfrayed by shower, +He listened to the birds that sung +Go forth and win the haunted tower! +The tangled brake made way for him, +The twisted brambles bent aside; +And lo, he pierced the forest dim, +And lo, he won the fairy bride! +For HE was young, but ah! we find, +All we, whose beards are flecked with grey, +Our fairy castle's far behind, +We watch it from the darkling way: +'Twas ours, that palace, in our youth, +We revelled there in happy cheer: +Who scarce dare visit now in sooth, +Le Vieux Chateau de Souvenir! +For not the boughs of forest green +Begird that castle far away, +There is a mist where we have been +That weeps about it, cold and grey. +And if we seek to travel back +'Tis through a thicket dim and sere, +With many a grave beside the track, +And many a haunting form of fear. +Dead leaves are wet among the moss, +With weed and thistle overgrown - +A ruined barge within the fosse, +A castle built of crumbling stone! +The drawbridge drops from rusty chains, +There comes no challenge from the hold; +No squire, nor dame, nor knight remains, +Of all who dwelt with us of old. +And there is silence in the hall +No sound of songs, no ray of fire; +But gloom where all was glad, and all +Is darkened with a vain desire. +And every picture's fading fast, +Of fair Jehanne, or Cydalise. +Lo, the white shadows hurrying past, +Below the boughs of dripping trees! + +* * * + +Ah rise, and march, and look not back, +Now the long way has brought us here; +We may not turn and seek the track +To the old Chateau de Souvenir! + + + +BOAT-SONG + + + +Adrift, with starlit skies above, +With starlit seas below, +We move with all the suns that move, +With all the seas that flow: +For, bond or free, earth, sky, and sea, +Wheel with one central will, +And thy heart drifteth on to me, +And only Time stands still. + +Between two shores of death we drift, +Behind are things forgot, +Before, the tide is racing swift +To shores man knoweth not. +Above, the sky is far and cold, +Below, the moaning sea +Sweeps o'er the loves that were of old, +But thou, Love, love thou me. + +Ah, lonely are the ocean ways, +And dangerous the deep, +And frail the fairy barque that strays +Above the seas asleep. +Ah, toil no more with helm or oar, +We drift, or bond or free, +On yon far shore the breakers roar, +But thou, Love, love thou me! + + + +LOST LOVE + + + +Who wins his Love shall lose her, +Who loses her shall gain, +For still the spirit woos her, +A soul without a stain; +And Memory still pursues her +With longings not in vain! + +He loses her who gains her, +Who watches day by day +The dust of time that stains her, +The griefs that leave her grey, +The flesh that yet enchains her +Whose grace hath passed away! + +Oh, happier he who gains not +The Love some seem to gain: +The joy that custom stains not +Shall still with him remain, +The loveliness that wanes not, +The Love that ne'er can wane. + +In dreams she grows not older +The lands of Dream among, +Though all the world wax colder, +Though all the songs be sung, +In dreams doth he behold her +Still fair and kind and young. + + + +THE PROMISE OF HELEN + + + +Whom hast thou longed for most, +True love of mine? +Whom hast thou loved and lost? +Lo, she is thine! + +She that another wed +Breaks from her vow; +She that hath long been dead +Wakes for thee now. + +Dreams haunt the hapless bed, +Ghosts haunt the night, +Life crowns her living head, +Love and Delight. + +Nay, not a dream nor ghost, +Nay, but Divine, +She that was loved and lost +Waits to be thine! + + + +THE RESTORATION OF ROMANCE. +TO H. R. H., R. L. S., A. C. D., AND S. W. + + + +King Romance was wounded deep, +All his knights were dead and gone, +All his court was fallen on sleep, +In a vale of Avalon! +Nay, men said, he will not come, +Any night or any morn. +Nay, his puissant voice is dumb, +Silent his enchanted horn! + +King Romance was forfeited, +Banished from his Royal home, +With a price upon his head, +Driven with sylvan folk to roam. +King Romance is fallen, banned, +Cried his foemen overbold, +Broken is the wizard wand, +All the stories have been told! + +Then you came from South and North, +From Tugela, from the Tweed, +Blazoned his achievements forth, +King Romance is come indeed! +All his foes are overthrown, +All their wares cast out in scorn, +King Romance hath won his own, +And the lands where he was born! + +Marsac at adventure rides, +Felon men meet felon scathe, +Micah Clarke is taking sides +For King Monmouth and the Faith; +For a Cause or for a lass +Men are willing to be slain, +And the dungeons of the Bass +Hold a prisoner again. + +King Romance with wand of gold +Sways the realms he ruled of yore. +Hills Dalgetty roamed of old, +Valleys of enchanted Kor: +Waves his sceptre o'er the isles, +Claims the pirates' treasuries, +Through innumerable miles +Of the siren-haunted seas! + +Elfin folk of coast and cave, +Laud him in the woven dance, +All the tribes of wold and wave +Bow the knee to King Romance! +Wand'ring voices Chaucer knew +On the mountain and the main, +Cry the haunted forest through, +KING ROMANCE HAS COME AGAIN! + + + +CENTRAL AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES IN SOUTH KENSINGTON MUSEUM + + + +'Youth and crabbed age +Cannot live together;' +So they say. + +On this little page +See you when and whether +That they may. + +Age was very old - +Stones from Chichimec +Hardly wrung; + +Youth had hair of gold +Knotted on her neck - +Fair and young! + +Age was carved with odd +Slaves, and priests that slew them - +God and Beast; + +Man and Beast and God - +There she sat and drew them, +King and Priest! + +There she sat and drew +Many a monstrous head +And antique; + +Horrors from Peru, +HUACAS doubly dead, +Dead cacique! + +Ere Pizarro came +These were lords of men +Long ago; + +Gods without a name, +Born or how or when, +None may know! + +Now from Yucatan +These doth Science bear +Over seas; + +And methinks a man +Finds youth doubly fair, +Sketching these! + + + +ON CALAIS SANDS + + + +On Calais Sands the grey began, +Then rosy red above the grey, +The morn with many a scarlet van +Leap'd, and the world was glad with May! +The little waves along the bay +Broke white upon the shelving strands; +The sea-mews flitted white as they +On Calais Sands! + +On Calais Sands must man with man +Wash honour clean in blood to-day; +On spaces wet from waters wan +How white the flashing rapiers play, +Parry, riposte! and lunge! The fray +Shifts for a while, then mournful stands +The Victor: life ebbs fast away +On Calais Sands! + +On Calais Sands a little space +Of silence, then the plash and spray, +The sound of eager waves that ran +To kiss the perfumed locks astray, +To touch these lips that ne'er said 'Nay,' +To dally with the helpless hands; +Till the deep sea in silence lay +On Calais Sands! + +Between the lilac and the may +She waits her love from alien lands; +Her love is colder than the clay +On Calais Sands! + + + +BALLADE OF YULE + + + +This life's most jolly, Amiens said, +Heigh-ho, the Holly! So sang he. +As the good Duke was comforted +In forest exile, so may we! +The years may darken as they flee, +And Christmas bring his melancholy: +But round the old mahogany tree +We drink, we sing Heigh-ho, the Holly! + +Though some are dead and some are fled +To lands of summer over sea, +The holly berry keeps his red, +The merry children keep their glee; +They hoard with artless secresy +This gift for Maude, and that for Molly, +And Santa Claus he turns the key +On Christmas Eve, Heigh-ho, the Holly! + +Amid the snow the birds are fed, +The snow lies deep on lawn and lea, +The skies are shining overhead, +The robin's tame that was so free. +Far North, at home, the 'barley bree' +They brew; they give the hour to folly, +How 'Rab and Allan cam to pree,' +They sing, we sing Heigh-ho, the Holly! + +ENVOI + +Friend, let us pay the wonted fee, +The yearly tithe of mirth: be jolly! +It is a duty so to be, +Though half we sigh, Heigh-ho, the Holly! + + + +POSCIMUR--FROM HORACE + + + +Hush, for they call! If in the shade, +My lute, we twain have idly strayed, +And song for many a season made, +Once more reply; +Once more we'll play as we have played, +My lute and I! + +Roman the song: the strain you know, +The Lesbian wrought it long ago. +Now singing as he charged the foe, +Now in the bay, +Where safe in the shore-water's flow +His galleys lay. + +So sang he Bacchus and the Nine, +And Venus and her boy divine, +And Lycus of the dusky eyne, +The dusky hair; +So shalt thou sing, ah, Lute of mine, +Of all things fair; + +Apollo's glory! Sounding shell, +Thou lute, to Jove desirable, +When soft thine accents sigh and swell +At festival - +Delight more dear than words can tell, +Attend my call! + + + +ON HIS DEAD SEA-MEW +FROM THE GREEK + + + +I + +Bird of the graces, dear sea-mew, whose note +Was like the halcyon's song, +In death thy wings and thy sweet spirit float +Still paths of the night along! + +II + +THE SAILOR'S GRAVE + +Tomb of a shipwrecked seafarer am I, +But thou, sail on! +For homeward safe did other vessels fly, +Though we were gone. + + + +FROM MELEAGER + + + +I love not the wine-cup, but if thou art fain +I should drink, do thou taste it, and bring it to me; +If it touch but thy lips it were hard to refrain, +It were hard from the sweet maid who bears it to flee; +For the cup ferries over the kisses, and plain +Does it speak of the grace that was given it by thee. + + + +ON THE GARLAND SENT TO RHODOCLEIA--RUFINUS + + + +GOLDEN EYES + +'Ah, Golden Eyes, to win you yet, +I bring mine April coronet, +The lovely blossoms of the spring, +For you I weave, to you I bring +These roses with the lilies set, +The dewy dark-eyed violet, +Narcissus, and the wind-flower wet: +Wilt thou disdain mine offering? +Ah, Golden Eyes! + +Crowned with thy lover's flowers, forget +The pride wherein thy heart is set, +For thou, like these or anything, +Has but a moment of thy spring, +Thy spring, and then--the long regret! +Ah, Golden Eyes!' + + + +A GALLOWAY GARLAND + + + +We know not, on these hills of ours, +The fabled asphodel of Greece, +That filleth with immortal flowers +Fields where the heroes are at peace! +Not ours are myrtle buds like these +That breathe o'er isles where memories dwell +Of Sappho, in enchanted seas! + +We meet not, on our upland moor, +The singing Maid of Helicon, +You may not hear her music pure +Float on the mountain meres withdrawn; +The Muse of Greece, the Muse is gone! +But we have songs that please us well +And flowers we love to look upon. + +More sweet than Southern myrtles far +The bruised Marsh-myrtle breatheth keen; +Parnassus names the flower, the star, +That shines among the well-heads green +The bright Marsh-asphodels between - +Marsh-myrtle and Marsh-asphodel +May crown the Northern Muse a queen + + + +CELIA'S EYES--PASTICHE + + + +Tell me not that babies dwell +In the deeps of Celia's eyes; +Cupid in each hazel well +Scans his beauties with surprise, +And would, like Narcissus, drown +In my Celia's eyes of brown. + +Tell me not that any goes +Safe by that enchanted place; +Eros dwells with Anteros +In the garden of her Face, +Where like friends who late were foes +Meet the white and crimson Rose. + + + +BRITANNIA--FROM JULES LEMAITRE + + + +Thy mouth is fresh as cherries on the bough, +Red cherries in the dawning, and more white +Than milk or white camellias is thy brow; +And as the golden corn thy hair is bright, +The corn that drinks the Sun's less fair than thou; +While through thine eyes the child-soul gazeth now - +Eyes like the flower that was Rousseau's delight. + +Sister of sad Ophelia, say, shall these +Thy pearly teeth grow like piano keys +Yellow and long; while thou, all skin and bone, +Angles and morals, in a sky-blue veil, +Shalt hosts of children to the sermon hale, +Blare hymns, read chapters, backbite, and intone? + + + +GALLIA + + + +Lady, lady neat +Of the roguish eye, +Wherefore dost thou hie, +Stealthy, down the street, +On well-booted feet? +From French novels I +Gather that you fly, +Guy or Jules to meet. + +Furtive dost thou range, +Oft thy cab dost change; +So, at least, 'tis said: +Oh, the sad old tale +Passionately stale, +We've so often read! + + + +THE FAIRY MINISTER + + + +[The Rev. Mr. Kirk of Aberfoyle was carried away by the Fairies in +1692.] + +People of Peace! a peaceful man, +Well worthy of your love was he, +Who, while the roaring Garry ran +Red with the life-blood of Dundee, +While coats were turning, crowns were falling, +Wandered along his valley still, +And heard your mystic voices calling +From fairy knowe and haunted hill. +He heard, he saw, he knew too well +The secrets of your fairy clan; +You stole him from the haunted dell, +Who never more was seen of man. +Now far from heaven, and safe from hell, +Unknown of earth, he wanders free. +Would that he might return and tell +Of his mysterious Company! +For we have tired the Folk of Peace; +No more they tax our corn and oil; +Their dances on the moorland cease, +The Brownie stints his wonted toil. +No more shall any shepherd meet +The ladies of the fairy clan, +Nor are their deathly kisses sweet +On lips of any earthly man. +And half I envy him who now, +Clothed in her Court's enchanted green, +By moonlit loch or mountain's brow +Is Chaplain to the Fairy Queen. + + + +TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON +WITH KIRK'S 'SECRET COMMONWEALTH' + + + +O Louis! you that like them maist, +Ye're far frae kelpie, wraith, and ghaist, +And fairy dames, no unco chaste, +And haunted cell. +Among a heathen clan ye're placed, +That kensna hell! + +Ye hae nae heather, peat, nor birks, +Nae trout in a' yer burnies lurks, +There are nae bonny U.P. kirks, +An awfu' place! +Nane kens the Covenant o' Works +Frae that o' Grace! + +But whiles, maybe, to them ye'll read +Blads o' the Covenanting creed, +And whiles their pagan wames ye'll feed +On halesome parritch; +And syne ye'll gar them learn a screed +O' the Shorter Carritch. + +Yet thae uncovenanted shavers +Hae rowth, ye say, o' clash and clavers +O' gods and etins--auld wives' havers, +But their delight; +The voice o' him that tells them quavers +Just wi' fair fright. + +And ye might tell, ayont the faem, +Thae Hieland clashes o' our hame +To speak the truth, I takna shame +To half believe them; +And, stamped wi' Tusitala's name, +They'll a' receive them. + +And folk to come ayont the sea +May hear the yowl o' the Banshie, +And frae the water-kelpie flee, +Ere a' things cease, +And island bairns may stolen be +By the Folk o' Peace. + + + +FOR MARK TWAIN'S JUBILEE + + + +To brave Mark Twain, across the sea, +The years have brought his jubilee; +One hears it half with pain, +That fifty years have passed and gone +Since danced the merry star that shone +Above the babe, Mark Twain! + +How many and many a weary day, +When sad enough were we, 'Mark's way' +(Unlike the Laureate's Mark's) +Has made us laugh until we cried, +And, sinking back exhausted, sighed, +Like Gargery, Wot larx! + +We turn his pages, and we see +The Mississippi flowing free; +We turn again, and grin +O'er all Tom Sawyer did and planned, +With him of the Ensanguined Hand, +With Huckleberry Finn! + +Spirit of mirth, whose chime of bells +Shakes on his cap, and sweetly swells +Across the Atlantic main, +Grant that Mark's laughter never die, +That men, through many a century, +May chuckle o'er Mark Twain! + + + +MIST + + + +Mist, though I love thee not, who puttest down +Trout in the Lochs, (they feed not, as a rule, +At least on fly, in mere or river-pool +When fogs have fallen, and the air is lown, +And on each Ben, a pillow not a crown, +The fat folds rest,) thou, Mist, hast power to cool +The blatant declamations of the fool +Who raves reciting through the heather brown. + +Much do I bar the matron, man, or lass +Who cries 'How lovely!' and who does not spare +When light and shadow on the mountain pass,-- +Shadow and light, and gleams exceeding fair, +O'er rock, and glade, and glen,--to shout, the Ass, +To me, to me the Poet, 'Oh, look there!' + + + +LINES + + + +[Written under the influence of Wordsworth, with a slate-pencil on +a window of the dining-room at the Lowood Hotel, Windermere, while +waiting for tea, after being present at the Grasmere Sports on a +very wet day, and in consequence of a recent perusal of Belinda, a +Novel, by Miss Broughton, whose absence is regretted.] + +How solemn is the front of this Hotel, +When now the hills are swathed in modest mist, +And none can speak of scenery, nor tell +Of 'tints of amber,' or of 'amethyst.' +Here once thy daughters, young Romance, did dwell, +Here Sara flirted with whoever list, +Belinda loved not wisely but too well, +And Mr. Ford played the Philologist! +Haunted the house is, and the balcony +Where that fond Matron knew her Lover near, +And here we sit, and wait for tea, and sigh, +While the sad rain sobs in the sullen mere, +And all our hearts go forth into the cry, +Would that the teller of the tale were here! + + + +LINES + + + +[Written on the window pane of a railway carriage after reading an +advertisement of sunlight soap, and Poems, by William Wordsworth.] + +I passed upon the wings of Steam +Along Tay's valley fair, +The book I read had such a theme +As bids the Soul despair. + +A tale of miserable men +Of hearts with doubt distraught, +Wherein a melancholy pen +With helpless problems fought. + +Where many a life was brought to dust, +And many a heart laid low, +And many a love was smirched with lust - +I raised mine eyes, and, oh! - + +I marked upon a common wall, +These simple words of hope, +That mute appeal to one and all, +Cheer up! Use Sunlight Soap! + +Our moral energies have range +Beyond their seeming scope, +How tonic were the words, how strange, +Cheer up! Use Sunlight Soap! + +'Behold,' I cried, 'the inner touch +That lifts the Soul through cares! +I loved that Soap-boiler so much +I blessed him unawares! + +Perchance he is some vulgar man, +Engrossed in pounds s. d. +But, ah! through Nature's holy plan +He whispered hope to me! + + + +ODE TO GOLF + + + +'Delusive Nymph, farewell!' +How oft we've said or sung, +When balls evasive fell, +Or in the jaws of 'Hell,' +Or salt sea-weeds among, +'Mid shingle and sea-shell! + +How oft beside the Burn, +We play the sad 'two more'; +How often at the turn, +The heather must we spurn; +How oft we've 'topped and swore,' +In bent and whin and fern! + +Yes, when the broken head +Bounds further than the ball, +The heart has inly bled. +Ah! and the lips have said +Words we would fain recall - +Wild words, of passion bred! + +In bunkers all unknown, +Far beyond 'Walkinshaw, +Where never ball had flown - +Reached by ourselves alone - +Caddies have heard with awe +The music of our moan! + +Yet, Nymph, if once alone, +The ball hath featly fled - +Not smitten from the bone - +That drive doth still atone; +And one long shot laid dead +Our grief to the winds hath blown! + +So, still beside the tee, +We meet in storm or calm, +Lady, and worship thee; +While the loud lark sings free, +Piping his matin psalm +Above the grey sad sea! + + + +FRESHMAN'S TERM + + + +Return again, thou Freshman's year, +When bloom was on the rye, +When breakfast came with bottled beer, +When Pleasure walked the High; +When Torpid Bumps were more by far +To every opening mind +Than Trade, or Shares, or Peace, or War, +To senior humankind; +When ribbons of outrageous hues +Were worn with honest pride, +When much was talked of boats and crews, +When Proctors were defied: +When Tick was in its early bloom, +When Schools were far away, +As vaguely distant as the tomb, +Nor more regarded--they! +When arm was freely linked with arm +Beneath the College limes, +When Sunday grinds possessed a charm +Denied to College Rhymes: +When ices were in much request +Beside the April fire, +When men were very strangely dressed +By Standen or by Prior. +Return, ye Freshman's Terms! They DO +Return, and much the same, +To boys, who, just like me and you, +Play the absurd old game! + + + +A TOAST + + + +[Kate Kennedy is the Patron Saint of St. Leonard's and St. +Salvator. Her history is quite unknown.] + +The learned are all 'in a swither,' +(They don't very often agree,) +They know not her 'whence' nor her 'whither,' +The Maiden we drink to together, +The College's Kate Kennedie! + +Did she shine in days early or later? +Did she ever achieve a degree? +Was she pretty or plain? Did she mate, or +Live lonely? And who was the pater +Of mystical Kate Kennedie? + +The learned may scorn her and scout her, +But true to her colours are WE, +The learned may mock her and flout her, +But surely we'll rally about her, +In the College that stands by the Sea! + +So here's to her memory! here to +The mystical Maiden drink we, +We pledge her, and we'll persevere too, +Though the reason is not very clear to +The critical mind, nor to ME. +Here's to Kate! she's our own, and she's dear to +The College that stands by the Sea. + + + +DEATH IN JUNE--FOR CRICKETERS ONLY + + + +[June is the month of Suicides] + +Why do we slay ourselves in June, +When life, if ever, seems so sweet? +When "Moon," and "tune," and "afternoon," +And other happy rhymes we meet, +When strawberries are coming soon? +Why do we do it?' you repeat! + +Ah, careless butterfly, to thee +The strawberry seems passing good; +And sweet, on Music's wings, to flee +Amid the waltzing multitude, +And revel late--perchance till three - +For Love is monarch of thy mood! + +Alas! to US no solace shows +For sorrows we endure--at Lord's, +When Oxford's bowling ALWAYS goes +For 'fours,' for ever to the cords - +Or more, perhaps, with 'overthrows'; - +These things can pierce the heart like swords! + +And thus it is though woods are green, +Though mayflies down the Test are rolling, +Though sweet, the silver showers between, +The finches sing in strains consoling, +We cut our throats for very spleen, +And very shame of Oxford's bowling! + + + +TO CORRESPONDENTS + + + +My Postman, though I fear thy tread, +And tremble as thy foot draws nearer, +'Tis not the Christmas Dun I dread, +MY mortal foe is much severer, - +The Unknown Correspondent, who, +With undefatigable pen, +And nothing in the world to do, +Perplexes literary men. + +From Pentecost and Ponder's End +They write: from Deal, and from Dacotah, +The people of the Shetlands send +No inconsiderable quota; +They write for AUTOGRAPHS; in vain, +In vain does Phyllis write, and Flora, +They write that Allan Quatermain +Is not at all the book for Brora. + +They write to say that 'they have met +This writer 'at a garden party, +And though' this writer 'MAY forget,' +THEIR recollection's keen and hearty. +'And will you praise in your reviews +A novel by our distant cousin?' +These letters from Provincial Blues +Assail us daily by the dozen! + +O friends with time upon your hands, +O friends with postage-stamps in plenty, +O poets out of many lands, +O youths and maidens under twenty, +Seek out some other wretch to bore, +Or wreak yourselves upon your neighbours, +And leave me to my dusty lore +And my unprofitable labours! + + + +BALLADE OF DIFFICULT RHYMES + + + +With certain rhymes 'tis hard to deal; +For 'silver' we have ne'er a rhyme. +On 'orange' (as on orange peel) +The bard has slipped full many a time. +With 'babe' there's scarce a sound will chime, +Though 'astrolabe' fits like a glove; +But, ye that on Parnassus climb, +Why, why are rhymes so rare to LOVE? + +A rhyme to 'cusp,' to beg or steal, +I've sought, from evensong to prime, +But vain is my poetic zeal, +There's not one sound is worth a 'dime': +'Bilge,' 'coif,' 'scarf,' 'window'--deeds of crime +I'd do to gain the rhymes thereof; +Nor shrink from acts of moral grime - +Why, why are rhymes so rare to LOVE? + +To 'dove' my fancies flit, and wheel +Like butterflies on banks of thyme. +'Above'?--or 'shove'--alas! I feel, +They're too much used to be sublime. +I scorn with angry pantomime, +The thought of 'move' (pronounced as muv). +Ah, in Apollo's golden clime +Why, why are rhymes so rare to LOVE? + +ENVOI + +Prince of the lute and lyre, reveal +New rhymes, fresh minted, from above, +Nor still be deaf to our appeal. +Why, WHY are rhymes so rare to LOVE? + + + +BALLANT O' BALLANTRAE--TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + + + +[Written in wet weather, this conveyed to the Master of Ballantrae +a wrong idea of a very beautiful and charming place, with links, a +river celebrated by Burns, good sea-fishing, and, on the river, a +ruined castle at every turn of the stream. 'Try Ballantrae' is a +word of wisdom.] + +Whan suthern wunds gar spindrift flee +Abune the clachan, faddums hie, +Whan for the cluds I canna see +The bonny lift, +I'd fain indite an Ode to THEE +Had I the gift! + +Ken ye the coast o' wastland Ayr? +Oh mon, it's unco bleak and bare! +Ye daunder here, ye daunder there, +And mak' your moan, +They've rain and wund eneuch to tear +The suthern cone! + +Ye're seekin' sport! There's nane ava', +Ye'll sit and glower ahint the wa' +At bleesin' breakers till ye staw, +If that's yer wush; +'There's aye the Stinchar.' Hoot awa', +She wunna fush! + +She wunna fush at ony gait, +She's roarin' reid in wrathfu' spate; +Maist like yer kimmer when ye're late +Frae Girvan Fair! +Forbye to speer for leave I'm blate +For fushin' there! + +O Louis, you that writes in Scots, +Ye're far awa' frae stirks and stots, +Wi' drookit hurdies, tails in knots, +An unco way! +MY mirth's like thorns aneth the pots +In Ballantrae! + + + +SONG BY THE SUB-CONSCIOUS SELF--RHYMES MADE IN A DREAM + + + +I know not what my secret is, +I know but it is mine; +I know to dwell with it were bliss, +To die for it divine. +I cannot yield it in a kiss, +Nor breathe it in a sigh. +I know that I have lived for this; +For this, my love, I die. + + + +THE HAUNTED HOMES OF ENGLAND + + + +The Haunted Homes of England, +How eerily they stand, +While through them flit their ghosts--to wit, +The Monk with the Red Hand, +The Eyeless Girl--an awful spook - +To stop the boldest breath, +The boy that inked his copybook, +And so got 'wopped' to death! + +Call them not shams--from haunted Glamis +To haunted Woodhouselea, +I mark in hosts the grisly ghosts +I hear the fell Banshie! +I know the spectral dog that howls +Before the death of Squires; +In my 'Ghosts'-guide' addresses hide +For Podmore and for Myers! + +I see the Vampire climb the stairs +From vaults below the church; +And hark! the Pirate's spectre swears! +O Psychical Research, +Canst THOU not hear what meets my ear, +The viewless wheels that come? +The wild Banshie that wails to thee? +The Drummer with his drum? + +O Haunted Homes of England, +Though tenantless ye stand, +With none content to pay the rent, +Through all the shadowy land, +Now, Science true will find in you +A sympathetic perch, +And take you all, both Grange and Hall, +For Psychical Research! + + + +THE DISAPPOINTMENT + + + +A house I took, and many a spook +Was deemed to haunt that House, +I bade the glum Researchers come +With Bogles to carouse. +That House I'd sought with anxious thought, +'Twas old, 'twas dark as sin, +And deeds of bale, so ran the tale, +Had oft been done therein. + +Full many a child its mother wild, +Men said, had strangled there, +Full many a sire, in heedless ire, +Had slain his daughter fair! +'Twas rarely let: I can't forget +A recent tenant's dread, +This widow lone had heard a moan +Proceeding from her bed. + +The tenants next were chiefly vexed +By spectres grim and grey. +A Headless Ghost annoyed them most, +And so they did not stay. +The next in turn saw corpse lights burn, +And also a Banshie, +A spectral Hand they could not stand, +And left the House to me. + +Then came my friends for divers ends, +Some curious, some afraid; +No direr pest disturbed their rest +Than a neat chambermaid. +The grisly halls were gay with balls, +One melancholy nook +Where ghosts GALORE were seen before +Now yielded ne'er a spook. + +When man and maid, all unafraid, +'Sat out' upon the stairs, +No spectre dread, with feet of lead, +Came past them unawares. +I know not why, but alway I +Have found that it is so, +That when the glum Researchers come +The brutes of bogeys--go! + + + +TO THE GENTLE READER + + + +'A French writer (whom I love well) speaks of three kinds of +companions,--men, women, and books.'--Sir John Davys. + +Three kinds of companions, men, women, and books, +Were enough, said the elderly Sage, for his ends. +And the women we deem that he chose for their looks, +And the men for their cellars: the books were his friends: +'Man delights me not,' often, 'nor woman,' but books +Are the best of good comrades in loneliest nooks. + +For man will be wrangling--for woman will fret +About anything infinitesimal small: +Like the Sage in our Plato, I'm 'anxious to get +On the side'--on the sunnier side--'of a wall.' +Let the wind of the world toss the nations like rooks, +If only you'll leave me at peace with my Books. + +And which are my books? why, 'tis much as you please, +For, given 'tis a book, it can hardly be wrong, +And Bradshaw himself I can study with ease, +Though for choice I might call for a Sermon or Song; +And Locker on London, and Sala on Cooks, +'Tom Brown,' and Plotinus, they're all of them Books. + +There's Fielding to lap one in currents of mirth; +There's Herrick to sing of a flower or a fay; +Or good Maitre Francoys to bring one to earth, +If Shelley or Coleridge have snatched one away: +There's Muller on Speech, there is Gurney on Spooks, +There is Tylor on Totems, there's all sorts of Books. + +There's roaming in regions where every one's been, +Encounters where no one was ever before, +There's 'Leaves' from the Highlands we owe to the Queen, +There's Holly's and Leo's adventures in Kor: +There's Tanner who dwelt with Pawnees and Chinooks, +You can cover a great deal of country in Books. + +There are books, highly thought of, that nobody reads, +There is Geusius' dearly delectable tome +Of the Cannibal--he on his neighbour who feeds - +And in blood-red morocco 'tis bound, by Derome; +There's Montaigne here (a Foppens), there's Roberts (on Flukes), +There's Elzevirs, Aldines, and Gryphius' Books. + +There's Bunyan, there's Walton, in early editions, +There's many a quarto uncommonly rare; +There's quaint old Quevedo adream with his visions, +There's Johnson the portly, and Burton the spare; +There's Boston of Ettrick, who preached of the 'Crooks +In the Lots' of us mortals, who bargain for Books. + +There's Ruskin to keep one exclaiming 'What next?' +There's Browning to puzzle, and Gilbert to chaff, +And Marcus Aurelius to soothe one if vexed, +And good MARCUS TVAINUS to lend you a laugh; +There be capital tomes that are filled with fly-hooks, +And I've frequently found them the best kind of Books. + + + +THE SONNET + + + +Poet, beware! The sonnet's primrose path +Is all too tempting for thy feet to tread. +Not on this journey shalt thou earn thy bread, +Because the sated reader roars in wrath: +'Little indeed to say the singer hath, +And little sense in all that he hath said; +Such rhymes are lightly writ but hardly read, +And naught but stubble is his aftermath!' + +Then shall he cast that bonny book of thine +Where the extreme waste-paper basket gapes, +There shall thy futile fancies peak and pine, +With other minor poets, pallid shapes, +Who come a long way short of the divine, +Tormented souls of imitative apes. + + + +THE TOURNAY OF THE HEROES + + + +Ho, warders, cry a tournay! ho, heralds, call the knights! +What gallant lance for old Romance 'gainst modern fiction fights? +The lists are set, the Knights are met, I ween, a dread array, +St. Chad to shield, a stricken field shall we behold to-day! +First to the Northern barriers pricks Roland of Roncesvaux, +And by his side, in knightly pride, Wilfred of Ivanhoe, +The Templar rideth by his rein, two gallant foes were they; +And proud to see, le brave Bussy his colours doth display. + +Ready at need he comes with speed, William of Deloraine, +And Hereward the Wake himself is pricking o'er the plain. +The good knight of La Mancha's here, here is Sir Amyas Leigh, +And Eric of the gold hair, pride of Northern chivalry. +There shines the steel of Alan Breck, the sword of Athos shines, +Dalgetty on Gustavus rides along the marshalled lines, +With many a knight of sunny France the Cid has marched from Spain, +And Gotz the Iron-handed leads the lances of Almain. + +But who upon the Modern side are champions? With the sleeve +Adorned of his false lady-love, rides glorious David Grieve, +A bookseller sometime was he, in a provincial town, +But now before his iron mace go horse and rider down. +Ho, Robert Elsmere! count thy beads; lo, champion of the fray, +With brandished colt, comes Felix Holt, all of the Modern day. +And Silas Lapham's six-shooter is cocked: the Colonel's spry! +There spurs the wary Egoist, defiance in his eye; +There Zola's ragged regiment comes, with dynamite in hand, +And Flaubert's crew of country doctors devastate the land. +On Robert Elsmere Friar Tuck falls with his quarter-staff, +Nom De! to see the clerics fight might make the sourest laugh! +They meet, they shock, full many a knight is smitten on the crown, +So keep us good St. Genevieve, Umslopogaas is down! +About the mace of David Grieve his blood is flowing red, +Alas for ancient chivalry, le brave Bussy is sped! +Yet where the sombre Templar rides the Modern caitiffs fly, +The Mummer (of The Mummer's Wife) has got it in the eye, +From Felix Holt his patent Colt hath not averted fate, +And Silas Lapham's smitten fair, right through his gallant pate. +There Dan Deronda reels and falls, a hero sore surprised; +Ha, Beauseant! still may such fate befall the Circumcised! +The Egoist is flying fast from him of Ivanhoe: +Beneath the axe of Skalagrim fall prigs at every blow: +The ragged Zolaists have fled, screaming 'We are betrayed,' +But loyal Alan Breck is shent, stabbed through the Stuart plaid; +In sooth it is a grimly sight, so fast the heroes fall, +Three volumes fell could scarcely tell the fortunes of them all. +At length but two are left on ground, and David Grieve is one. +Ma foy, what deeds of derring-do that bookseller hath done! +The other, mark the giant frame, the great portentous fist! +'Tis Porthos! David Grieve may call on Kuenen an he list. +The swords are crossed; Doublez, degagez, vite! great Porthos +calls, +And David drops, that secret botte hath pierced his overalls! +And goodly Porthos, as of old the famed Orthryades, +Raises the trophy of the fight, then falling on his knees, +He writes in gore upon his shield, 'Romance, Romance, has won!' +And blood-red on that stricken field goes down the angry sun. +Night falls upon the field of death, night on the darkling lea: +Oh send us such a tournay soon, and send me there to see! + + + +BALLAD OF THE PHILANTHROPIST + + + +Pomona Road and Gardens, N., +Were pure as they were fair - +In other districts much I fear, +That vulgar language shocks the ear, +But brawling wives or noisy men +Were never heard of THERE. + +No burglar fixed his dread abode +In that secure retreat, +There were no public-houses nigh, +But chapels low and churches high, +You might have thought Pomona Road +A quite ideal beat! + +Yet that was not at all the view +Taken by B. 13. +That active and intelligent +Policeman deemed that he was meant +Profound detective deeds to do, +And that repose was mean. + +Now there was nothing to detect +Pomona Road along - +None faked a cly, nor cracked a crib, +Nor prigged a wipe, nor told a fib,-- +Minds cultivated and select +Slip rarely into wrong! + +Thus bored to desolation went +The Peeler on his beat; +He know not Love, he did not care, +If Love be born on mountains bare; +Nay, crime to punish, or prevent, +Was more than dalliance sweet! + +The weary wanderer, day by day, +Was marked by Howard Fry - +A neighbouring philanthropist, +Who saw what that Policeman missed - +A sympathetic 'Well-a-day' +He'd moan, and pipe his eye. + +'What CAN I do,' asked Howard Fry, +'To soothe that brother's pain? +His glance when first we met was keen, +Most martial and erect his mien' +(What mien may mean, I know not I) +'But HE must joy again.' + +'I'll start on a career of crime, +I will,' said Howard Fry - +He spake and acted! Deeds of bale +(With which I do not stain my tale) +He wrought like mad time after time, +Yet wrought them blushfully. + +And now when 'buses night by night +Were stopped, conductors slain, +When youths and men, and maids unwed, +Were stabbed or knocked upon the head, +Then B. 13 grew sternly bright, +And was himself again! + +Pomona Road and Gardens, N., +Are now a name of fear. +Commercial travellers flee in haste, +Revolvers girt about the waist +Are worn by city gentlemen +Who have their mansions near. + +But B. 13 elated goes, +Detection in his eye; +While Howard Fry does deeds of bale +(With which I do not stain my tale) +To lighten that Policeman's woes, +But does them blushfully. + +MORAL + +Such is Philanthropy, my friends, +Too often such her plan, +She shoots, and stabs, and robs, and flings +Bombs, and all sorts of horrid things. +Ah, not to serve her private ends, +But for the good of Man! + + + +IN ERCILDOUNE + + + +In light of sunrise and sunsetting, +The long days lingered, in forgetting +That ever passion, keen to hold +What may not tarry, was of old +Beyond the doubtful stream whose flood +Runs red waist-high with slain men's blood. + +Was beauty once a thing that died? +Was pleasure never satisfied? +Was rest still broken by the vain +Desire of action, bringing pain, +To die in vapid rest again? +All this was quite forgotten, there +No winter brought us cold and care, +Nor spring gave promise unfulfilled, +Nor, with the heavy summer killed, +The languid days droop autumnwards. +So magical a season guards +The constant prime of a green June. +So slumbrous is the river's tune, +That knows no thunder of rushing rains, +Nor ever in the summer wanes, +Like waters of the summer-time +In lands far from the fairy clime. + +Alas! no words can bring the bloom +Of Fairyland, the lost perfume. +The sweet low light, the magic air, +To minds of who have not been there: +Alas! no words, nor any spell +Can lull the heart that knows too well +The towers that by the river stand, +The lost fair world of Fairyland. + +Ah, would that I had never been +The lover of the Fairy Queen. +Or would that I again might be +Asleep below the Eildon Tree, +And see her ride the forest way +As on that morning of the May! + +Or would that through the little town, +The grey old place of Ercildoune, +And all along the sleepy street +The soft fall of the white deer's feet +Came, with the mystical command, +That I must back to Fairy Land! + + + +FOR A ROSE'S SAKE--FRENCH FOLK-SONG + + + +I laved my hands +By the water-side, +With willow leaves +My hands I dried. + +The nightingale sang +On the bough of a tree, +Sing, sweet nightingale, +It is well with thee. + +Thou hast heart's delight, +I have sad heart's sorrow, +For a false false maid +That will wed to-morrow. + +It is all for a rose +That I gave her not, +And I would that it grew +In the garden plot, + +And I would the rose-tree +Were still to set, +That my love Marie +Might love me yet! + + + +THE BRIGAND'S GRAVE--MODERN GREEK + + + +The moon came up above the hill, +The sun went down the sea, +'Go, maids, and draw the well-water, +But, lad, come here to me. + +Gird on my jack, and my old sword, +For I have never a son, +And you must be the chief of all +When I am dead and gone. + +But you must take my old broadsword, +And cut the green boughs of the tree, +And strew the green boughs on the ground, +To make a soft death-bed for me. + +And you must bring the holy priest, +That I may sained be, +For I have lived a roving life +Fifty years under the greenwood tree. + +And you shall make a grave for me, +And dig it deep and wide, +That I may turn about and dream +With my old gun by my side. + +And leave a window to the east +And the swallows will bring the spring, +And all the merry month of May +The nightingales will sing.' + + + +THE NEW-LIVERIED YEAR--FROM CHARLES D'ORLEANS + + + +The year has changed his mantle cold +Of wind, of rain, of bitter air, +And he goes clad in cloth of gold +Of laughing suns and season fair; +No bird or beast of wood or wold +But doth in cry or song declare +'The year has changed his mantle cold!' +All founts, all rivers seaward rolled +Their pleasant summer livery wear +With silver studs on broidered vair, +The world puts off its raiment old, +The year has changed his mantle cold. + + + +MORE STRONG THAN DEATH--FROM VICTOR HUGO + + + +Since I have set my lips to your full cup, my sweet, +Since I my pallid face between your hands have laid, +Since I have known your soul and all the bloom of it, +And all the perfume rare, now buried in the shade, + +Since it was given to me to hear one happy while +The words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries, +Since I have seen you weep, and since I have seen you smile, +Your lips upon my lips, and your eyes upon my eyes; + +Since I have known above my forehead glance and gleam, +A ray, a single ray of your star veiled always, +Since I have felt the fall upon my lifetime's stream +Of one rose-petal plucked from the roses of your days; + +I now am bold to say to the swift-changing hours, +Pass, pass upon your way, for I grow never old. +Fleet to the dark abyss with all your fading flowers, +One rose that none may pluck within my heart I hold. + +Your flying wings may smite, but they can never spill +The cup fulfilled of love from which my lips are wet, +My heart has far more fire than you have frost to chill. +My soul more love than you can make my soul forget. + + + +SILENTIA LUNAE--FROM RONSARD + + + +Hide this one night thy crescent, kindly Moon, +So shall Endymion faithful prove, and rest +Loving and unawakened on thy breast; +So shall no foul enchanter importune +Thy quiet course, for now the night is boon, +And through the friendly night unseen I fare +Who dread the face of foemen unaware, +And watch of hostile spies in the bright noon. + +Thou know'st, O Moon, the bitter power of Love. +'Tis told how shepherd Pan found ways to move +With a small gift thy heart; and of your grace, +Sweet stars, be kind to this not alien fire, +Because on earth ye did not scorn desire, +Bethink ye, now ye hold your heavenly place. + + + +HIS LADY'S TOMB--FROM RONSARD + + + +As in the gardens, all through May, the Rose, +Lovely, and young, and rich apparelled, +Makes sunrise jealous of her rosy red, +When dawn upon the dew of dawning glows; +Graces and Loves within her breast repose, +The woods are faint with the sweet odour shed, +Till rains and heavy suns have smitten dead +The languid flower and the loose leaves unclose, - + +So this, the perfect beauty of our days, +When heaven and earth were vocal of her praise, +The fates have slain, and her sweet soul reposes: +And tears I bring, and sighs, and on her tomb +Pour milk, and scatter buds of many a bloom, +That, dead as living, Rose may be with roses. + + + +THE POET'S APOLOGY + + + +No, the Muse has gone away, +Does not haunt me much to-day. +Everything she had to say +Has been said! +'Twas not much at any time +She could hitch into a rhyme, +Never was the Muse sublime, +Who has fled! + +Any one who takes her in +May observe she's rather thin; +Little more than bone and skin +Is the Muse; +Scanty sacrifice she won +When her very best she'd done, +And at her they poked their fun, +In Reviews. + +'Rhymes,' in truth, 'are stubborn things.' +And to Rhyme she clung, and clings, +But whatever song she sings +Scarcely sells. +If her tone be grave, they say +'Give us something rather gay.' +If she's skittish, then they pray +'Something else!' + +Much she loved, for wading shod, +To go forth with line and rod, +Loved the heather, and the sod, +Loved to rest +On the crystal river's brim +Where she saw the fishes swim, +And she heard the thrushes' hymn, +By the Test! + +She, whatever way she went, +Friendly was and innocent, +Little need the Bard repent +Of her lay. +Of the babble and the rhyme, +And the imitative chime +That amused him on a time, - +Now he's grey. + + + +NOTES + + + +A SCOT TO JEANNE D'ARC + + +Jeanne d'Arc is said to have led a Scottish force at Lagny, when +she defeated the Burgundian, Franquet d'Arras. A Scottish artist +painted her banner; he was a James Polwarth, or a Hume of Polwarth, +according to a conjecture of Mr. Hill Burton's. A monk of +Dunfermline, who continued Fordun's Chronicle, avers that he was +with the Maiden in her campaigns, and at her martyrdom. He calls +her Puella a spiritu sancto excitata. Unluckily his manuscript +breaks off in the middle of a sentence. At her trial, Jeanne said +that she had only once seen her own portrait: it was in the hands +of a Scottish archer. The story of the white dove which passed +from her lips as they opened to her last cry of Jesus! was reported +at the trial for her Rehabilitation (1450-56). + +ONE OF THAT NAME. + +Two archers of the name of Lang, Lain, or Laing were in the French +service about 1507. See the book on the Scottish Guard, by Father +Forbes Leith, S. J. + +THY CHURCH UNTO THE MAID DENIES. + +These verses were written, curiously enough, the day before the +Maiden was raised to the rank of 'Venerable,' a step towards her +canonisation, which, we trust, will not be long delayed. It is not +easy for any one to understand the whole miracle of the life and +death of Jeanne d'Arc, and the absolutely unparalleled grandeur and +charm of her character, without studying the full records of both +her trials, as collected and published by M. Quicherat, for the +Societe de l'Histoire de France. + +HOW THEY HELD THE BASS. + +This story is versified from the account in Memoirs of the Rev. +John Blackader, by Andrew Crichton, Minister of the Gospel. Second +Edition. Edinburgh, 1826. Dunbar was retained as a prisoner, when +negotiations for surrender, in 1691, were broken off by Middleton's +return with supplies. Halyburton was, it seems, captured later, +and only escaped hanging by virtue of the terms extorted by +Middleton. Patrick Walker tells the tale of Peden and the girl. +Wodrow, in his Analecta, has the story of the Angel, or other +shining spiritual presence, which is removed from its context in +the ballad. The sufferings from weak beer are quoted in Mr. +Blackader's Memoirs. Mitchell was the undeniably brave Covenanter +who shot at Sharp, and hit the Bishop of the Orkneys. He was +tortured, and, by an act of perjury (probably unconscious) on the +part of Lauderdale, was hanged. The sentiments of the poem are +such as an old cavalier, surviving to 1743, might perhaps have +entertained. 'Wullie Wanbeard' is a Jacobite name for the Prince +of Orange, perhaps invented only by the post-Jacobite sentiment of +the early nineteenth century. + + +BRITANNIA + + +ROUSSEAU'S DELIGHT. + +The pervenche, or periwinkle. + + +A TOAST + + +One of the college bells Of St. Salvator, mentioned by Ferguson, is +called 'Kate Kennedy'; the heroine is unknown, but Bishop Kennedy +founded the College. 'Kate Kennedy's Day' was a kind of carnival, +probably a survival from that festivity. + + +THE DISAPPOINTMENT. + + +As a matter of fact the Haunted House Committee of the Society for +Psychical Research have never succeeded in seeing a ghost. + + + + + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext Ban and Arriere Ban, by Andrew Lang + diff --git a/old/bnabn10.zip b/old/bnabn10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..6b875b8 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/bnabn10.zip |
