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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:14:58 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:14:58 -0700 |
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diff --git a/438-h/438-h.htm b/438-h/438-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..96ded97 --- /dev/null +++ b/438-h/438-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3543 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Underwoods, by Robert Louis Stevenson</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Underwoods, by Robert Louis Stevenson + + +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: Underwoods + + +Author: Robert Louis Stevenson + + + +Release Date: January 27, 2013 [eBook #438] +[This file was first posted on January 3, 1996] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNDERWOODS*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1989 Chatto & Windus edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf</p> +<h1>UNDERWOODS</h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">BY</span><br +/> +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p0b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/p0s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">NINTH +EDITION</span></p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">LONDON<br /> +CHATTO & WINDUS<br /> +1898</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><a name="pageiv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +iv</span><i>Of all my verse</i>, <i>like not a single +line</i>;<br /> +<i>But like my title</i>, <i>for it is not mine</i>.<br /> +<i>That title from a better man I stole</i>:<br /> +<i>Ah</i>, <i>how much better</i>, <i>had I stol’n the +whole</i>!</p> +<h2><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +v</span>DEDICATION</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">There</span> are men and classes of men +that stand above the common herd: the soldier, the sailor and the +shepherd not unfrequently; the artist rarely; rarely still, the +clergyman; the physician almost as a rule. He is the flower +(such as it is) of our civilisation; and when that stage of man +is done with, and only remembered to be marvelled at in history, +he will be thought to have shared as little as any in the defects +of the period, and most notably exhibited the virtues of the +race. Generosity he has, such as is possible to those who +practise an art, never to those who drive a trade; discretion, +tested by a hundred secrets; tact, tried in a thousand +embarrassments; and what are more important, Heraclean +cheerfulness and courage. So it is that he brings air and +cheer into the sickroom, and often enough, though not so often as +he wishes, brings healing.</p> +<p><a name="pagevi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vi</span>Gratitude is but a lame sentiment; thanks, when they are +expressed, are often more embarrassing than welcome; and yet I +must set forth mine to a few out of many doctors who have brought +me comfort and help: to Dr. Willey of San Francisco, whose +kindness to a stranger it must be as grateful to him, as it is +touching to me, to remember; to Dr. Karl Ruedi of Davos, the good +genius of the English in his frosty mountains; to Dr. Herbert of +Paris, whom I knew only for a week, and to Dr. Caissot of +Montpellier, whom I knew only for ten days, and who have yet +written their names deeply in my memory; to Dr. Brandt of Royat; +to Dr. Wakefield of Nice; to Dr. Chepmell, whose visits make it a +pleasure to be ill; to Dr. Horace Dobell, so wise in counsel; to +Sir Andrew Clark, so unwearied in kindness and to that wise +youth, my uncle, Dr. Balfour.</p> +<p>I forget as many as I remember; and I ask both to pardon me, +these for silence, those for inadequate speech. But one +name I have kept on purpose to the last, because it is a +household word with me, and because if I had not received favours +from so many hands and in so many <a name="pagevii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. vii</span>quarters of the world, it should +have stood upon this page alone: that of my friend Thomas Bodley +Scott of Bournemouth. Will he accept this, although shared +among so many, for a dedication to himself? and when next my +ill-fortune (which has thus its pleasant side) brings him +hurrying to me when he would fain sit down to meat or lie down to +rest, will he care to remember that he takes this trouble for one +who is not fool enough to be ungrateful?</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. L. S.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Skerryvore</span>,<br /> + <span +class="smcap">Bournemouth</span>.</p> +<h2><a name="pageix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +ix</span>NOTE</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> human conscience has fled of +late the troublesome domain of conduct for what I should have +supposed to be the less congenial field of art: there she may now +be said to rage, and with special severity in all that touches +dialect; so that in every novel the letters of the alphabet are +tortured, and the reader wearied, to commemorate shades of +mis-pronunciation. Now spelling is an art of great +difficulty in my eyes, and I am inclined to lean upon the +printer, even in common practice, rather than to venture abroad +upon new quests. And the Scots tongue has an orthography of +its own, lacking neither “authority nor +author.” Yet the temptation is great to lend a little +guidance to the bewildered Englishman. Some simple phonetic +artifice might defend your verses from barbarous mishandling, and +yet not injure any vested interest. So it seems at first; +but there are <a name="pagex"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +x</span>rocks ahead. Thus, if I wish the diphthong +<i>ou</i> to have its proper value, I may write <i>oor</i> +instead of <i>our</i>; many have done so and lived, and the +pillars of the universe remained unshaken. But if I did so, +and came presently to <i>doun</i>, which is the classical Scots +spelling of the English <i>down</i>, I should begin to feel +uneasy; and if I went on a little farther, and came to a +classical Scots word, like <i>stour</i> or <i>dour</i> or +<i>clour</i>, I should know precisely where I was—that is +to say, that I was out of sight of land on those high seas of +spelling reform in which so many strong swimmers have toiled +vainly. To some the situation is exhilarating; as for me, I +give one bubbling cry and sink. The compromise at which I +have arrived is indefensible, and I have no thought of trying to +defend it. As I have stuck for the most part to the proper +spelling, I append a table of some common vowel sounds which no +one need consult; and just to prove that I belong to my age and +have in me the stuff of a reformer, I have used modification +marks throughout. Thus I can tell myself, not without +pride, that I have added a fresh stumbling-block for English +readers, and <a name="pagexi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xi</span>to a page of print in my native tongue, have lent a new +uncouthness. <i>Sed non nobis</i>.</p> +<p>I note again, that among our new dialecticians, the local +habitat of every dialect is given to the square mile. I +could not emulate this nicety if I desired; for I simply wrote my +Scots as well as I was able, not caring if it hailed from +Lauderdale or Angus, from the Mearns or Galloway; if I had ever +heard a good word, I used it without shame; and when Scots was +lacking, or the rhyme jibbed, I was glad (like my betters) to +fall back on English. For all that, I own to a friendly +feeling for the tongue of Fergusson and of Sir Walter, both +Edinburgh men; and I confess that Burns has always sounded in my +ear like something partly foreign. And indeed I am from the +Lothians myself; it is there I heard the language spoken about my +childhood; and it is in the drawling Lothian voice that I repeat +it to myself. Let the precisians call my speech that of the +Lothians. And if it be not pure, alas! what matters +it? The day draws near when this illustrious and malleable +tongue shall be quite forgotten; and Burn’s Ayrshire, and +Dr. Macdonald’s Aberdeen-awa’, <a +name="pagexii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xii</span>and +Scott’s brave, metropolitan utterance will be all equally +the ghosts of speech. Till then I would love to have my +hour as a native Maker, and be read by my own countryfolk in our +own dying language: an ambition surely rather of the heart than +of the head, so restricted as it is in prospect of endurance, so +parochial in bounds of space.</p> +<h2><a name="pagexiii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xiii</span>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><blockquote><p style="text-align: center">BOOK +I.—<i>In English</i></p> +</blockquote> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">I.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Envoy</span>—Go, little book</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page1">1</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">II.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Song of the Road</span>—The +gauger walked</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page2">2</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">III.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Canoe Speaks</span>—On the +great streams</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page4">4</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">IV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>It is the season</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page7">7</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">V.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The House Beautiful</span>—A +naked house, a naked moor</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page9">9</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Visit from the Sea</span>—Far +from the loud sea beaches</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page12">12</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To a Gardener</span>—Friend, in +my mountain-side demesne</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page14">14</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Minnie</span>—A picture frame +for you to fill</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page16">16</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">IX.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To K. de M.</span>—A lover of +the moorland bare</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page17">17</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">X.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To N. V. de G. S.</span>—The +unfathomable sea</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page19">19</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Will. H. Low</span>—Youth now +flees</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page21">21</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Mrs. Will. H. Low</span>—Even +in the bluest noonday of July</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page24">24</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To H. F. Brown</span>—I sit and +wait</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page26">26</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XIV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Andrew Lang</span>—Dear +Andrew</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page29">29</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Et tu in Arcadia +vixisti</span>—In ancient tales, O friend</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page31">31</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><a name="pagexiv"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. xiv</span><span +class="GutSmall">XVI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To W. E. Henley</span>—The year +runs through her phases</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page36">36</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XVII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Henry James</span>—Who comes +to-night</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page38">38</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XVIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Mirror Speaks</span>—Where +the bells</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page39">39</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XIX.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Katharine</span>—We see you as +we see a face</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page41">41</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XX.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To F. J. S.</span>—I read, dear +friend</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page42">42</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Requiem</span>—Under the wide +and starry sky</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page43">43</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Celestial Surgeon</span>—If +I have faltered</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page44">44</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Our Lady of the Snows</span>—Out +of the sun</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page45">45</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXIV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Not yet, my soul</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page50">50</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>It is not yours, O mother, to complain</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page53">53</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXVI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Sick Child</span>—O mother, +lay your hand on my brow</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page56">56</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXVII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">In Memoriam F. A. S.</span>—Yet, +O stricken heart</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page58">58</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXVIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To my Father</span>—Peace and +her huge invasion</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page60">60</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXIX.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">In the States</span>—With half a +heart</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page62">62</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXX.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Portrait</span>—I am a kind of +farthing dip</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page63">63</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXXI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Sing clearlier, Muse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page65">65</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXXII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Camp</span>—The bed was +made</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page66">66</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXXIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Country of the +Camisards</span>—We travelled in the print of olden +wars</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page67">67</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXXIV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Skerryvore</span>—For love of +lovely words</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page68">68</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXXV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Skerryvore: The +Parallel</span>—Here all is sunny</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page69">69</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXXVI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>My house, I say</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page70">70</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXXVII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>My body which my dungeon is</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page71">71</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XXXVIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Say not of me that weakly I declined</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page73">73</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="3"><p style="text-align: center">BOOK +II.—<i>In Scots</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">I.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Maker to +Posterity</span>—Far ’yont amang the years to be</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page77">77</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">II.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Ille Terrarum</span>—Frae nirly, +nippin’, Eas’lan’ breeze</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page80">80</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">III.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>When aince Aprile has fairly come</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page85">85</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">IV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Mile an’ a Bittock</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page87">87</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">V.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Lowden Sabbath Morn</span>—The +clinkum-clank o’ Sabbath bells</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page89">89</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Spaewife</span>—O, I wad +like to ken</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page98">98</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The +Blast</span>—1875—It’s rainin’. +Weet’s the gairden sod</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page100">100</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The +Counterblast</span>—1886—My bonny man, the warld, +it’s true</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page103">103</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">IX.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Counterblast +Ironical</span>—It’s strange that God should fash to +frame</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page108">108</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">X.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Their Laureate to an Academy Class +Dinner Club</span>—Dear Thamson class, whaure’er I +gang</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page110">110</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Embro Hie Kirk</span>—The Lord +Himsel’ in former days</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page114">114</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Scotsman’s Return from +Abroad</span>—In mony a foreign pairt I’ve been</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page118">118</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>Late in the nicht</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page125">125</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XIV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">My Conscience</span>!—Of +a’ the ills that flesh can fear</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page130">130</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Doctor John Brown</span>—By +Lyne and Tyne, by Thames and Tees</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page133">133</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XVI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p>It’s an owercome sooth for age an’ youth</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page138">138</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="pagexvii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xvii</span>BOOK I.—<i>In English</i></h2> +<h3><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +1</span>I—ENVOY</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Go</span>, little book, and +wish to all<br /> +Flowers in the garden, meat in the hall,<br /> +A bin of wine, a spice of wit,<br /> +A house with lawns enclosing it,<br /> +A living river by the door,<br /> +A nightingale in the sycamore!</p> +<h3><a name="page2"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +2</span>II—A SONG OF THE ROAD</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> gauger walked +with willing foot,<br /> +And aye the gauger played the flute;<br /> +And what should Master Gauger play<br /> +But <i>Over the hills and far away</i>?</p> +<p class="poetry">Whene’er I buckle on my pack<br /> +And foot it gaily in the track,<br /> +O pleasant gauger, long since dead,<br /> +I hear you fluting on ahead.</p> +<p class="poetry">You go with me the self-same way—<br /> +The self-same air for me you play;<br /> +For I do think and so do you<br /> +It is the tune to travel to.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +3</span>For who would gravely set his face<br /> +To go to this or t’other place?<br /> +There’s nothing under Heav’n so blue<br /> +That’s fairly worth the travelling to.</p> +<p class="poetry">On every hand the roads begin,<br /> +And people walk with zeal therein;<br /> +But wheresoe’er the highways tend,<br /> +Be sure there’s nothing at the end.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then follow you, wherever hie<br /> +The travelling mountains of the sky.<br /> +Or let the streams in civil mode<br /> +Direct your choice upon a road;</p> +<p class="poetry">For one and all, or high or low,<br /> +Will lead you where you wish to go;<br /> +And one and all go night and day<br /> +<i>Over the hills and far away</i>!</p> +<p><i>Forest of Montargis</i>, 1878.</p> +<h3><a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +4</span>III—THE CANOE SPEAKS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">On</span> the great streams +the ships may go<br /> +About men’s business to and fro.<br /> +But I, the egg-shell pinnace, sleep<br /> +On crystal waters ankle-deep:<br /> +I, whose diminutive design,<br /> +Of sweeter cedar, pithier pine,<br /> +Is fashioned on so frail a mould,<br /> +A hand may launch, a hand withhold:<br /> +I, rather, with the leaping trout<br /> +Wind, among lilies, in and out;<br /> +I, the unnamed, inviolate,<br /> +Green, rustic rivers, navigate;<br /> +My dipping paddle scarcely shakes<br /> +<a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 5</span>The berry in +the bramble-brakes;<br /> +Still forth on my green way I wend<br /> +Beside the cottage garden-end;<br /> +And by the nested angler fare,<br /> +And take the lovers unaware.<br /> +By willow wood and water-wheel<br /> +Speedily fleets my touching keel;<br /> +By all retired and shady spots<br /> +Where prosper dim forget-me-nots;<br /> +By meadows where at afternoon<br /> +The growing maidens troop in June<br /> +To loose their girdles on the grass.<br /> +Ah! speedier than before the glass<br /> +The backward toilet goes; and swift<br /> +As swallows quiver, robe and shift<br /> +And the rough country stockings lie<br /> +Around each young divinity.<br /> +When, following the recondite brook,<br /> +Sudden upon this scene I look,<br /> +<a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span>And light +with unfamiliar face<br /> +On chaste Diana’s bathing-place,<br /> +Loud ring the hills about and all<br /> +The shallows are abandoned. . . .</p> +<h3><a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span>IV</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">It</span> is the season now +to go<br /> +About the country high and low,<br /> +Among the lilacs hand in hand,<br /> +And two by two in fairy land.</p> +<p class="poetry">The brooding boy, the sighing maid,<br /> +Wholly fain and half afraid,<br /> +Now meet along the hazel’d brook<br /> +To pass and linger, pause and look.</p> +<p class="poetry">A year ago, and blithely paired,<br /> +Their rough-and-tumble play they shared;<br /> +They kissed and quarrelled, laughed and cried,<br /> +A year ago at Eastertide.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +8</span>With bursting heart, with fiery face,<br /> +She strove against him in the race;<br /> +He unabashed her garter saw,<br /> +That now would touch her skirts with awe.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now by the stile ablaze she stops,<br /> +And his demurer eyes he drops;<br /> +Now they exchange averted sighs<br /> +Or stand and marry silent eyes.</p> +<p class="poetry">And he to her a hero is<br /> +And sweeter she than primroses;<br /> +Their common silence dearer far<br /> +Than nightingale and mavis are.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now when they sever wedded hands,<br /> +Joy trembles in their bosom-strands<br /> +And lovely laughter leaps and falls<br /> +Upon their lips in madrigals.</p> +<h3><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +9</span>V—THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL</h3> +<p class="poetry"><i>A naked house</i>, <i>a naked moor</i>,<br +/> +<i>A shivering pool before the door</i>,<br /> +<i>A garden bare of flowers and fruit</i><br /> +<i>And poplars at the garden foot</i>:<br /> +<i>Such is the place that I live in</i>,<br /> +<i>Bleak without and bare within</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet shall your ragged moor receive<br /> +The incomparable pomp of eve,<br /> +And the cold glories of the dawn<br /> +Behind your shivering trees be drawn;<br /> +And when the wind from place to place<br /> +<a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span>Doth the +unmoored cloud-galleons chase,<br /> +Your garden gloom and gleam again,<br /> +With leaping sun, with glancing rain.<br /> +Here shall the wizard moon ascend<br /> +The heavens, in the crimson end<br /> +Of day’s declining splendour; here<br /> +The army of the stars appear.<br /> +The neighbour hollows dry or wet,<br /> +Spring shall with tender flowers beset;<br /> +And oft the morning muser see<br /> +Larks rising from the broomy lea,<br /> +And every fairy wheel and thread<br /> +Of cobweb dew-bediamonded.<br /> +When daisies go, shall winter time<br /> +Silver the simple grass with rime;<br /> +Autumnal frosts enchant the pool<br /> +And make the cart-ruts beautiful;<br /> +And when snow-bright the moor expands,<br /> +How shall your children clap their hands!<br /> +<a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 11</span>To make +this earth our hermitage,<br /> +A cheerful and a changeful page,<br /> +God’s bright and intricate device<br /> +Of days and seasons doth suffice.</p> +<h3><a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +12</span>VI—A VISIT FROM THE SEA</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Far</span> from the loud +sea beaches<br /> + Where he goes fishing and crying,<br /> +Here in the inland garden<br /> + Why is the sea-gull flying?</p> +<p class="poetry">Here are no fish to dive for;<br /> + Here is the corn and lea;<br /> +Here are the green trees rustling.<br /> + Hie away home to sea!</p> +<p class="poetry">Fresh is the river water<br /> + And quiet among the rushes;<br /> +<a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 13</span>This is no +home for the sea-gull<br /> + But for the rooks and thrushes.</p> +<p class="poetry">Pity the bird that has wandered!<br /> + Pity the sailor ashore!<br /> +Hurry him home to the ocean,<br /> + Let him come here no more!</p> +<p class="poetry">High on the sea-cliff ledges<br /> + The white gulls are trooping and crying,<br /> +Here among the rooks and roses,<br /> + Why is the sea-gull flying?</p> +<h3><a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +14</span>VII—TO A GARDENER</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Friend</span>, in my +mountain-side demesne<br /> +My plain-beholding, rosy, green<br /> +And linnet-haunted garden-ground,<br /> +Let still the esculents abound.<br /> +Let first the onion flourish there,<br /> +Rose among roots, the maiden-fair,<br /> +Wine-scented and poetic soul<br /> +Of the capacious salad bowl.<br /> +Let thyme the mountaineer (to dress<br /> +The tinier birds) and wading cress,<br /> +The lover of the shallow brook,<br /> +From all my plots and borders look.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +15</span>Nor crisp and ruddy radish, nor<br /> +Pease-cods for the child’s pinafore<br /> +Be lacking; nor of salad clan<br /> +The last and least that ever ran<br /> +About great nature’s garden-beds.<br /> +Nor thence be missed the speary heads<br /> +Of artichoke; nor thence the bean<br /> +That gathered innocent and green<br /> +Outsavours the belauded pea.</p> +<p class="poetry">These tend, I prithee; and for me,<br /> +Thy most long-suffering master, bring<br /> +In April, when the linnets sing<br /> +And the days lengthen more and more<br /> +At sundown to the garden door.<br /> +And I, being provided thus.<br /> +Shall, with superb asparagus,<br /> +A book, a taper, and a cup<br /> +Of country wine, divinely sup.</p> +<p><i>La Solitude</i>, <i>Hyères</i>.</p> +<h3><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +16</span>VIII—TO MINNIE</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(With a hand-glass)</p> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">picture-frame</span> for +you to fill,<br /> + A paltry setting for your face,<br /> +A thing that has no worth until<br /> + You lend it something of your grace</p> +<p class="poetry">I send (unhappy I that sing<br /> + Laid by awhile upon the shelf)<br /> +Because I would not send a thing<br /> + Less charming than you are yourself.</p> +<p class="poetry">And happier than I, alas!<br /> + (Dumb thing, I envy its delight)<br /> +’Twill wish you well, the looking-glass,<br /> + And look you in the face to-night.</p> +<p>1869.</p> +<h3><a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +17</span>IX—TO K. DE M.</h3> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">lover</span> of the +moorland bare<br /> +And honest country winds, you were;<br /> +The silver-skimming rain you took;<br /> +And loved the floodings of the brook,<br /> +Dew, frost and mountains, fire and seas,<br /> +Tumultuary silences,<br /> +Winds that in darkness fifed a tune,<br /> +And the high-riding, virgin moon.</p> +<p class="poetry">And as the berry, pale and sharp,<br /> +Springs on some ditch’s counterscarp<br /> +In our ungenial, native north—<br /> +You put your frosted wildings forth,<br /> +<a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span>And on the +heath, afar from man,<br /> +A strong and bitter virgin ran.</p> +<p class="poetry">The berry ripened keeps the rude<br /> +And racy flavour of the wood.<br /> +And you that loved the empty plain<br /> +All redolent of wind and rain,<br /> +Around you still the curlew sings—<br /> +The freshness of the weather clings—<br /> +The maiden jewels of the rain<br /> +Sit in your dabbled locks again.</p> +<h3><a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +19</span>X—TO N. V. DE G. S.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> unfathomable +sea, and time, and tears,<br /> +The deeds of heroes and the crimes of kings<br /> +Dispart us; and the river of events<br /> +Has, for an age of years, to east and west<br /> +More widely borne our cradles. Thou to me<br /> +Art foreign, as when seamen at the dawn<br /> +Descry a land far off and know not which.<br /> +So I approach uncertain; so I cruise<br /> +Round thy mysterious islet, and behold<br /> +Surf and great mountains and loud river-bars,<br /> +And from the shore hear inland voices call.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +20</span>Strange is the seaman’s heart; he hopes, he +fears;<br /> +Draws closer and sweeps wider from that coast;<br /> +Last, his rent sail refits, and to the deep<br /> +His shattered prow uncomforted puts back.<br /> +Yet as he goes he ponders at the helm<br /> +Of that bright island; where he feared to touch,<br /> +His spirit readventures; and for years,<br /> +Where by his wife he slumbers safe at home,<br /> +Thoughts of that land revisit him; he sees<br /> +The eternal mountains beckon, and awakes<br /> +Yearning for that far home that might have been.</p> +<h3><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +21</span>XI—TO WILL. H. LOW</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Youth</span> now flees on +feathered foot<br /> +Faint and fainter sounds the flute,<br /> +Rarer songs of gods; and still<br /> +Somewhere on the sunny hill,<br /> +Or along the winding stream,<br /> +Through the willows, flits a dream;<br /> +Flits but shows a smiling face,<br /> +Flees but with so quaint a grace,<br /> +None can choose to stay at home,<br /> +All must follow, all must roam.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +22</span>This is unborn beauty: she<br /> +Now in air floats high and free,<br /> +Takes the sun and breaks the blue;—<br /> +Late with stooping pinion flew<br /> +Raking hedgerow trees, and wet<br /> +Her wing in silver streams, and set<br /> +Shining foot on temple roof:<br /> +Now again she flies aloof,<br /> +Coasting mountain clouds and kiss’t<br /> +By the evening’s amethyst.</p> +<p class="poetry">In wet wood and miry lane,<br /> +Still we pant and pound in vain;<br /> +Still with leaden foot we chase<br /> +Waning pinion, fainting face;<br /> +Still with gray hair we stumble on,<br /> +Till, behold, the vision gone!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +23</span>Where hath fleeting beauty led?<br /> +To the doorway of the dead.<br /> +Life is over, life was gay:<br /> +We have come the primrose way.</p> +<h3><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +24</span>XII—TO MRS. WILL. H. LOW</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Even</span> in the bluest +noonday of July,<br /> +There could not run the smallest breath of wind<br /> +But all the quarter sounded like a wood;<br /> +And in the chequered silence and above<br /> +The hum of city cabs that sought the Bois,<br /> +Suburban ashes shivered into song.<br /> +A patter and a chatter and a chirp<br /> +And a long dying hiss—it was as though<br /> +Starched old brocaded dames through all the house<br /> +Had trailed a strident skirt, or the whole sky<br /> +Even in a wink had over-brimmed in rain.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +25</span>Hark, in these shady parlours, how it talks<br /> +Of the near Autumn, how the smitten ash<br /> +Trembles and augurs floods! O not too long<br /> +In these inconstant latitudes delay,<br /> +O not too late from the unbeloved north<br /> +Trim your escape! For soon shall this low roof<br /> +Resound indeed with rain, soon shall your eyes<br /> +Search the foul garden, search the darkened rooms,<br /> +Nor find one jewel but the blazing log.</p> +<p>12 <i>Rue Vernier</i>, <i>Paris</i>.</p> +<h3><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +26</span>XIII—TO H. F. BROWN</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(Written during a dangerous +sickness.)</p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">sit</span> and wait a +pair of oars<br /> +On cis-Elysian river-shores.<br /> +Where the immortal dead have sate,<br /> +’Tis mine to sit and meditate;<br /> +To re-ascend life’s rivulet,<br /> +Without remorse, without regret;<br /> +And sing my <i>Alma Genetrix</i><br /> +Among the willows of the Styx.</p> +<p class="poetry">And lo, as my serener soul<br /> +Did these unhappy shores patrol,<br /> +<a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>And wait +with an attentive ear<br /> +The coming of the gondolier,<br /> +Your fire-surviving roll I took,<br /> +Your spirited and happy book; <a name="citation27"></a><a +href="#footnote27" class="citation">[27]</a><br /> +Whereon, despite my frowning fate,<br /> +It did my soul so recreate<br /> +That all my fancies fled away<br /> +On a Venetian holiday.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, thanks to your triumphant care,<br /> +Your pages clear as April air,<br /> +The sails, the bells, the birds, I know,<br /> +And the far-off Friulan snow;<br /> +The land and sea, the sun and shade,<br /> +And the blue even lamp-inlaid.<br /> +For this, for these, for all, O friend,<br /> +For your whole book from end to end—<br /> +<a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 28</span>For Paron +Piero’s muttonham—<br /> +I your defaulting debtor am.</p> +<p class="poetry">Perchance, reviving, yet may I<br /> +To your sea-paven city hie,<br /> +And in a <i>felze</i>, some day yet<br /> +Light at your pipe my cigarette.</p> +<h3><a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +29</span>XIV—TO ANDREW LANG</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Dear</span> Andrew, with +the brindled hair,<br /> +Who glory to have thrown in air,<br /> +High over arm, the trembling reed,<br /> +By Ale and Kail, by Till and Tweed:<br /> +An equal craft of hand you show<br /> +The pen to guide, the fly to throw:<br /> +I count you happy starred; for God,<br /> +When He with inkpot and with rod<br /> +Endowed you, bade your fortune lead<br /> +Forever by the crooks of Tweed,<br /> +Forever by the woods of song<br /> +And lands that to the Muse belong;<br /> +Or if in peopled streets, or in<br /> +The abhorred pedantic sanhedrim,<br /> +<a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 30</span>It should +be yours to wander, still<br /> +Airs of the morn, airs of the hill,<br /> +The plovery Forest and the seas<br /> +That break about the Hebrides,<br /> +Should follow over field and plain<br /> +And find you at the window pane;<br /> +And you again see hill and peel,<br /> +And the bright springs gush at your heel.<br /> +So went the fiat forth, and so<br /> +Garrulous like a brook you go,<br /> +With sound of happy mirth and sheen<br /> +Of daylight—whether by the green<br /> +You fare that moment, or the gray;<br /> +Whether you dwell in March or May;<br /> +Or whether treat of reels and rods<br /> +Or of the old unhappy gods:<br /> +Still like a brook your page has shone,<br /> +And your ink sings of Helicon.</p> +<h3><a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +31</span>XV—ET TU IN ARCADIA VIXISTI</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(TO R. A. M. S.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> ancient tales, O +friend, thy spirit dwelt;<br /> +There, from of old, thy childhood passed; and there<br /> +High expectation, high delights and deeds,<br /> +Thy fluttering heart with hope and terror moved.<br /> +And thou hast heard of yore the Blatant Beast,<br /> +And Roland’s horn, and that war-scattering shout<br /> +Of all-unarmed Achilles, ægis-crowned<br /> +And perilous lands thou sawest, sounding shores<br /> +And seas and forests drear, island and dale<br /> +And mountain dark. For thou with Tristram rod’st<br +/> +Or Bedevere, in farthest Lyonesse.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +32</span>Thou hadst a booth in Samarcand, whereat<br /> +Side-looking Magians trafficked; thence, by night,<br /> +An Afreet snatched thee, and with wings upbore<br /> +Beyond the Aral mount; or, hoping gain,<br /> +Thou, with a jar of money, didst embark,<br /> +For Balsorah, by sea. But chiefly thou<br /> +In that clear air took’st life; in Arcady<br /> +The haunted, land of song; and by the wells<br /> +Where most the gods frequent. There Chiron old,<br /> +In the Pelethronian antre, taught thee lore:<br /> +The plants, he taught, and by the shining stars<br /> +In forests dim to steer. There hast thou seen<br /> +Immortal Pan dance secret in a glade,<br /> +And, dancing, roll his eyes; these, where they fell,<br /> +Shed glee, and through the congregated oaks<br /> +A flying horror winged; while all the earth<br /> +To the god’s pregnant footing thrilled within.<br /> +Or whiles, beside the sobbing stream, he breathed,<br /> +In his clutched pipe unformed and wizard strains<br /> +<a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 33</span>Divine yet +brutal; which the forest heard,<br /> +And thou, with awe; and far upon the plain<br /> +The unthinking ploughman started and gave ear.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now things there are that, upon him who +sees,<br /> +A strong vocation lay; and strains there are<br /> +That whoso hears shall hear for evermore.<br /> +For evermore thou hear’st immortal Pan<br /> +And those melodious godheads, ever young<br /> +And ever quiring, on the mountains old.</p> +<p class="poetry">What was this earth, child of the gods, to +thee?<br /> +Forth from thy dreamland thou, a dreamer, cam’st<br /> +And in thine ears the olden music rang,<br /> +And in thy mind the doings of the dead,<br /> +And those heroic ages long forgot.<br /> +To a so fallen earth, alas! too late,<br /> +Alas! in evil days, thy steps return,<br /> +To list at noon for nightingales, to grow<br /> +<a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>A dweller +on the beach till Argo come<br /> +That came long since, a lingerer by the pool<br /> +Where that desirèd angel bathes no more.</p> +<p class="poetry">As when the Indian to Dakota comes,<br /> +Or farthest Idaho, and where he dwelt,<br /> +He with his clan, a humming city finds;<br /> +Thereon awhile, amazed, he stares, and then<br /> +To right and leftward, like a questing dog,<br /> +Seeks first the ancestral altars, then the hearth<br /> +Long cold with rains, and where old terror lodged,<br /> +And where the dead. So thee undying Hope,<br /> +With all her pack, hunts screaming through the years:<br /> +Here, there, thou fleeëst; but nor here nor there<br /> +The pleasant gods abide, the glory dwells.</p> +<p class="poetry">That, that was not Apollo, not the god.<br /> +This was not Venus, though she Venus seemed<br /> +A moment. And though fair yon river move,<br /> +<a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 35</span>She, all +the way, from disenchanted fount<br /> +To seas unhallowed runs; the gods forsook<br /> +Long since her trembling rushes; from her plains<br /> +Disconsolate, long since adventure fled;<br /> +And now although the inviting river flows,<br /> +And every poplared cape, and every bend<br /> +Or willowy islet, win upon thy soul<br /> +And to thy hopeful shallop whisper speed;<br /> +Yet hope not thou at all; hope is no more;<br /> +And O, long since the golden groves are dead<br /> +The faery cities vanished from the land!</p> +<h3><a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +36</span>XVI—TO W. E. HENLEY</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> year runs +through her phases; rain and sun,<br /> +Springtime and summer pass; winter succeeds;<br /> +But one pale season rules the house of death.<br /> +Cold falls the imprisoned daylight; fell disease<br /> +By each lean pallet squats, and pain and sleep<br /> +Toss gaping on the pillows.<br /> + + +But O thou!<br /> +Uprise and take thy pipe. Bid music flow,<br /> +Strains by good thoughts attended, like the spring<br /> +The swallows follow over land and sea.<br /> +Pain sleeps at once; at once, with open eyes,<br /> +Dozing despair awakes. The shepherd sees<br /> +<a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>His flock +come bleating home; the seaman hears<br /> +Once more the cordage rattle. Airs of home!<br /> +Youth, love and roses blossom; the gaunt ward<br /> +Dislimns and disappears, and, opening out,<br /> +Shows brooks and forests, and the blue beyond<br /> +Of mountains.<br /> + + +Small the pipe; but oh! do thou,<br /> +Peak-faced and suffering piper, blow therein<br /> +The dirge of heroes dead; and to these sick,<br /> +These dying, sound the triumph over death.<br /> +Behold! each greatly breathes; each tastes a joy<br /> +Unknown before, in dying; for each knows<br /> +A hero dies with him—though unfulfilled,<br /> +Yet conquering truly—and not dies in vain</p> +<p class="poetry">So is pain cheered, death comforted; the +house<br /> +Of sorrow smiles to listen. Once again—<br /> +O thou, Orpheus and Heracles, the bard<br /> +And the deliverer, touch the stops again!</p> +<h3><a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +38</span>XVII—HENRY JAMES</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Who</span> comes +to-night? We ope the doors in vain.<br /> +Who comes? My bursting walls, can you contain<br /> +The presences that now together throng<br /> +Your narrow entry, as with flowers and song,<br /> +As with the air of life, the breath of talk?<br /> +Lo, how these fair immaculate women walk<br /> +Behind their jocund maker; and we see<br /> +Slighted <i>De Mauves</i>, and that far different she,<br /> +<i>Gressie</i>, the trivial sphynx; and to our feast<br /> +<i>Daisy</i> and <i>Barb</i> and <i>Chancellor</i> (she not +least!)<br /> +With all their silken, all their airy kin,<br /> +Do like unbidden angels enter in.<br /> +But he, attended by these shining names,<br /> +Comes (best of all) himself—our welcome James.</p> +<h3><a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +39</span>XVIII—THE MIRROR SPEAKS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Where</span> the bells peal +far at sea<br /> +Cunning fingers fashioned me.<br /> +There on palace walls I hung<br /> +While that Consuelo sung;<br /> +But I heard, though I listened well,<br /> +Never a note, never a trill,<br /> +Never a beat of the chiming bell.<br /> +There I hung and looked, and there<br /> +In my gray face, faces fair<br /> +Shone from under shining hair.<br /> +Well I saw the poising head,<br /> +But the lips moved and nothing said;<br /> +<a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span>And when +lights were in the hall,<br /> +Silent moved the dancers all.</p> +<p class="poetry">So awhile I glowed, and then<br /> +Fell on dusty days and men;<br /> +Long I slumbered packed in straw,<br /> +Long I none but dealers saw;<br /> +Till before my silent eye<br /> +One that sees came passing by.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now with an outlandish grace,<br /> +To the sparkling fire I face<br /> +In the blue room at Skerryvore;<br /> +Where I wait until the door<br /> +Open, and the Prince of Men,<br /> +Henry James, shall come again.</p> +<h3><a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +41</span>XIX—KATHARINE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">We</span> see you as we see +a face<br /> +That trembles in a forest place<br /> +Upon the mirror of a pool<br /> +Forever quiet, clear and cool;<br /> +And in the wayward glass, appears<br /> +To hover between smiles and tears,<br /> +Elfin and human, airy and true,<br /> +And backed by the reflected blue.</p> +<h3><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +42</span>XX—TO F. J. S.</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">read</span>, dear friend, +in your dear face<br /> +Your life’s tale told with perfect grace;<br /> +The river of your life, I trace<br /> +Up the sun-chequered, devious bed<br /> +To the far-distant fountain-head.</p> +<p class="poetry">Not one quick beat of your warm heart,<br /> +Nor thought that came to you apart,<br /> +Pleasure nor pity, love nor pain<br /> +Nor sorrow, has gone by in vain;</p> +<p class="poetry">But as some lone, wood-wandering child<br /> +Brings home with him at evening mild<br /> +The thorns and flowers of all the wild,<br /> +From your whole life, O fair and true<br /> +Your flowers and thorns you bring with you!</p> +<h3><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +43</span>XXI—REQUIEM</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Under</span> the wide and +starry sky,<br /> +Dig the grave and let me lie.<br /> +Glad did I live and gladly die,<br /> + And I laid me down with a will.</p> +<p class="poetry">This be the verse you grave for me:<br /> +<i>Here he lies where he longed to be</i>;<br /> +<i>Home is the sailor</i>, <i>home from sea</i>,<br /> + <i>And the hunter home from the hill</i>.</p> +<h3><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +44</span>XXII—THE CELESTIAL SURGEON</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">If</span> I have faltered +more or less<br /> +In my great task of happiness;<br /> +If I have moved among my race<br /> +And shown no glorious morning face;<br /> +If beams from happy human eyes<br /> +Have moved me not; if morning skies,<br /> +Books, and my food, and summer rain<br /> +Knocked on my sullen heart in vain:—<br /> +Lord, thy most pointed pleasure take<br /> +And stab my spirit broad awake;<br /> +Or, Lord, if too obdurate I,<br /> +Choose thou, before that spirit die,<br /> +A piercing pain, a killing sin,<br /> +And to my dead heart run them in!</p> +<h3><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +45</span>XXIII—OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Out</span> of the sun, out +of the blast,<br /> +Out of the world, alone I passed<br /> +Across the moor and through the wood<br /> +To where the monastery stood.<br /> +There neither lute nor breathing fife,<br /> +Nor rumour of the world of life,<br /> +Nor confidences low and dear,<br /> +Shall strike the meditative ear.<br /> +Aloof, unhelpful, and unkind,<br /> +The prisoners of the iron mind,<br /> +Where nothing speaks except the hell<br /> +The unfraternal brothers dwell.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +46</span>Poor passionate men, still clothed afresh<br /> +With agonising folds of flesh;<br /> +Whom the clear eyes solicit still<br /> +To some bold output of the will,<br /> +While fairy Fancy far before<br /> +And musing Memory-Hold-the-door<br /> +Now to heroic death invite<br /> +And now uncurtain fresh delight:<br /> +O, little boots it thus to dwell<br /> +On the remote unneighboured hill!</p> +<p class="poetry">O to be up and doing, O<br /> +Unfearing and unshamed to go<br /> +In all the uproar and the press<br /> +About my human business!<br /> +My undissuaded heart I hear<br /> +Whisper courage in my ear.<br /> +With voiceless calls, the ancient earth<br /> +Summons me to a daily birth.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +47</span>Thou, O my love, ye, O my friends—<br /> +The gist of life, the end of ends—<br /> +To laugh, to love, to live, to die,<br /> +Ye call me by the ear and eye!</p> +<p class="poetry">Forth from the casemate, on the plain<br /> +Where honour has the world to gain,<br /> +Pour forth and bravely do your part,<br /> +O knights of the unshielded heart!<br /> +Forth and forever forward!—out<br /> +From prudent turret and redoubt,<br /> +And in the mellay charge amain,<br /> +To fall but yet to rise again!<br /> +Captive? ah, still, to honour bright,<br /> +A captive soldier of the right!<br /> +Or free and fighting, good with ill?<br /> +Unconquering but unconquered still!</p> +<p class="poetry">And ye, O brethren, what if God,<br /> +When from Heav’n’s top he spies abroad,<br /> +<a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span>And sees +on this tormented stage<br /> +The noble war of mankind rage:<br /> +What if his vivifying eye,<br /> +O monks, should pass your corner by?<br /> +For still the Lord is Lord of might;<br /> +In deeds, in deeds, he takes delight;<br /> +The plough, the spear, the laden barks,<br /> +The field, the founded city, marks;<br /> +He marks the smiler of the streets,<br /> +The singer upon garden seats;<br /> +He sees the climber in the rocks:<br /> +To him, the shepherd folds his flocks.<br /> +For those he loves that underprop<br /> +With daily virtues Heaven’s top,<br /> +And bear the falling sky with ease,<br /> +Unfrowning caryatides.<br /> +Those he approves that ply the trade,<br /> +That rock the child, that wed the maid,<br /> +That with weak virtues, weaker hands,<br /> +<a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 49</span>Sow +gladness on the peopled lands,<br /> +And still with laughter, song and shout,<br /> +Spin the great wheel of earth about.</p> +<p class="poetry">But ye?—O ye who linger still<br /> +Here in your fortress on the hill,<br /> +With placid face, with tranquil breath,<br /> +The unsought volunteers of death,<br /> +Our cheerful General on high<br /> +With careless looks may pass you by.</p> +<h3><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +50</span>XXIV</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Not</span> yet, my soul, +these friendly fields desert,<br /> +Where thou with grass, and rivers, and the breeze,<br /> +And the bright face of day, thy dalliance hadst;<br /> +Where to thine ear first sang the enraptured birds;<br /> +Where love and thou that lasting bargain made.<br /> +The ship rides trimmed, and from the eternal shore<br /> +Thou hearest airy voices; but not yet<br /> +Depart, my soul, not yet awhile depart.</p> +<p class="poetry">Freedom is far, rest far. Thou art with +life<br /> +Too closely woven, nerve with nerve intwined;<br /> +Service still craving service, love for love,<br /> +Love for dear love, still suppliant with tears.<br /> +<a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>Alas, not +yet thy human task is done!<br /> +A bond at birth is forged; a debt doth lie<br /> +Immortal on mortality. It grows—<br /> +By vast rebound it grows, unceasing growth;<br /> +Gift upon gift, alms upon alms, upreared,<br /> +From man, from God, from nature, till the soul<br /> +At that so huge indulgence stands amazed.</p> +<p class="poetry">Leave not, my soul, the unfoughten field, nor +leave<br /> +Thy debts dishonoured, nor thy place desert<br /> +Without due service rendered. For thy life,<br /> +Up, spirit, and defend that fort of clay,<br /> +Thy body, now beleaguered; whether soon<br /> +Or late she fall; whether to-day thy friends<br /> +Bewail thee dead, or, after years, a man<br /> +Grown old in honour and the friend of peace.<br /> +Contend, my soul, for moments and for hours;<br /> +Each is with service pregnant; each reclaimed<br /> +Is as a kingdom conquered, where to reign.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +52</span>As when a captain rallies to the fight<br /> +His scattered legions, and beats ruin back,<br /> +He, on the field, encamps, well pleased in mind.<br /> +Yet surely him shall fortune overtake,<br /> +Him smite in turn, headlong his ensigns drive;<br /> +And that dear land, now safe, to-morrow fall.<br /> +But he, unthinking, in the present good<br /> +Solely delights, and all the camps rejoice.</p> +<h3><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +53</span>XXV</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">It</span> is not yours, O +mother, to complain,<br /> +Not, mother, yours to weep,<br /> +Though nevermore your son again<br /> +Shall to your bosom creep,<br /> +Though nevermore again you watch your baby sleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">Though in the greener paths of earth,<br /> +Mother and child, no more<br /> +We wander; and no more the birth<br /> +Of me whom once you bore,<br /> +Seems still the brave reward that once it seemed of yore;</p> +<p class="poetry">Though as all passes, day and night,<br /> +The seasons and the years,<br /> +From you, O mother, this delight,<br /> +<a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 54</span>This also +disappears—<br /> +Some profit yet survives of all your pangs and tears.</p> +<p class="poetry">The child, the seed, the grain of corn,<br /> +The acorn on the hill,<br /> +Each for some separate end is born<br /> +In season fit, and still<br /> +Each must in strength arise to work the almighty will.</p> +<p class="poetry">So from the hearth the children flee,<br /> +By that almighty hand<br /> +Austerely led; so one by sea<br /> +Goes forth, and one by land;<br /> +Nor aught of all man’s sons escapes from that command</p> +<p class="poetry">So from the sally each obeys<br /> +The unseen almighty nod;<br /> +So till the ending all their ways<br /> +Blindfolded loth have trod:<br /> +Nor knew their task at all, but were the tools of God.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +55</span>And as the fervent smith of yore<br /> +Beat out the glowing blade,<br /> +Nor wielded in the front of war<br /> +The weapons that he made,<br /> +But in the tower at home still plied his ringing trade;</p> +<p class="poetry">So like a sword the son shall roam<br /> +On nobler missions sent;<br /> +And as the smith remained at home<br /> +In peaceful turret pent,<br /> +So sits the while at home the mother well content.</p> +<h3><a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +56</span>XXVI—THE SICK CHILD</h3> +<p class="poetry"><i>Child</i>. O <span +class="smcap">mother</span>, lay your hand on my brow!<br /> +O mother, mother, where am I now?<br /> +Why is the room so gaunt and great?<br /> +Why am I lying awake so late?</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Mother</i>. Fear not at all: the night +is still.<br /> +Nothing is here that means you ill—<br /> +Nothing but lamps the whole town through,<br /> +And never a child awake but you.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Child</i>. Mother, mother, speak low +in my ear,<br /> +Some of the things are so great and near,<br /> +<a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span>Some are +so small and far away,<br /> +I have a fear that I cannot say,<br /> +What have I done, and what do I fear,<br /> +And why are you crying, mother dear?</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Mother</i>. Out in the city, sounds +begin<br /> +Thank the kind God, the carts come in!<br /> +An hour or two more, and God is so kind,<br /> +The day shall be blue in the window-blind,<br /> +Then shall my child go sweetly asleep,<br /> +And dream of the birds and the hills of sheep.</p> +<h3><a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +58</span>XXVII—IN MEMORIAM F. A. S.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Yet</span>, O stricken +heart, remember, O remember<br /> + How of human days he lived the better part.<br /> +April came to bloom and never dim December<br /> + Breathed its killing chills upon the head or +heart.</p> +<p class="poetry">Doomed to know not Winter, only Spring, a +being<br /> + Trod the flowery April blithely for a while,<br /> +Took his fill of music, joy of thought and seeing,<br /> + Came and stayed and went, nor ever ceased to +smile.</p> +<p class="poetry">Came and stayed and went, and now when all is +finished,<br /> + You alone have crossed the melancholy stream,<br /> +Yours the pang, but his, O his, the undiminished<br /> + Undecaying gladness, undeparted dream.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +59</span>All that life contains of torture, toil, and treason,<br +/> + Shame, dishonour, death, to him were but a name.<br +/> +Here, a boy, he dwelt through all the singing season<br /> + And ere the day of sorrow departed as he came.</p> +<p><i>Davos</i>, 1881.</p> +<h3><a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +60</span>XXVIII—TO MY FATHER</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Peace</span> and her huge +invasion to these shores<br /> +Puts daily home; innumerable sails<br /> +Dawn on the far horizon and draw near;<br /> +Innumerable loves, uncounted hopes<br /> +To our wild coasts, not darkling now, approach:<br /> +Not now obscure, since thou and thine are there,<br /> +And bright on the lone isle, the foundered reef,<br /> +The long, resounding foreland, Pharos stands.</p> +<p class="poetry">These are thy works, O father, these thy +crown;<br /> +Whether on high the air be pure, they shine<br /> +Along the yellowing sunset, and all night<br /> +Among the unnumbered stars of God they shine;<br /> +<a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span>Or whether +fogs arise and far and wide<br /> +The low sea-level drown—each finds a tongue<br /> +And all night long the tolling bell resounds:<br /> +So shine, so toll, till night be overpast,<br /> +Till the stars vanish, till the sun return,<br /> +And in the haven rides the fleet secure.</p> +<p class="poetry">In the first hour, the seaman in his skiff<br +/> +Moves through the unmoving bay, to where the town<br /> +Its earliest smoke into the air upbreathes<br /> +And the rough hazels climb along the beach.<br /> +To the tugg’d oar the distant echo speaks.<br /> +The ship lies resting, where by reef and roost<br /> +Thou and thy lights have led her like a child.</p> +<p class="poetry">This hast thou done, and I—can I be +base?<br /> +I must arise, O father, and to port<br /> +Some lost, complaining seaman pilot home.</p> +<h3><a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +62</span>XXIX—IN THE STATES</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">With</span> half a heart I +wander here<br /> + As from an age gone by<br /> +A brother—yet though young in years.<br /> + An elder brother, I.</p> +<p class="poetry">You speak another tongue than mine,<br /> + Though both were English born.<br /> +I towards the night of time decline,<br /> + You mount into the morn.</p> +<p class="poetry">Youth shall grow great and strong and free,<br +/> + But age must still decay:<br /> +To-morrow for the States—for me,<br /> + England and Yesterday.</p> +<p><i>San Francisco</i>.</p> +<h3><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +63</span>XXX—A PORTRAIT</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">am</span> a kind of +farthing dip,<br /> + Unfriendly to the nose and eyes;<br /> +A blue-behinded ape, I skip<br /> + Upon the trees of Paradise.</p> +<p class="poetry">At mankind’s feast, I take my place<br /> + In solemn, sanctimonious state,<br /> +And have the air of saying grace<br /> + While I defile the dinner plate.</p> +<p class="poetry">I am “the smiler with the +knife,”<br /> + The battener upon garbage, I—<br /> +<a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 64</span>Dear +Heaven, with such a rancid life,<br /> + Were it not better far to die?</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet still, about the human pale,<br /> + I love to scamper, love to race,<br /> +To swing by my irreverent tail<br /> + All over the most holy place;</p> +<p class="poetry">And when at length, some golden day,<br /> + The unfailing sportsman, aiming at,<br /> +Shall bag, me—all the world shall say:<br /> + <i>Thank God</i>, <i>and there’s an end of +that</i>!</p> +<h3><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +65</span>XXXI</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Sing</span> clearlier, +Muse, or evermore be still,<br /> +Sing truer or no longer sing!<br /> +No more the voice of melancholy Jacques<br /> +To wake a weeping echo in the hill;<br /> +But as the boy, the pirate of the spring,<br /> +From the green elm a living linnet takes,<br /> +One natural verse recapture—then be still.</p> +<h3><a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +66</span>XXXII—A CAMP <a name="citation66"></a><a +href="#footnote66" class="citation">[66]</a></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> bed was made, +the room was fit,<br /> +By punctual eve the stars were lit;<br /> +The air was still, the water ran,<br /> +No need was there for maid or man,<br /> +When we put up, my ass and I,<br /> +At God’s green caravanserai.</p> +<h3><a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +67</span>XXXIII—THE COUNTRY OF THE CAMISARDS <a +name="citation67"></a><a href="#footnote67" +class="citation">[67]</a></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">We</span> travelled in the +print of olden wars,<br /> + Yet all the land was green,<br /> + And love we found, and peace,<br /> + Where fire and war had been.</p> +<p class="poetry">They pass and smile, the children of the +sword—<br /> + No more the sword they wield;<br /> + And O, how deep the corn<br /> + Along the battlefield!</p> +<h3><a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +68</span>XXXIV—SKERRYVORE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">For</span> love of lovely +words, and for the sake<br /> +Of those, my kinsmen and my countrymen,<br /> +Who early and late in the windy ocean toiled<br /> +To plant a star for seamen, where was then<br /> +The surfy haunt of seals and cormorants:<br /> +I, on the lintel of this cot, inscribe<br /> +The name of a strong tower.</p> +<h3><a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +69</span>XXXV—SKERRYVORE: <span class="smcap">The +Parallel</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Here</span> all is sunny, +and when the truant gull<br /> +Skims the green level of the lawn, his wing<br /> +Dispetals roses; here the house is framed<br /> +Of kneaded brick and the plumed mountain pine,<br /> +Such clay as artists fashion and such wood<br /> +As the tree-climbing urchin breaks. But there<br /> +Eternal granite hewn from the living isle<br /> +And dowelled with brute iron, rears a tower<br /> +That from its wet foundation to its crown<br /> +Of glittering glass, stands, in the sweep of winds,<br /> +Immovable, immortal, eminent.</p> +<h3><a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +70</span>XXXVI</h3> +<p class="poetry"><i>My house</i>, I say. But hark to the +sunny doves<br /> +That make my roof the arena of their loves,<br /> +That gyre about the gable all day long<br /> +And fill the chimneys with their murmurous song:<br /> +<i>Our house</i>, they say; and <i>mine</i>, the cat declares<br +/> +And spreads his golden fleece upon the chairs;<br /> +And <i>mine</i> the dog, and rises stiff with wrath<br /> +If any alien foot profane the path.<br /> +So too the buck that trimmed my terraces,<br /> +Our whilome gardener, called the garden his;<br /> +Who now, deposed, surveys my plain abode<br /> +And his late kingdom, only from the road.</p> +<h3><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +71</span>XXXVII</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">My</span> body which my +dungeon is,<br /> +And yet my parks and palaces:—<br /> + Which is so great that there I go<br /> +All the day long to and fro,<br /> +And when the night begins to fall<br /> +Throw down my bed and sleep, while all<br /> +The building hums with wakefulness—<br /> +Even as a child of savages<br /> +When evening takes her on her way,<br /> +(She having roamed a summer’s day<br /> +Along the mountain-sides and scalp)<br /> +Sleeps in an antre of that alp:—<br /> + Which is so broad and high that there,<br /> +As in the topless fields of air,<br /> +My fancy soars like to a kite<br /> +<a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>And faints +in the blue infinite:—<br /> + Which is so strong, my strongest throes<br /> +And the rough world’s besieging blows<br /> +Not break it, and so weak withal,<br /> +Death ebbs and flows in its loose wall<br /> +As the green sea in fishers’ nets,<br /> +And tops its topmost parapets:—<br /> + Which is so wholly mine that I<br /> +Can wield its whole artillery,<br /> +And mine so little, that my soul<br /> +Dwells in perpetual control,<br /> +And I but think and speak and do<br /> +As my dead fathers move me to:—<br /> + If this born body of my bones<br /> +The beggared soul so barely owns,<br /> +What money passed from hand to hand,<br /> +What creeping custom of the land,<br /> +What deed of author or assign,<br /> +Can make a house a thing of mine?</p> +<h3><a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +73</span>XXXVIII</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Say</span> not of me that +weakly I declined<br /> +The labours of my sires, and fled the sea,<br /> +The towers we founded and the lamps we lit,<br /> +To play at home with paper like a child.<br /> +But rather say: <i>In the afternoon of time</i><br /> +<i>A strenuous family dusted from its hands</i><br /> +<i>The sand of granite</i>, <i>and beholding far</i><br /> +<i>Along the sounding coast its pyramids</i><br /> +<i>And tall memorials catch the dying sun</i>,<br /> +<i>Smiled well content</i>, <i>and to this childish task</i><br +/> +<i>Around the fire addressed its evening hours</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>BOOK +II.—<i>In Scots</i></h2> +<h3><a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 76</span>TABLE +OF COMMON SCOTTISH VOWEL SOUNDS</h3> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p>ae, ai</p> +</td> +<td><p>open A as in rare.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>a’, au, aw</p> +</td> +<td><p>AW as in law.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>ea</p> +</td> +<td><p>open E as in mere, but this with exceptions, as heather = +heather, wean = wain, lear = lair.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>ee, ei, ie</p> +</td> +<td><p>open E as in mere.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>oa</p> +</td> +<td><p>open O as in more.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>ou</p> +</td> +<td><p>doubled O as in poor.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>ow</p> +</td> +<td><p>OW as in bower.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>u</p> +</td> +<td><p>doubled O as in poor.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>ui or ü before R</p> +</td> +<td><p>(say roughly) open A as in rare.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>ui or ü before any other consonant</p> +</td> +<td><p>(say roughly) close I as in grin.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>y</p> +</td> +<td><p>open I as in kite.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>i</p> +</td> +<td><p>pretty nearly what you please, much as in English, Heaven +guide the reader through that labyrinth! But in Scots it +dodges usually from the short I, as in grin, to the open E, as in +mere. Find the blind, I may remark, are pronounced to rhyme +with the preterite of grin.</p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p> </p> +<h3><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +77</span>I—THE MAKER TO POSTERITY</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Far</span> ’yont +amang the years to be<br /> +When a’ we think, an’ a’ we see,<br /> +An’ a’ we luve, ’s been dung ajee<br /> + By time’s rouch shouther,<br +/> +An’ what was richt and wrang for me<br /> + Lies mangled throu’ther,</p> +<p class="poetry">It’s possible—it’s hardly +mair—<br /> +That some ane, ripin’ after lear—<br /> +Some auld professor or young heir,<br /> + If still there’s +either—<br /> +May find an’ read me, an’ be sair<br /> + Perplexed, puir brither!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +78</span>“<i>What tongue does your auld bookie +speak</i>?”<br /> +He’ll spier; an’ I, his mou to steik:<br /> +“<i>No bein’ fit to write in Greek</i>,<br /> + <i>I write in Lallan</i>,<br /> +<i>Dear to my heart as the peat reek</i>,<br /> + <i>Auld as Tantallon</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">“<i>Few spak it then</i>, <i>an’ +noo there’s nane</i>.<br /> +<i>My puir auld sangs lie a’ their lane</i>,<br /> +<i>Their sense</i>, <i>that aince was braw an’ +plain</i>,<br /> + <i>Tint a’thegether</i>,<br +/> +<i>Like runes upon a standin’ stane</i><br /> + <i>Amang the heather</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">“<i>But think not you the brae to +speel</i>;<br /> +<i>You</i>, <i>tae</i>, <i>maun chow the bitter peel</i>;<br /> +<i>For a’ your lear</i>, <i>for a’ your skeel</i>,<br +/> + <i>Ye’re nane sae +lucky</i>;<br /> +<i>An’ things are mebbe waur than weel</i><br /> + <i>For you</i>, <i>my +buckie</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +79</span>“<i>The hale concern</i> (<i>baith hens an’ +eggs</i>,<br /> +<i>Baith books an’ writers</i>, <i>stars an’ +clegs</i>)<br /> +<i>Noo stachers upon lowsent legs</i><br /> + <i>An’ wears +awa’</i>;<br /> +<i>The tack o’ mankind</i>, <i>near the dregs</i>,<br /> + <i>Rins unco law</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">“<i>Your book</i>, <i>that in some braw +new tongue</i>,<br /> +<i>Ye wrote or prentit</i>, <i>preached or sung</i>,<br /> +<i>Will still be just a bairn</i>, <i>an’ young</i><br /> + <i>In fame an’ years</i>,<br +/> +<i>Whan the hale planet’s guts are dung</i><br /> + <i>About your ears</i>;</p> +<p class="poetry">“<i>An’ you</i>, <i>sair +gruppin’ to a spar</i><br /> +<i>Or whammled wi’ some bleezin’ star</i>,<br /> +<i>Cryin’ to ken whaur deil ye are</i>,<br /> + <i>Hame</i>, <i>France</i>, <i>or +Flanders</i>—<br /> +<i>Whang sindry like a railway car</i><br /> + <i>An’ flie in +danders</i>.”</p> +<h3><a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +80</span>II—ILLE TERRARUM</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Frae</span> nirly, +nippin’, Eas’lan’ breeze,<br /> +Frae Norlan’ snaw, an’ haar o’ seas,<br /> +Weel happit in your gairden trees,<br /> + A bonny bit,<br /> +Atween the muckle Pentland’s knees,<br /> + Secure ye sit.</p> +<p class="poetry">Beeches an’ aiks entwine their theek,<br +/> +An’ firs, a stench, auld-farrant clique.<br /> +A’ simmer day, your chimleys reek,<br /> + Couthy and bien;<br /> +An’ here an’ there your windies keek<br /> + Amang the green.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +81</span>A pickle plats an’ paths an’ posies,<br /> +A wheen auld gillyflowers an’ roses:<br /> +A ring o’ wa’s the hale encloses<br /> + Frae sheep or men;<br /> +An’ there the auld housie beeks an’ dozes,<br /> + A’ by her lane.</p> +<p class="poetry">The gairdner crooks his weary back<br /> +A’ day in the pitaty-track,<br /> +Or mebbe stops awhile to crack<br /> + Wi’ Jane the cook,<br /> +Or at some buss, worm-eaten-black,<br /> + To gie a look.</p> +<p class="poetry">Frae the high hills the curlew ca’s;<br +/> +The sheep gang baaing by the wa’s;<br /> +Or whiles a clan o’ roosty craws<br /> + Cangle thegether;<br /> +The wild bees seek the gairden raws,<br /> + Weariet wi’ heather.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +82</span>Or in the gloamin’ douce an’ gray<br /> +The sweet-throat mavis tunes her lay;<br /> +The herd comes linkin’ doun the brae;<br /> + An’ by degrees<br /> +The muckle siller müne maks way<br /> + Amang the trees.</p> +<p class="poetry">Here aft hae I, wi’ sober heart,<br /> +For meditation sat apairt,<br /> +When orra loves or kittle art<br /> + Perplexed my mind;<br /> +Here socht a balm for ilka smart<br /> + O’ humankind.</p> +<p class="poetry">Here aft, weel neukit by my lane,<br /> +Wi’ Horace, or perhaps Montaigne,<br /> +The mornin’ hours hae come an’ gane<br /> + Abüne my heid—<br /> +I wadnae gi’en a chucky-stane<br /> + For a’ I’d read.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +83</span>But noo the auld city, street by street,<br /> +An’ winter fu’ o’ snaw an’ sleet,<br /> +Awhile shut in my gangrel feet<br /> + An’ goavin’ mettle;<br +/> +Noo is the soopit ingle sweet,<br /> + An’ liltin’ +kettle.</p> +<p class="poetry">An’ noo the winter winds complain;<br /> +Cauld lies the glaur in ilka lane;<br /> +On draigled hizzie, tautit wean<br /> + An’ drucken lads,<br /> +In the mirk nicht, the winter rain<br /> + Dribbles an’ blads.</p> +<p class="poetry">Whan bugles frae the Castle rock,<br /> +An’ beaten drums wi’ dowie shock,<br /> +Wauken, at cauld-rife sax o’clock,<br /> + My chitterin’ frame,<br /> +I mind me on the kintry cock,<br /> + The kintry hame.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +84</span>I mind me on yon bonny bield;<br /> +An’ Fancy traivels far afield<br /> +To gaither a’ that gairdens yield<br /> + O’ sun an’ Simmer:<br +/> +To hearten up a dowie chield,<br /> + Fancy’s the limmer!</p> +<h3><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +85</span>III</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> aince Aprile +has fairly come,<br /> +An’ birds may bigg in winter’s lum,<br /> +An’ pleisure’s spreid for a’ and some<br /> + O’ whatna state,<br /> +Love, wi’ her auld recruitin’ drum,<br /> + Than taks the gate.</p> +<p class="poetry">The heart plays dunt wi’ main an’ +micht;<br /> +The lasses’ een are a’ sae bricht,<br /> +Their dresses are sae braw an’ ticht,<br /> + The bonny birdies!—<br /> +Puir winter virtue at the sicht<br /> + Gangs heels ower hurdies.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +86</span>An’ aye as love frae land to land<br /> +Tirls the drum wi’ eident hand,<br /> +A’ men collect at her command,<br /> + Toun-bred or land’art,<br /> +An’ follow in a denty band<br /> + Her gaucy standart.</p> +<p class="poetry">An’ I, wha sang o’ rain an’ +snaw,<br /> +An’ weary winter weel awa’,<br /> +Noo busk me in a jacket braw,<br /> + An’ tak my place<br /> +I’ the ram-stam, harum-scarum raw,<br /> + Wi’ smilin’ face.</p> +<h3><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +87</span>IV—A MILE AN’ A BITTOCK</h3> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">mile</span> an’ a +bittock, a mile or twa,<br /> +Abüthe burn, ayont the law,<br /> +Davie an’ Donal’ an’ Cherlie an’ +a’,<br /> + An’ the müne was shinin’ +clearly!</p> +<p class="poetry">Ane went hame wi’ the ither, an’ +then<br /> +The ither went hame wi’ the ither twa men,<br /> +An’ baith wad return him the service again,<br /> + An’ the müne was shinin’ +clearly!</p> +<p class="poetry">The clocks were chappin’ in house +an’ ha’,<br /> +Eleeven, twal an’ ane an’ twa;<br /> +<a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>An’ +the guidman’s face was turnt to the wa’,<br /> + An’ the müne was shinin’ +clearly!</p> +<p class="poetry">A wind got up frae affa the sea,<br /> +It blew the stars as clear’s could be,<br /> +It blew in the een of a’ o’ the three,<br /> + An’ the müne was shinin’ +clearly!</p> +<p class="poetry">Noo, Davie was first to get sleep in his +head,<br /> +“The best o’ frien’s maun twine,” he +said;<br /> +“I’m weariet, an’ here I’m awa’ to +my bed.”<br /> + An’ the müne was shinin’ +clearly!</p> +<p class="poetry">Twa o’ them walkin’ an’ +crackin’ their lane,<br /> +The mornin’ licht cam gray an’ plain,<br /> +An’ the birds they yammert on stick an’ stane,<br /> + An’ the müne was shinin’ +clearly!</p> +<p class="poetry">O years ayont, O years awa’,<br /> +My lads, ye’ll mind whate’er befa’—<br /> +My lads, ye’ll mind on the bield o’ the law,<br /> + When the müne was shinin’ clearly.</p> +<h3><a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +89</span>V—A LOWDEN SABBATH MORN</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> clinkum-clank +o’ Sabbath bells<br /> +Noo to the hoastin’ rookery swells,<br /> +Noo faintin’ laigh in shady dells,<br /> + Sounds far an’ near,<br /> +An’ through the simmer kintry tells<br /> + Its tale o’ cheer.</p> +<p class="poetry">An’ noo, to that melodious play,<br /> +A’ deidly awn the quiet sway—<br /> +A’ ken their solemn holiday,<br /> + Bestial an’ human,<br /> +The singin’ lintie on the brae,<br /> + The restin’ +plou’man,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +90</span>He, mair than a’ the lave o’ men,<br /> +His week completit joys to ken;<br /> +Half-dressed, he daunders out an’ in,<br /> + Perplext wi’ leisure;<br /> +An’ his raxt limbs he’ll rax again<br /> + Wi’ painfü’ +pleesure.</p> +<p class="poetry">The steerin’ mither strang afit<br /> +Noo shoos the bairnies but a bit;<br /> +Noo cries them ben, their Sinday shüit<br /> + To scart upon them,<br /> +Or sweeties in their pouch to pit,<br /> + Wi’ blessin’s on +them.</p> +<p class="poetry">The lasses, clean frae tap to taes,<br /> +Are busked in crunklin’ underclaes;<br /> +The gartened hose, the weel-filled stays,<br /> + The nakit shift,<br /> +A’ bleached on bonny greens for days,<br /> + An’ white’s the +drift.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +91</span>An’ noo to face the kirkward mile:<br /> +The guidman’s hat o’ dacent style,<br /> +The blackit shoon, we noo maun fyle<br /> + As white’s the miller:<br /> +A waefü’ peety tae, to spile<br /> + The warth o’ siller.</p> +<p class="poetry">Our Marg’et, aye sae keen to crack,<br /> +Douce-stappin’ in the stoury track,<br /> +Her emeralt goun a’ kiltit back<br /> + Frae snawy coats,<br /> +White-ankled, leads the kirkward pack<br /> + Wi’ Dauvit Groats.</p> +<p class="poetry">A thocht ahint, in runkled breeks,<br /> +A’ spiled wi’ lyin’ by for weeks,<br /> +The guidman follows closs, an’ cleiks<br /> + The sonsie missis;<br /> +His sarious face at aince bespeaks<br /> + The day that this is.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +92</span>And aye an’ while we nearer draw<br /> +To whaur the kirkton lies alaw,<br /> +Mair neebours, comin’ saft an’ slaw<br /> + Frae here an’ there,<br /> +The thicker thrang the gate an’ caw<br /> + The stour in air.</p> +<p class="poetry">But hark! the bells frae nearer clang;<br /> +To rowst the slaw, their sides they bang;<br /> +An’ see! black coats a’ready thrang<br /> + The green kirkyaird;<br /> +And at the yett, the chestnuts spang<br /> + That brocht the laird.</p> +<p class="poetry">The solemn elders at the plate<br /> +Stand drinkin’ deep the pride o’ state:<br /> +The practised hands as gash an’ great<br /> + As Lords o’ Session;<br /> +The later named, a wee thing blate<br /> + In their expression.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +93</span>The prentit stanes that mark the deid,<br /> +Wi’ lengthened lip, the sarious read;<br /> +Syne wag a moraleesin’ heid,<br /> + An’ then an’ there<br +/> +Their hirplin’ practice an’ their creed<br /> + Try hard to square.</p> +<p class="poetry">It’s here our Merren lang has lain,<br /> +A wee bewast the table-stane;<br /> +An’ yon’s the grave o’ Sandy Blane;<br /> + An’ further ower,<br /> +The mither’s brithers, dacent men!<br /> + Lie a’ the fower.</p> +<p class="poetry">Here the guidman sall bide awee<br /> +To dwall amang the deid; to see<br /> +Auld faces clear in fancy’s e’e;<br /> + Belike to hear<br /> +Auld voices fa’in saft an’ slee<br /> + On fancy’s ear.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +94</span>Thus, on the day o’ solemn things,<br /> +The bell that in the steeple swings<br /> +To fauld a scaittered faim’ly rings<br /> + Its walcome screed;<br /> +An’ just a wee thing nearer brings<br /> + The quick an’ deid.</p> +<p class="poetry">But noo the bell is ringin’ in;<br /> +To tak their places, folk begin;<br /> +The minister himsel’ will shüne<br /> + Be up the gate,<br /> +Filled fu’ wi’ clavers about sin<br /> + An’ man’s estate.</p> +<p class="poetry">The tünes are up—<i>French</i>, to +be shüre,<br /> +The faithfü’ <i>French</i>, an’ twa-three +mair;<br /> +The auld prezentor, hoastin’ sair,<br /> + Wales out the portions,<br /> +An’ yirks the tüne into the air<br /> + Wi’ queer contortions.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +95</span>Follows the prayer, the readin’ next,<br /> +An’ than the fisslin’ for the text—<br /> +The twa-three last to find it, vext<br /> + But kind o’ proud;<br /> +An’ than the peppermints are raxed,<br /> + An’ southernwood.</p> +<p class="poetry">For noo’s the time whan pews are seen<br +/> +Nid-noddin’ like a mandareen;<br /> +When tenty mithers stap a preen<br /> + In sleepin’ weans;<br /> +An’ nearly half the parochine<br /> + Forget their pains.</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s just a waukrif’ twa or +three:<br /> +Thrawn commentautors sweer to ’gree,<br /> +Weans glowrin’ at the bumlin’ bee<br /> + On windie-glasses,<br /> +Or lads that tak a keek a-glee<br /> + At sonsie lasses.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +96</span>Himsel’, meanwhile, frae whaur he cocks<br /> +An’ bobs belaw the soundin’-box,<br /> +The treesures of his words unlocks<br /> + Wi’ prodigality,<br /> +An’ deals some unco dingin’ knocks<br /> + To infidality.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wi’ sappy unction, hoo he burkes<br /> +The hopes o’ men that trust in works,<br /> +Expounds the fau’ts o’ ither kirks,<br /> + An’ shaws the best o’ +them<br /> +No muckle better than mere Turks,<br /> + When a’s confessed o’ +them.</p> +<p class="poetry">Bethankit! what a bonny creed!<br /> +What mair would ony Christian need?—<br /> +The braw words rumm’le ower his heid,<br /> + Nor steer the sleeper;<br /> +And in their restin’ graves, the deid<br /> + Sleep aye the deeper.</p> +<p><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +97</span><i>Note</i>.—It may be guessed by some that I had +a certain parish in my eye, and this makes it proper I should add +a word of disclamation. In my time there have been two +ministers in that parish. Of the first I have a special +reason to speak well, even had there been any to think ill. +The second I have often met in private and long (in the due +phrase) “sat under” in his church, and neither here +nor there have I heard an unkind or ugly word upon his +lips. The preacher of the text had thus no original in that +particular parish; but when I was a boy, he might have been +observed in many others; he was then (like the schoolmaster) +abroad; and by recent advices, it would seem he has not yet +entirely disappeared.</p> +<h3><a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +98</span>VI—THE SPAEWIFE</h3> +<p class="poetry">O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife +says I—<br /> +Why chops are guid to brander and nane sae guid to fry.<br /> +An’ siller, that’s sae braw to keep, is brawer still +to gi’e.<br /> +—<i>It’s gey an’ easy spierin’</i>, says +the beggar-wife to me.</p> +<p class="poetry">O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife +says I—<br /> +Hoo a’ things come to be whaur we find them when we try,<br +/> +The lasses in their claes an’ the fishes in the sea.<br /> +—<i>It’s gey an’ easy spierin’</i>, says +the beggar-wife to me.</p> +<p class="poetry">O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife +says I—<br /> +Why lads are a’ to sell an’ lasses a’ to +buy;<br /> +An’ naebody for dacency but barely twa or three<br /> +—<i>It’s gey an’ easy spierin’</i>, says +the beggar-wife to me.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +99</span>O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says +I—<br /> +Gin death’s as shüre to men as killin’ is to +kye,<br /> +Why God has filled the yearth sae fu’ o’ tasty things +to pree.<br /> +—<i>It’s gey an’ easy spierin’</i>, says +the beggar-wife to me.</p> +<p class="poetry">O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar wife +says I—<br /> +The reason o’ the cause an’ the wherefore o’ +the why,<br /> +Wi’ mony anither riddle brings the tear into my +e’e.<br /> +—<i>It’s gey an’ easy spierin’</i>, says +the beggar-wife to me.</p> +<h3><a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +100</span>VII—THE BLAST—1875</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">It’s</span> +rainin’. Weet’s the gairden sod,<br /> +Weet the lang roads whaur gangrels plod—<br /> +A maist unceevil thing o’ God<br /> + In mid July—<br /> +If ye’ll just curse the sneckdraw, dod!<br /> + An’ sae wull I!</p> +<p class="poetry">He’s a braw place in Heev’n, ye +ken,<br /> +An’ lea’s us puir, forjaskit men<br /> +Clamjamfried in the but and ben<br /> + He ca’s the earth—<br +/> +A wee bit inconvenient den<br /> + No muckle worth;</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +101</span>An’ whiles, at orra times, keeks out,<br /> +Sees what puir mankind are about;<br /> +An’ if He can, I’ve little doubt,<br /> + Upsets their plans;<br /> +He hates a’ mankind, brainch and root,<br /> + An’ a’ that’s +man’s.</p> +<p class="poetry">An’ whiles, whan they tak heart again,<br +/> +An’ life i’ the sun looks braw an’ plain,<br /> +Doun comes a jaw o’ droukin’ rain<br /> + Upon their honours—<br /> +God sends a spate outower the plain,<br /> + Or mebbe thun’ers.</p> +<p class="poetry">Lord safe us, life’s an unco thing!<br /> +Simmer an’ Winter, Yule an’ Spring,<br /> +The damned, dour-heartit seasons bring<br /> + A feck o’ trouble.<br /> +I wadnae try’t to be a king—<br /> + No, nor for double.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +102</span>But since we’re in it, willy-nilly,<br /> +We maun be watchfü’, wise an’ skilly,<br /> +An’ no mind ony ither billy,<br /> + Lassie nor God.<br /> +But drink—that’s my best counsel till ’e:<br /> + Sae tak the nod.</p> +<h3><a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +103</span>VIII—THE COUNTERBLAST—1886</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">My</span> bonny man, the +warld, it’s true,<br /> +Was made for neither me nor you;<br /> +It’s just a place to warstle through,<br /> + As job confessed o’t;<br /> +And aye the best that we’ll can do<br /> + Is mak the best o’t.</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s rowth o’ wrang, I’m +free to say:<br /> +The simmer brunt, the winter blae,<br /> +The face of earth a’ fyled wi’ clay<br /> + An’ dour wi’ +chuckies,<br /> +An’ life a rough an’ land’art play<br /> + For country buckies.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +104</span>An’ food’s anither name for clart;<br /> +An’ beasts an’ brambles bite an’ scart;<br /> +An’ what would <span class="GutSmall">WE</span> be like, my +heart!<br /> + If bared o’ +claethin’?<br /> +—Aweel, I cannae mend your cart:<br /> + It’s that or +naethin’.</p> +<p class="poetry">A feck o’ folk frae first to last<br /> +Have through this queer experience passed;<br /> +Twa-three, I ken, just damn an’ blast<br /> + The hale transaction;<br /> +But twa-three ithers, east an’ wast,<br /> + Fand satisfaction,</p> +<p class="poetry">Whaur braid the briery muirs expand,<br /> +A waefü’ an’ a weary land,<br /> +The bumblebees, a gowden band,<br /> + Are blithely hingin’;<br /> +An’ there the canty wanderer fand<br /> + The laverock singin’.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +105</span>Trout in the burn grow great as herr’n,<br /> +The simple sheep can find their fair’n’;<br /> +The wind blaws clean about the cairn<br /> + Wi’ caller air;<br /> +The muircock an’ the barefit bairn<br /> + Are happy there.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sic-like the howes o’ life to some:<br /> +Green loans whaur they ne’er fash their thumb.<br /> +But mark the muckle winds that come<br /> + Soopin’ an’ cool,<br +/> +Or hear the powrin’ burnie drum<br /> + In the shilfa’s pool.</p> +<p class="poetry">The evil wi’ the guid they tak;<br /> +They ca’ a gray thing gray, no black;<br /> +To a steigh brae, a stubborn back<br /> + Addressin’ daily;<br /> +An’ up the rude, unbieldy track<br /> + O’ life, gang gaily.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +106</span>What you would like’s a palace ha’,<br /> +Or Sinday parlour dink an’ braw<br /> +Wi’ a’ things ordered in a raw<br /> + By denty leddies.<br /> +Weel, than, ye cannae hae’t: that’s a’<br /> + That to be said is.</p> +<p class="poetry">An’ since at life ye’ve taen the +grue,<br /> +An’ winnae blithely hirsle through,<br /> +Ye’ve fund the very thing to do—<br /> + That’s to drink speerit;<br +/> +An’ shüne we’ll hear the last o’ +you—<br /> + An’ blithe to hear it!</p> +<p class="poetry">The shoon ye coft, the life ye lead,<br /> +Ithers will heir when aince ye’re deid;<br /> +They’ll heir your tasteless bite o’ breid,<br /> + An’ find it sappy;<br /> +They’ll to your dulefü’ house succeed,<br /> + An’ there be happy.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +107</span>As whan a glum an’ fractious wean<br /> +Has sat an’ sullened by his lane<br /> +Till, wi’ a rowstin’ skelp, he’s taen<br /> + An’ shoo’d to +bed—<br /> +The ither bairns a’ fa’ to play’n’,<br /> + As gleg’s a gled.</p> +<h3><a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +108</span>IX—THE COUNTERBLAST IRONICAL</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">It’s</span> strange +that God should fash to frame<br /> + The yearth and lift sae hie,<br /> +An’ clean forget to explain the same<br /> + To a gentleman like me.</p> +<p class="poetry">They gutsy, donnered ither folk,<br /> + Their weird they weel may dree;<br /> +But why present a pig in a poke<br /> + To a gentleman like me?</p> +<p class="poetry">They ither folk their parritch eat<br /> + An’ sup their sugared tea;<br /> +But the mind is no to be wyled wi’ meat<br /> + Wi’ a gentleman like me.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +109</span>They ither folk, they court their joes<br /> + At gloamin’ on the lea;<br /> +But they’re made of a commoner clay, I suppose,<br /> + Than a gentleman like me.</p> +<p class="poetry">They ither folk, for richt or wrang,<br /> + They suffer, bleed, or dee;<br /> +But a’ thir things are an emp’y sang<br /> + To a gentleman like me.</p> +<p class="poetry">It’s a different thing that I demand,<br +/> + Tho’ humble as can be—<br /> +A statement fair in my Maker’s hand<br /> + To a gentleman like me:</p> +<p class="poetry">A clear account writ fair an’ broad,<br +/> + An’ a plain apologie;<br /> +Or the deevil a ceevil word to God<br /> + From a gentleman like me.</p> +<h3><a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +110</span>X—THEIR LAUREATE TO AN ACADEMY CLASS DINNER +CLUB</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Dear</span> Thamson class, +whaure’er I gang<br /> +It aye comes ower me wi’ a spang:<br /> +“<i>Lordsake</i>! <i>they Thamson lads</i>—(<i>deil +hang</i><br /> + <i>Or else Lord mend +them</i>!)—<br /> +<i>An’ that wanchancy annual sang</i><br /> + <i>I ne’er can send +them</i>!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Straucht, at the name, a trusty tyke,<br /> +My conscience girrs ahint the dyke;<br /> +Straucht on my hinderlands I fyke<br /> + To find a rhyme t’ ye;<br /> +Pleased—although mebbe no pleased-like—<br /> + To gie my time t’ye.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +111</span>“<i>Weel</i>,” an’ says you, +wi’ heavin’ breist,<br /> +“<i>Sae far</i>, <i>sae guid</i>, <i>but what’s the +neist</i>?<br /> +<i>Yearly we gaither to the feast</i>,<br /> + <i>A’ hopefü’ +men</i>—<br /> +<i>Yearly we skelloch</i> ‘<i>Hang the beast</i>—<br +/> + <i>Nae sang +again</i>!’”</p> +<p class="poetry">My lads, an’ what am I to say?<br /> +Ye shürely ken the Muse’s way:<br /> +Yestreen, as gleg’s a tyke—the day,<br /> + Thrawn like a cuddy:<br /> +Her conduc’, that to her’s a play,<br /> + Deith to a body.</p> +<p class="poetry">Aft whan I sat an’ made my mane,<br /> +Aft whan I laboured burd-alane<br /> +Fishin’ for rhymes an’ findin’ nane,<br /> + Or nane were fit for ye—<br +/> +Ye judged me cauld’s a chucky stane—<br /> + No car’n’ a bit for +ye!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +112</span>But saw ye ne’er some pingein’ bairn<br /> +As weak as a pitaty-par’n’—<br /> +Less üsed wi’ guidin’ horse-shoe airn<br /> + Than steerin’ +crowdie—<br /> +Packed aff his lane, by moss an’ cairn,<br /> + To ca’ the howdie.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wae’s me, for the puir callant than!<br +/> +He wambles like a poke o’ bran,<br /> +An’ the lowse rein, as hard’s he can,<br /> + Pu’s, trem’lin’ +handit;<br /> +Till, blaff! upon his hinderlan’<br /> + Behauld him landit.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sic-like—I awn the weary +fac’—<br /> +Whan on my muse the gate I tak,<br /> +An’ see her gleed e’e raxin’ back<br /> + To keek ahint her;—<br /> +To me, the brig o’ Heev’n gangs black<br /> + As blackest winter.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +113</span>“<i>Lordsake</i>! <i>we’re aff</i>,” +thinks I, “<i>but whaur</i>?<br /> +<i>On what abhorred an’ whinny scaur</i>,<br /> +<i>Or whammled in what sea o’ glaur</i>,<br /> + <i>Will she desert me</i>?<br /> +<i>An’ will she just disgrace</i>? <i>or waur</i>—<br +/> + <i>Will she no hurt +me</i>?”</p> +<p class="poetry">Kittle the quaere! But at least<br /> +The day I’ve backed the fashious beast,<br /> +While she, wi’ mony a spang an’ reist,<br /> + Flang heels ower bonnet;<br /> +An’ a’ triumphant—for your feast,<br /> + Hae! there’s your +sonnet!</p> +<h3><a name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +114</span>XI—EMBRO HIE KIRK</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> Lord +Himsel’ in former days<br /> +Waled out the proper tünes for praise<br /> +An’ named the proper kind o’ claes<br /> + For folk to preach in:<br /> +Preceese and in the chief o’ ways<br /> + Important teachin’.</p> +<p class="poetry">He ordered a’ things late and +air’;<br /> +He ordered folk to stand at prayer,<br /> +(Although I cannae just mind where<br /> + He gave the warnin’,)<br /> +An’ pit pomatum on their hair<br /> + On Sabbath mornin’.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +115</span>The hale o’ life by His commands<br /> +Was ordered to a body’s hands;<br /> +But see! this <i>corpus juris</i> stands<br /> + By a’ forgotten;<br /> +An’ God’s religion in a’ lands<br /> + Is deid an’ rotten.</p> +<p class="poetry">While thus the lave o’ mankind’s +lost,<br /> +O’ Scotland still God maks His boast—<br /> +Puir Scotland, on whase barren coast<br /> + A score or twa<br /> +Auld wives wi’ mutches an’ a hoast<br /> + Still keep His law.</p> +<p class="poetry">In Scotland, a wheen canty, plain,<br /> +Douce, kintry-leevin’ folk retain<br /> +The Truth—or did so aince—alane<br /> + Of a’ men leevin’;<br +/> +An’ noo just twa o’ them remain—<br /> + Just Begg an’ Niven.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +116</span>For noo, unfaithfü’, to the Lord<br /> +Auld Scotland joins the rebel horde;<br /> +Her human hymn-books on the board<br /> + She noo displays:<br /> +An’ Embro Hie Kirk’s been restored<br /> + In popish ways.</p> +<p class="poetry">O <i>punctum temporis</i> for action<br /> +To a’ o’ the reformin’ faction,<br /> +If yet, by ony act or paction,<br /> + Thocht, word, or sermon,<br /> +This dark an’ damnable transaction<br /> + Micht yet determine!</p> +<p class="poetry">For see—as Doctor Begg explains—<br +/> +Hoo easy ’t’s düne! a pickle weans,<br /> +Wha in the Hie Street gaither stanes<br /> + By his instruction,<br /> +The uncovenantit, pentit panes<br /> + Ding to destruction.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +117</span>Up, Niven, or ower late—an’ dash<br /> +Laigh in the glaur that carnal hash;<br /> +Let spires and pews wi’ gran’ stramash<br /> + Thegether fa’;<br /> +The rumlin’ kist o’ whustles smash<br /> + In pieces sma’.</p> +<p class="poetry">Noo choose ye out a walie hammer;<br /> +About the knottit buttress clam’er;<br /> +Alang the steep roof stoyt an’ stammer,<br /> + A gate mis-chancy;<br /> +On the aul’ spire, the bells’ hie cha’mer,<br +/> + Dance your bit dancie.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ding, devel, dunt, destroy, an’ ruin,<br +/> +Wi’ carnal stanes the square bestrewin’,<br /> +Till your loud chaps frae Kyle to Fruin,<br /> + Frae Hell to Heeven,<br /> +Tell the guid wark that baith are doin’—<br /> + Baith Begg an’ Niven.</p> +<h3><a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +118</span>XII—THE SCOTSMAN’S RETURN FROM ABROAD</h3> +<p>In a letter from Mr. Thomson to Mr. Johnstone.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> mony a foreign +pairt I’ve been,<br /> +An’ mony an unco ferlie seen,<br /> +Since, Mr. Johnstone, you and I<br /> +Last walkit upon Cocklerye.<br /> +Wi’ gleg, observant een, I pass’t<br /> +By sea an’ land, through East an’ Wast,<br /> +And still in ilka age an’ station<br /> +Saw naething but abomination.<br /> +In thir uncovenantit lands<br /> +The gangrel Scot uplifts his hands</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +119</span>At lack of a’ sectarian füsh’n,<br /> +An’ cauld religious destitütion.<br /> +He rins, puir man, frae place to place,<br /> +Tries a’ their graceless means o’ grace,<br /> +Preacher on preacher, kirk on kirk—<br /> +This yin a stot an’ thon a stirk—<br /> +A bletherin’ clan, no warth a preen,<br /> +As bad as Smith of Aiberdeen!</p> +<p class="poetry">At last, across the weary faem,<br /> +Frae far, outlandish pairts I came.<br /> +On ilka side o’ me I fand<br /> +Fresh tokens o’ my native land.<br /> +Wi’ whatna joy I hailed them a’—<br /> +The hilltaps standin’ raw by raw,<br /> +The public house, the Hielan’ birks,<br /> +And a’ the bonny U.P. kirks!<br /> +But maistly thee, the bluid o’ Scots,<br /> +Frae Maidenkirk to John o’ Grots,<br /> +<a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 120</span>The king +o’ drinks, as I conceive it,<br /> +Talisker, Isla, or Glenlivet!</p> +<p class="poetry">For after years wi’ a pockmantie<br /> +Frae Zanzibar to Alicante,<br /> +In mony a fash and sair affliction<br /> +I gie’t as my sincere conviction—<br /> +Of a’ their foreign tricks an’ pliskies,<br /> +I maist abominate their whiskies.<br /> +Nae doot, themsel’s, they ken it weel,<br /> +An’ wi’ a hash o’ leemon peel,<br /> +And ice an’ siccan filth, they ettle<br /> +The stawsome kind o’ goo to settle;<br /> +Sic wersh apothecary’s broos wi’<br /> +As Scotsmen scorn to fyle their moo’s wi’.</p> +<p class="poetry">An’, man, I was a blithe hame-comer<br /> +Whan first I syndit out my rummer.<br /> +Ye should hae seen me then, wi’ care<br /> +The less important pairts prepare;<br /> +<a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 121</span>Syne, +weel contentit wi’ it a’,<br /> +Pour in the sperrits wi’ a jaw!<br /> +I didnae drink, I didnae speak,—<br /> +I only snowkit up the reek.<br /> +I was sae pleased therein to paidle,<br /> +I sat an’ plowtered wi’ my ladle.</p> +<p class="poetry">An’ blithe was I, the morrow’s +morn,<br /> +To daunder through the stookit corn,<br /> +And after a’ my strange mishanters,<br /> +Sit doun amang my ain dissenters.<br /> +An’, man, it was a joy to me<br /> +The pu’pit an’ the pews to see,<br /> +The pennies dirlin’ in the plate,<br /> +The elders lookin’ on in state;<br /> +An’ ’mang the first, as it befell,<br /> +Wha should I see, sir, but yoursel’</p> +<p class="poetry">I was, and I will no deny it,<br /> +At the first gliff a hantle tryit<br /> +<a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 122</span>To see +yoursel’ in sic a station—<br /> +It seemed a doubtfü’ dispensation.<br /> +The feelin’ was a mere digression;<br /> +For shüne I understood the session,<br /> +An’ mindin’ Aiken an’ M‘Neil,<br /> +I wondered they had düne sae weel.<br /> +I saw I had mysel’ to blame;<br /> +For had I but remained at hame,<br /> +Aiblins—though no ava’ deservin’ +’t—<br /> +They micht hae named your humble servant.</p> +<p class="poetry">The kirk was filled, the door was steeked;<br +/> +Up to the pu’pit ance I keeked;<br /> +I was mair pleased than I can tell—<br /> +It was the minister himsel’!<br /> +Proud, proud was I to see his face,<br /> +After sae lang awa’ frae grace.<br /> +Pleased as I was, I’m no denyin’<br /> +Some maitters were not edifyin’;<br /> +<a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 123</span>For +first I fand—an’ here was news!—<br /> +Mere hymn-books cockin’ in the pews—<br /> +A humanised abomination,<br /> +Unfit for ony congregation.<br /> +Syne, while I still was on the tenter,<br /> +I scunnered at the new prezentor;<br /> +I thocht him gesterin’ an’ cauld—<br /> +A sair declension frae the auld.<br /> +Syne, as though a’ the faith was wreckit,<br /> +The prayer was not what I’d exspeckit.<br /> +Himsel’, as it appeared to me,<br /> +Was no the man he üsed to be.<br /> +But just as I was growin’ vext<br /> +He waled a maist judeecious text,<br /> +An’, launchin’ into his prelections,<br /> +Swoopt, wi’ a skirl, on a’ defections.</p> +<p class="poetry">O what a gale was on my speerit<br /> +To hear the p’ints o’ doctrine clearit,<br /> +<a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 124</span>And +a’ the horrors o’ damnation<br /> +Set furth wi’ faithfü’ ministration!<br /> +Nae shauchlin’ testimony here—<br /> +We were a’ damned, an’ that was clear,<br /> +I owned, wi’ gratitude an’ wonder,<br /> +He was a pleisure to sit under.</p> +<h3><a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +125</span>XIII</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Late</span> in the nicht in +bed I lay,<br /> +The winds were at their weary play,<br /> +An’ tirlin’ wa’s an’ skirlin’ +wae<br /> + Through Heev’n they +battered;—<br /> +On-ding o’ hail, on-blaff o’ spray,<br /> + The tempest blattered.</p> +<p class="poetry">The masoned house it dinled through;<br /> +It dung the ship, it cowped the coo’.<br /> +The rankit aiks it overthrew,<br /> + Had braved a’ weathers;<br +/> +The strang sea-gleds it took an’ blew<br /> + Awa’ like feathers.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +126</span>The thrawes o’ fear on a’ were shed,<br /> +An’ the hair rose, an’ slumber fled,<br /> +An’ lichts were lit an’ prayers were said<br /> + Through a’ the kintry;<br /> +An’ the cauld terror clum in bed<br /> + Wi’ a’ an’ +sindry.</p> +<p class="poetry">To hear in the pit-mirk on hie<br /> +The brangled collieshangie flie,<br /> +The warl’, they thocht, wi’ land an’ sea,<br /> + Itsel’ wad cowpit;<br /> +An’ for auld airn, the smashed debris<br /> + By God be rowpit.</p> +<p class="poetry">Meanwhile frae far Aldeboran,<br /> +To folks wi’ talescopes in han’,<br /> +O’ ships that cowpit, winds that ran,<br /> + Nae sign was seen,<br /> +But the wee warl’ in sunshine span<br /> + As bricht’s a preen.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +127</span>I, tae, by God’s especial grace,<br /> +Dwall denty in a bieldy place,<br /> +Wi’ hosened feet, wi’ shaven face,<br /> + Wi’ dacent mainners:<br /> +A grand example to the race<br /> + O’ tautit sinners!</p> +<p class="poetry">The wind may blaw, the heathen rage,<br /> +The deil may start on the rampage;—<br /> +The sick in bed, the thief in cage—<br /> + What’s a’ to me?<br /> +Cosh in my house, a sober sage,<br /> + I sit an’ see.</p> +<p class="poetry">An’ whiles the bluid spangs to my +bree,<br /> +To lie sae saft, to live sae free,<br /> +While better men maun do an’ die<br /> + In unco places.<br /> +“<i>Whaur’s God</i>?” I cry, an’ +“<i>Whae is me</i><br /> + <i>To hae sic +graces</i>?”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +128</span>I mind the fecht the sailors keep,<br /> +But fire or can’le, rest or sleep,<br /> +In darkness an’ the muckle deep;<br /> + An’ mind beside<br /> +The herd that on the hills o’ sheep<br /> + Has wandered wide.</p> +<p class="poetry">I mind me on the hoastin’ weans—<br +/> +The penny joes on causey stanes—<br /> +The auld folk wi’ the crazy banes,<br /> + Baith auld an’ puir,<br /> +That aye maun thole the winds an’ rains<br /> + An’ labour sair.</p> +<p class="poetry">An’ whiles I’m kind o’ +pleased a blink,<br /> +An’ kind o’ fleyed forby, to think,<br /> +For a’ my rowth o’ meat an’ drink<br /> + An’ waste o’ crumb,<br +/> +I’ll mebbe have to thole wi’ skink<br /> + In Kingdom Come.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +129</span>For God whan jowes the Judgment bell,<br /> +Wi’ His ain Hand, His Leevin’ Sel’,<br /> +Sall ryve the guid (as Prophets tell)<br /> + Frae them that had it;<br /> +And in the reamin’ pat o’ Hell,<br /> + The rich be scaddit.</p> +<p class="poetry">O Lord, if this indeed be sae,<br /> +Let daw that sair an’ happy day!<br /> +Again’ the warl’, grawn auld an’ gray,<br /> + Up wi’ your aixe!<br /> +An’ let the puir enjoy their play—<br /> + I’ll thole my paiks.</p> +<h3><a name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +130</span>XIV—MY CONSCIENCE!</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Of</span> a’ the ills +that flesh can fear,<br /> +The loss o’ frien’s, the lack o’ gear,<br /> +A yowlin’ tyke, a glandered mear,<br /> + A lassie’s +nonsense—<br /> +There’s just ae thing I cannae bear,<br /> + An’ that’s my +conscience.</p> +<p class="poetry">Whan day (an’ a’ excüse) has +gane,<br /> +An’ wark is düne, and duty’s plain,<br /> +An’ to my chalmer a’ my lane<br /> + I creep apairt,<br /> +My conscience! hoo the yammerin’ pain<br /> + Stends to my heart!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +131</span>A’ day wi’ various ends in view<br /> +The hairsts o’ time I had to pu’,<br /> +An’ made a hash wad staw a soo,<br /> + Let be a man!—<br /> +My conscience! whan my han’s were fu’,<br /> + Whaur were ye than?</p> +<p class="poetry">An’ there were a’ the lures +o’ life,<br /> +There pleesure skirlin’ on the fife,<br /> +There anger, wi’ the hotchin’ knife<br /> + Ground shairp in Hell—<br /> +My conscience!—you that’s like a wife!—<br /> + Whaur was yoursel’?</p> +<p class="poetry">I ken it fine: just waitin’ here,<br /> +To gar the evil waur appear,<br /> +To clart the guid, confüse the clear,<br /> + Mis-ca’ the great,<br /> +My conscience! an’ to raise a steer<br /> + Whan a’s ower late.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +132</span>Sic-like, some tyke grawn auld and blind,<br /> +Whan thieves brok’ through the gear to p’ind,<br /> +Has lain his dozened length an’ grinned<br /> + At the disaster;<br /> +An’ the morn’s mornin’, wud’s the +wind,<br /> + Yokes on his master.</p> +<h3><a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +133</span>XV—TO DOCTOR JOHN BROWN</h3> +<p class="poetry">(<i>Whan the dear doctor</i>, <i>dear to +a’</i>,<br /> +<i>Was still amang us here belaw</i>,<br /> +<i>I set my pipes his praise to blaw</i><br /> + <i>Wi’ a’ my +speerit</i>;<br /> +<i>But noo</i>, <i>Dear Doctor</i>! <i>he’s +awa’</i>,<br /> + <i>An’ ne’er can hear +it</i>.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">By</span> Lyne and Tyne, by +Thames and Tees,<br /> +By a’ the various river-Dee’s,<br /> +In Mars and Manors ’yont the seas<br /> + Or here at hame,<br /> +Whaure’er there’s kindly folk to please,<br /> + They ken your name.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +134</span>They ken your name, they ken your tyke,<br /> +They ken the honey from your byke;<br /> +But mebbe after a’ your fyke,<br /> + (The trüth to tell)<br /> +It’s just your honest Rab they like,<br /> + An’ no yoursel’.</p> +<p class="poetry">As at the gowff, some canny play’r<br /> +Should tee a common ba’ wi’ care—<br /> +Should flourish and deleever fair<br /> + His souple shintie—<br /> +An’ the ba’ rise into the air,<br /> + A leevin’ lintie:</p> +<p class="poetry">Sae in the game we writers play,<br /> +There comes to some a bonny day,<br /> +When a dear ferlie shall repay<br /> + Their years o’ strife,<br /> +An’ like your Rab, their things o’ clay,<br /> + Spreid wings o’ life.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +135</span>Ye scarce deserved it, I’m afraid—<br /> +You that had never learned the trade,<br /> +But just some idle mornin’ strayed<br /> + Into the schüle,<br /> +An’ picked the fiddle up an’ played<br /> + Like Neil himsel’.</p> +<p class="poetry">Your e’e was gleg, your fingers dink;<br +/> +Ye didnae fash yoursel’ to think,<br /> +But wove, as fast as puss can link,<br /> + Your denty wab:—<br /> +Ye stapped your pen into the ink,<br /> + An’ there was Rab!</p> +<p class="poetry">Sinsyne, whaure’er your fortune lay<br /> +By dowie den, by canty brae,<br /> +Simmer an’ winter, nicht an’ day,<br /> + Rab was aye wi’ ye;<br /> +An’ a’ the folk on a’ the way<br /> + Were blithe to see ye.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +136</span>O sir, the gods are kind indeed,<br /> +An’ hauld ye for an honoured heid,<br /> +That for a wee bit clarkit screed<br /> + Sae weel reward ye,<br /> +An’ lend—puir Rabbie bein’ deid—<br /> + His ghaist to guard ye.</p> +<p class="poetry">For though, whaure’er yoursel’ may +be,<br /> +We’ve just to turn an’ glisk a wee,<br /> +An’ Rab at heel we’re shüre to see<br /> + Wi’ gladsome +caper:—<br /> +The bogle of a bogle, he—<br /> + A ghaist o’ paper!</p> +<p class="poetry">And as the auld-farrand hero sees<br /> +In Hell a bogle Hercules,<br /> +Pit there the lesser deid to please,<br /> + While he himsel’<br /> +Dwalls wi’ the muckle gods at ease<br /> + Far raised frae hell:</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +137</span>Sae the true Rabbie far has gane<br /> +On kindlier business o’ his ain<br /> +Wi’ aulder frien’s; an’ his breist-bane<br /> + An’ stumpie tailie,<br /> +He birstles at a new hearth stane<br /> + By James and Ailie.</p> +<h3><a name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +138</span>XVI</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">It’s</span> an +owercome sooth for age an’ youth<br /> + And it brooks wi’ nae denial,<br /> +That the dearest friends are the auldest friends<br /> + And the young are just on trial.</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s a rival bauld wi’ young +an’ auld<br /> + And it’s him that has bereft me;<br /> +For the sürest friends are the auldest friends<br /> + And the maist o’ mines hae left me.</p> +<p class="poetry">There are kind hearts still, for friends to +fill<br /> + And fools to take and break them;<br /> +But the nearest friends are the auldest friends<br /> + And the grave’s the place to seek them.</p> +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page139"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 139</span><i>Printed by</i> R. & R. <span +class="smcap">Clark</span>, <span class="smcap">Limited</span>, +<i>Edinburgh</i>.</p> +<h2>Footnotes</h2> +<p><a name="footnote27"></a><a href="#citation27" +class="footnote">[27]</a> <i>Life on the Lagoons</i>, by H. +F. Brown, originally burned in the fire at Messrs. Kegan Paul, +Trench. and Co.’s.</p> +<p><a name="footnote66"></a><a href="#citation66" +class="footnote">[66]</a> From <i>Travels with a +Donkey</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote67"></a><a href="#citation67" +class="footnote">[67]</a> From <i>Travels with a +Donkey</i>.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNDERWOODS***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 438-h.htm or 438-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/4/3/438 + + + +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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