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+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. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty,
+                    at the Edinburgh University Press
+
+
+
+
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