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diff --git a/438-0.txt b/438-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cf3bd80 --- /dev/null +++ b/438-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3007 @@ +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: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNDERWOODS*** + + +Transcribed from the 1989 Chatto & Windus edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf + + + + + + UNDERWOODS + + + BY + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + NINTH EDITION + + * * * * * + + LONDON + CHATTO & WINDUS + 1898 + + * * * * * + + _Of all my verse_, _like not a single line_; + _But like my title_, _for it is not mine_. + _That title from a better man I stole_: + _Ah_, _how much better_, _had I stol’n the whole_! + + + + +DEDICATION + + +THERE 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. + +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. + +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 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? + + R. L. S. + +SKERRYVORE, + BOURNEMOUTH. + + + + +NOTE + + +THE 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 rocks ahead. Thus, if I +wish the diphthong _ou_ to have its proper value, I may write _oor_ +instead of _our_; many have done so and lived, and the pillars of the +universe remained unshaken. But if I did so, and came presently to +_doun_, which is the classical Scots spelling of the English _down_, I +should begin to feel uneasy; and if I went on a little farther, and came +to a classical Scots word, like _stour_ or _dour_ or _clour_, 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 to a page of print in my native tongue, have lent a new +uncouthness. _Sed non nobis_. + +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’, 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. + + + + +CONTENTS + + BOOK I.—_In English_ + PAGE + I. ENVOY—Go, little book 1 + II. A SONG OF THE ROAD—The gauger walked 2 + III. THE CANOE SPEAKS—On the great streams 4 + IV. It is the season 7 + V. THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL—A naked house, a naked 9 + moor + VI. A VISIT FROM THE SEA—Far from the loud sea 12 + beaches + VII. TO A GARDENER—Friend, in my mountain-side 14 + demesne + VIII. TO MINNIE—A picture frame for you to fill 16 + IX. TO K. DE M.—A lover of the moorland bare 17 + X. TO N. V. DE G. S.—The unfathomable sea 19 + XI. TO WILL. H. LOW—Youth now flees 21 + XII. TO MRS. WILL. H. LOW—Even in the bluest 24 + noonday of July + XIII. TO H. F. BROWN—I sit and wait 26 + XIV. TO ANDREW LANG—Dear Andrew 29 + XV. ET TU IN ARCADIA VIXISTI—In ancient tales, 31 + O friend + XVI. TO W. E. HENLEY—The year runs through her 36 + phases + XVII. HENRY JAMES—Who comes to-night 38 + XVIII. THE MIRROR SPEAKS—Where the bells 39 + XIX. KATHARINE—We see you as we see a face 41 + XX. TO F. J. S.—I read, dear friend 42 + XXI. REQUIEM—Under the wide and starry sky 43 + XXII. THE CELESTIAL SURGEON—If I have faltered 44 + XXIII. OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS—Out of the sun 45 + XXIV. Not yet, my soul 50 + XXV. It is not yours, O mother, to complain 53 + XXVI. THE SICK CHILD—O mother, lay your hand on 56 + my brow + XXVII. IN MEMORIAM F. A. S.—Yet, O stricken heart 58 + XXVIII. TO MY FATHER—Peace and her huge invasion 60 + XXIX. IN THE STATES—With half a heart 62 + XXX. A PORTRAIT—I am a kind of farthing dip 63 + XXXI. Sing clearlier, Muse 65 + XXXII. A CAMP—The bed was made 66 + XXXIII. THE COUNTRY OF THE CAMISARDS—We travelled 67 + in the print of olden wars + XXXIV. SKERRYVORE—For love of lovely words 68 + XXXV. SKERRYVORE: THE PARALLEL—Here all is sunny 69 + XXXVI. My house, I say 70 + XXXVII. My body which my dungeon is 71 + XXXVIII. Say not of me that weakly I declined 73 + BOOK II.—_In Scots_ + I. THE MAKER TO POSTERITY—Far ’yont amang the 77 + years to be + II. ILLE TERRARUM—Frae nirly, nippin’, Eas’lan’ 80 + breeze + III. When aince Aprile has fairly come 85 + IV. A MILE AN’ A BITTOCK 87 + V. A LOWDEN SABBATH MORN—The clinkum-clank o’ 89 + Sabbath bells + VI. THE SPAEWIFE—O, I wad like to ken 98 + VII. THE BLAST—1875—It’s rainin’. Weet’s the 100 + gairden sod + VIII. THE COUNTERBLAST—1886—My bonny man, the 103 + warld, it’s true + IX. THE COUNTERBLAST IRONICAL—It’s strange that 108 + God should fash to frame + X. THEIR LAUREATE TO AN ACADEMY CLASS DINNER 110 + CLUB—Dear Thamson class, whaure’er I gang + XI. EMBRO HIE KIRK—The Lord Himsel’ in former 114 + days + XII. THE SCOTSMAN’S RETURN FROM ABROAD—In mony a 118 + foreign pairt I’ve been + XIII. Late in the nicht 125 + XIV. MY CONSCIENCE!—Of a’ the ills that flesh 130 + can fear + XV. TO DOCTOR JOHN BROWN—By Lyne and Tyne, by 133 + Thames and Tees + XVI. It’s an owercome sooth for age an’ youth 138 + +BOOK I.—_In English_ + + +I—ENVOY + + + GO, little book, and wish to all + Flowers in the garden, meat in the hall, + A bin of wine, a spice of wit, + A house with lawns enclosing it, + A living river by the door, + A nightingale in the sycamore! + + + +II—A SONG OF THE ROAD + + + THE gauger walked with willing foot, + And aye the gauger played the flute; + And what should Master Gauger play + But _Over the hills and far away_? + + Whene’er I buckle on my pack + And foot it gaily in the track, + O pleasant gauger, long since dead, + I hear you fluting on ahead. + + You go with me the self-same way— + The self-same air for me you play; + For I do think and so do you + It is the tune to travel to. + + For who would gravely set his face + To go to this or t’other place? + There’s nothing under Heav’n so blue + That’s fairly worth the travelling to. + + On every hand the roads begin, + And people walk with zeal therein; + But wheresoe’er the highways tend, + Be sure there’s nothing at the end. + + Then follow you, wherever hie + The travelling mountains of the sky. + Or let the streams in civil mode + Direct your choice upon a road; + + For one and all, or high or low, + Will lead you where you wish to go; + And one and all go night and day + _Over the hills and far away_! + +_Forest of Montargis_, 1878. + + + +III—THE CANOE SPEAKS + + + ON the great streams the ships may go + About men’s business to and fro. + But I, the egg-shell pinnace, sleep + On crystal waters ankle-deep: + I, whose diminutive design, + Of sweeter cedar, pithier pine, + Is fashioned on so frail a mould, + A hand may launch, a hand withhold: + I, rather, with the leaping trout + Wind, among lilies, in and out; + I, the unnamed, inviolate, + Green, rustic rivers, navigate; + My dipping paddle scarcely shakes + The berry in the bramble-brakes; + Still forth on my green way I wend + Beside the cottage garden-end; + And by the nested angler fare, + And take the lovers unaware. + By willow wood and water-wheel + Speedily fleets my touching keel; + By all retired and shady spots + Where prosper dim forget-me-nots; + By meadows where at afternoon + The growing maidens troop in June + To loose their girdles on the grass. + Ah! speedier than before the glass + The backward toilet goes; and swift + As swallows quiver, robe and shift + And the rough country stockings lie + Around each young divinity. + When, following the recondite brook, + Sudden upon this scene I look, + And light with unfamiliar face + On chaste Diana’s bathing-place, + Loud ring the hills about and all + The shallows are abandoned. . . . + + + +IV + + + IT is the season now to go + About the country high and low, + Among the lilacs hand in hand, + And two by two in fairy land. + + The brooding boy, the sighing maid, + Wholly fain and half afraid, + Now meet along the hazel’d brook + To pass and linger, pause and look. + + A year ago, and blithely paired, + Their rough-and-tumble play they shared; + They kissed and quarrelled, laughed and cried, + A year ago at Eastertide. + + With bursting heart, with fiery face, + She strove against him in the race; + He unabashed her garter saw, + That now would touch her skirts with awe. + + Now by the stile ablaze she stops, + And his demurer eyes he drops; + Now they exchange averted sighs + Or stand and marry silent eyes. + + And he to her a hero is + And sweeter she than primroses; + Their common silence dearer far + Than nightingale and mavis are. + + Now when they sever wedded hands, + Joy trembles in their bosom-strands + And lovely laughter leaps and falls + Upon their lips in madrigals. + + + +V—THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL + + + _A naked house_, _a naked moor_, + _A shivering pool before the door_, + _A garden bare of flowers and fruit_ + _And poplars at the garden foot_: + _Such is the place that I live in_, + _Bleak without and bare within_. + + Yet shall your ragged moor receive + The incomparable pomp of eve, + And the cold glories of the dawn + Behind your shivering trees be drawn; + And when the wind from place to place + Doth the unmoored cloud-galleons chase, + Your garden gloom and gleam again, + With leaping sun, with glancing rain. + Here shall the wizard moon ascend + The heavens, in the crimson end + Of day’s declining splendour; here + The army of the stars appear. + The neighbour hollows dry or wet, + Spring shall with tender flowers beset; + And oft the morning muser see + Larks rising from the broomy lea, + And every fairy wheel and thread + Of cobweb dew-bediamonded. + When daisies go, shall winter time + Silver the simple grass with rime; + Autumnal frosts enchant the pool + And make the cart-ruts beautiful; + And when snow-bright the moor expands, + How shall your children clap their hands! + To make this earth our hermitage, + A cheerful and a changeful page, + God’s bright and intricate device + Of days and seasons doth suffice. + + + +VI—A VISIT FROM THE SEA + + + FAR from the loud sea beaches + Where he goes fishing and crying, + Here in the inland garden + Why is the sea-gull flying? + + Here are no fish to dive for; + Here is the corn and lea; + Here are the green trees rustling. + Hie away home to sea! + + Fresh is the river water + And quiet among the rushes; + This is no home for the sea-gull + But for the rooks and thrushes. + + Pity the bird that has wandered! + Pity the sailor ashore! + Hurry him home to the ocean, + Let him come here no more! + + High on the sea-cliff ledges + The white gulls are trooping and crying, + Here among the rooks and roses, + Why is the sea-gull flying? + + + +VII—TO A GARDENER + + + FRIEND, in my mountain-side demesne + My plain-beholding, rosy, green + And linnet-haunted garden-ground, + Let still the esculents abound. + Let first the onion flourish there, + Rose among roots, the maiden-fair, + Wine-scented and poetic soul + Of the capacious salad bowl. + Let thyme the mountaineer (to dress + The tinier birds) and wading cress, + The lover of the shallow brook, + From all my plots and borders look. + + Nor crisp and ruddy radish, nor + Pease-cods for the child’s pinafore + Be lacking; nor of salad clan + The last and least that ever ran + About great nature’s garden-beds. + Nor thence be missed the speary heads + Of artichoke; nor thence the bean + That gathered innocent and green + Outsavours the belauded pea. + + These tend, I prithee; and for me, + Thy most long-suffering master, bring + In April, when the linnets sing + And the days lengthen more and more + At sundown to the garden door. + And I, being provided thus. + Shall, with superb asparagus, + A book, a taper, and a cup + Of country wine, divinely sup. + +_La Solitude_, _Hyères_. + + + +VIII—TO MINNIE + + + (With a hand-glass) + + A PICTURE-FRAME for you to fill, + A paltry setting for your face, + A thing that has no worth until + You lend it something of your grace + + I send (unhappy I that sing + Laid by awhile upon the shelf) + Because I would not send a thing + Less charming than you are yourself. + + And happier than I, alas! + (Dumb thing, I envy its delight) + ’Twill wish you well, the looking-glass, + And look you in the face to-night. + +1869. + + + +IX—TO K. DE M. + + + A LOVER of the moorland bare + And honest country winds, you were; + The silver-skimming rain you took; + And loved the floodings of the brook, + Dew, frost and mountains, fire and seas, + Tumultuary silences, + Winds that in darkness fifed a tune, + And the high-riding, virgin moon. + + And as the berry, pale and sharp, + Springs on some ditch’s counterscarp + In our ungenial, native north— + You put your frosted wildings forth, + And on the heath, afar from man, + A strong and bitter virgin ran. + + The berry ripened keeps the rude + And racy flavour of the wood. + And you that loved the empty plain + All redolent of wind and rain, + Around you still the curlew sings— + The freshness of the weather clings— + The maiden jewels of the rain + Sit in your dabbled locks again. + + + +X—TO N. V. DE G. S. + + + THE unfathomable sea, and time, and tears, + The deeds of heroes and the crimes of kings + Dispart us; and the river of events + Has, for an age of years, to east and west + More widely borne our cradles. Thou to me + Art foreign, as when seamen at the dawn + Descry a land far off and know not which. + So I approach uncertain; so I cruise + Round thy mysterious islet, and behold + Surf and great mountains and loud river-bars, + And from the shore hear inland voices call. + + Strange is the seaman’s heart; he hopes, he fears; + Draws closer and sweeps wider from that coast; + Last, his rent sail refits, and to the deep + His shattered prow uncomforted puts back. + Yet as he goes he ponders at the helm + Of that bright island; where he feared to touch, + His spirit readventures; and for years, + Where by his wife he slumbers safe at home, + Thoughts of that land revisit him; he sees + The eternal mountains beckon, and awakes + Yearning for that far home that might have been. + + + +XI—TO WILL. H. LOW + + + YOUTH now flees on feathered foot + Faint and fainter sounds the flute, + Rarer songs of gods; and still + Somewhere on the sunny hill, + Or along the winding stream, + Through the willows, flits a dream; + Flits but shows a smiling face, + Flees but with so quaint a grace, + None can choose to stay at home, + All must follow, all must roam. + + This is unborn beauty: she + Now in air floats high and free, + Takes the sun and breaks the blue;— + Late with stooping pinion flew + Raking hedgerow trees, and wet + Her wing in silver streams, and set + Shining foot on temple roof: + Now again she flies aloof, + Coasting mountain clouds and kiss’t + By the evening’s amethyst. + + In wet wood and miry lane, + Still we pant and pound in vain; + Still with leaden foot we chase + Waning pinion, fainting face; + Still with gray hair we stumble on, + Till, behold, the vision gone! + + Where hath fleeting beauty led? + To the doorway of the dead. + Life is over, life was gay: + We have come the primrose way. + + + +XII—TO MRS. WILL. H. LOW + + + EVEN in the bluest noonday of July, + There could not run the smallest breath of wind + But all the quarter sounded like a wood; + And in the chequered silence and above + The hum of city cabs that sought the Bois, + Suburban ashes shivered into song. + A patter and a chatter and a chirp + And a long dying hiss—it was as though + Starched old brocaded dames through all the house + Had trailed a strident skirt, or the whole sky + Even in a wink had over-brimmed in rain. + + Hark, in these shady parlours, how it talks + Of the near Autumn, how the smitten ash + Trembles and augurs floods! O not too long + In these inconstant latitudes delay, + O not too late from the unbeloved north + Trim your escape! For soon shall this low roof + Resound indeed with rain, soon shall your eyes + Search the foul garden, search the darkened rooms, + Nor find one jewel but the blazing log. + +12 _Rue Vernier_, _Paris_. + + + +XIII—TO H. F. BROWN + + + (Written during a dangerous sickness.) + + I SIT and wait a pair of oars + On cis-Elysian river-shores. + Where the immortal dead have sate, + ’Tis mine to sit and meditate; + To re-ascend life’s rivulet, + Without remorse, without regret; + And sing my _Alma Genetrix_ + Among the willows of the Styx. + + And lo, as my serener soul + Did these unhappy shores patrol, + And wait with an attentive ear + The coming of the gondolier, + Your fire-surviving roll I took, + Your spirited and happy book; {27} + Whereon, despite my frowning fate, + It did my soul so recreate + That all my fancies fled away + On a Venetian holiday. + + Now, thanks to your triumphant care, + Your pages clear as April air, + The sails, the bells, the birds, I know, + And the far-off Friulan snow; + The land and sea, the sun and shade, + And the blue even lamp-inlaid. + For this, for these, for all, O friend, + For your whole book from end to end— + For Paron Piero’s muttonham— + I your defaulting debtor am. + + Perchance, reviving, yet may I + To your sea-paven city hie, + And in a _felze_, some day yet + Light at your pipe my cigarette. + + + +XIV—TO ANDREW LANG + + + DEAR Andrew, with the brindled hair, + Who glory to have thrown in air, + High over arm, the trembling reed, + By Ale and Kail, by Till and Tweed: + An equal craft of hand you show + The pen to guide, the fly to throw: + I count you happy starred; for God, + When He with inkpot and with rod + Endowed you, bade your fortune lead + Forever by the crooks of Tweed, + Forever by the woods of song + And lands that to the Muse belong; + Or if in peopled streets, or in + The abhorred pedantic sanhedrim, + It should be yours to wander, still + Airs of the morn, airs of the hill, + The plovery Forest and the seas + That break about the Hebrides, + Should follow over field and plain + And find you at the window pane; + And you again see hill and peel, + And the bright springs gush at your heel. + So went the fiat forth, and so + Garrulous like a brook you go, + With sound of happy mirth and sheen + Of daylight—whether by the green + You fare that moment, or the gray; + Whether you dwell in March or May; + Or whether treat of reels and rods + Or of the old unhappy gods: + Still like a brook your page has shone, + And your ink sings of Helicon. + + + +XV—ET TU IN ARCADIA VIXISTI + + + (TO R. A. M. S.) + + IN ancient tales, O friend, thy spirit dwelt; + There, from of old, thy childhood passed; and there + High expectation, high delights and deeds, + Thy fluttering heart with hope and terror moved. + And thou hast heard of yore the Blatant Beast, + And Roland’s horn, and that war-scattering shout + Of all-unarmed Achilles, ægis-crowned + And perilous lands thou sawest, sounding shores + And seas and forests drear, island and dale + And mountain dark. For thou with Tristram rod’st + Or Bedevere, in farthest Lyonesse. + + Thou hadst a booth in Samarcand, whereat + Side-looking Magians trafficked; thence, by night, + An Afreet snatched thee, and with wings upbore + Beyond the Aral mount; or, hoping gain, + Thou, with a jar of money, didst embark, + For Balsorah, by sea. But chiefly thou + In that clear air took’st life; in Arcady + The haunted, land of song; and by the wells + Where most the gods frequent. There Chiron old, + In the Pelethronian antre, taught thee lore: + The plants, he taught, and by the shining stars + In forests dim to steer. There hast thou seen + Immortal Pan dance secret in a glade, + And, dancing, roll his eyes; these, where they fell, + Shed glee, and through the congregated oaks + A flying horror winged; while all the earth + To the god’s pregnant footing thrilled within. + Or whiles, beside the sobbing stream, he breathed, + In his clutched pipe unformed and wizard strains + Divine yet brutal; which the forest heard, + And thou, with awe; and far upon the plain + The unthinking ploughman started and gave ear. + + Now things there are that, upon him who sees, + A strong vocation lay; and strains there are + That whoso hears shall hear for evermore. + For evermore thou hear’st immortal Pan + And those melodious godheads, ever young + And ever quiring, on the mountains old. + + What was this earth, child of the gods, to thee? + Forth from thy dreamland thou, a dreamer, cam’st + And in thine ears the olden music rang, + And in thy mind the doings of the dead, + And those heroic ages long forgot. + To a so fallen earth, alas! too late, + Alas! in evil days, thy steps return, + To list at noon for nightingales, to grow + A dweller on the beach till Argo come + That came long since, a lingerer by the pool + Where that desirèd angel bathes no more. + + As when the Indian to Dakota comes, + Or farthest Idaho, and where he dwelt, + He with his clan, a humming city finds; + Thereon awhile, amazed, he stares, and then + To right and leftward, like a questing dog, + Seeks first the ancestral altars, then the hearth + Long cold with rains, and where old terror lodged, + And where the dead. So thee undying Hope, + With all her pack, hunts screaming through the years: + Here, there, thou fleeëst; but nor here nor there + The pleasant gods abide, the glory dwells. + + That, that was not Apollo, not the god. + This was not Venus, though she Venus seemed + A moment. And though fair yon river move, + She, all the way, from disenchanted fount + To seas unhallowed runs; the gods forsook + Long since her trembling rushes; from her plains + Disconsolate, long since adventure fled; + And now although the inviting river flows, + And every poplared cape, and every bend + Or willowy islet, win upon thy soul + And to thy hopeful shallop whisper speed; + Yet hope not thou at all; hope is no more; + And O, long since the golden groves are dead + The faery cities vanished from the land! + + + +XVI—TO W. E. HENLEY + + + THE year runs through her phases; rain and sun, + Springtime and summer pass; winter succeeds; + But one pale season rules the house of death. + Cold falls the imprisoned daylight; fell disease + By each lean pallet squats, and pain and sleep + Toss gaping on the pillows. + But O thou! + Uprise and take thy pipe. Bid music flow, + Strains by good thoughts attended, like the spring + The swallows follow over land and sea. + Pain sleeps at once; at once, with open eyes, + Dozing despair awakes. The shepherd sees + His flock come bleating home; the seaman hears + Once more the cordage rattle. Airs of home! + Youth, love and roses blossom; the gaunt ward + Dislimns and disappears, and, opening out, + Shows brooks and forests, and the blue beyond + Of mountains. + Small the pipe; but oh! do thou, + Peak-faced and suffering piper, blow therein + The dirge of heroes dead; and to these sick, + These dying, sound the triumph over death. + Behold! each greatly breathes; each tastes a joy + Unknown before, in dying; for each knows + A hero dies with him—though unfulfilled, + Yet conquering truly—and not dies in vain + + So is pain cheered, death comforted; the house + Of sorrow smiles to listen. Once again— + O thou, Orpheus and Heracles, the bard + And the deliverer, touch the stops again! + + + +XVII—HENRY JAMES + + + WHO comes to-night? We ope the doors in vain. + Who comes? My bursting walls, can you contain + The presences that now together throng + Your narrow entry, as with flowers and song, + As with the air of life, the breath of talk? + Lo, how these fair immaculate women walk + Behind their jocund maker; and we see + Slighted _De Mauves_, and that far different she, + _Gressie_, the trivial sphynx; and to our feast + _Daisy_ and _Barb_ and _Chancellor_ (she not least!) + With all their silken, all their airy kin, + Do like unbidden angels enter in. + But he, attended by these shining names, + Comes (best of all) himself—our welcome James. + + + +XVIII—THE MIRROR SPEAKS + + + WHERE the bells peal far at sea + Cunning fingers fashioned me. + There on palace walls I hung + While that Consuelo sung; + But I heard, though I listened well, + Never a note, never a trill, + Never a beat of the chiming bell. + There I hung and looked, and there + In my gray face, faces fair + Shone from under shining hair. + Well I saw the poising head, + But the lips moved and nothing said; + And when lights were in the hall, + Silent moved the dancers all. + + So awhile I glowed, and then + Fell on dusty days and men; + Long I slumbered packed in straw, + Long I none but dealers saw; + Till before my silent eye + One that sees came passing by. + + Now with an outlandish grace, + To the sparkling fire I face + In the blue room at Skerryvore; + Where I wait until the door + Open, and the Prince of Men, + Henry James, shall come again. + + + +XIX—KATHARINE + + + WE see you as we see a face + That trembles in a forest place + Upon the mirror of a pool + Forever quiet, clear and cool; + And in the wayward glass, appears + To hover between smiles and tears, + Elfin and human, airy and true, + And backed by the reflected blue. + + + +XX—TO F. J. S. + + + I READ, dear friend, in your dear face + Your life’s tale told with perfect grace; + The river of your life, I trace + Up the sun-chequered, devious bed + To the far-distant fountain-head. + + Not one quick beat of your warm heart, + Nor thought that came to you apart, + Pleasure nor pity, love nor pain + Nor sorrow, has gone by in vain; + + But as some lone, wood-wandering child + Brings home with him at evening mild + The thorns and flowers of all the wild, + From your whole life, O fair and true + Your flowers and thorns you bring with you! + + + +XXI—REQUIEM + + + UNDER the wide and starry sky, + Dig the grave and let me lie. + Glad did I live and gladly die, + And I laid me down with a will. + + This be the verse you grave for me: + _Here he lies where he longed to be_; + _Home is the sailor_, _home from sea_, + _And the hunter home from the hill_. + + + +XXII—THE CELESTIAL SURGEON + + + IF I have faltered more or less + In my great task of happiness; + If I have moved among my race + And shown no glorious morning face; + If beams from happy human eyes + Have moved me not; if morning skies, + Books, and my food, and summer rain + Knocked on my sullen heart in vain:— + Lord, thy most pointed pleasure take + And stab my spirit broad awake; + Or, Lord, if too obdurate I, + Choose thou, before that spirit die, + A piercing pain, a killing sin, + And to my dead heart run them in! + + + +XXIII—OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS + + + OUT of the sun, out of the blast, + Out of the world, alone I passed + Across the moor and through the wood + To where the monastery stood. + There neither lute nor breathing fife, + Nor rumour of the world of life, + Nor confidences low and dear, + Shall strike the meditative ear. + Aloof, unhelpful, and unkind, + The prisoners of the iron mind, + Where nothing speaks except the hell + The unfraternal brothers dwell. + + Poor passionate men, still clothed afresh + With agonising folds of flesh; + Whom the clear eyes solicit still + To some bold output of the will, + While fairy Fancy far before + And musing Memory-Hold-the-door + Now to heroic death invite + And now uncurtain fresh delight: + O, little boots it thus to dwell + On the remote unneighboured hill! + + O to be up and doing, O + Unfearing and unshamed to go + In all the uproar and the press + About my human business! + My undissuaded heart I hear + Whisper courage in my ear. + With voiceless calls, the ancient earth + Summons me to a daily birth. + + Thou, O my love, ye, O my friends— + The gist of life, the end of ends— + To laugh, to love, to live, to die, + Ye call me by the ear and eye! + + Forth from the casemate, on the plain + Where honour has the world to gain, + Pour forth and bravely do your part, + O knights of the unshielded heart! + Forth and forever forward!—out + From prudent turret and redoubt, + And in the mellay charge amain, + To fall but yet to rise again! + Captive? ah, still, to honour bright, + A captive soldier of the right! + Or free and fighting, good with ill? + Unconquering but unconquered still! + + And ye, O brethren, what if God, + When from Heav’n’s top he spies abroad, + And sees on this tormented stage + The noble war of mankind rage: + What if his vivifying eye, + O monks, should pass your corner by? + For still the Lord is Lord of might; + In deeds, in deeds, he takes delight; + The plough, the spear, the laden barks, + The field, the founded city, marks; + He marks the smiler of the streets, + The singer upon garden seats; + He sees the climber in the rocks: + To him, the shepherd folds his flocks. + For those he loves that underprop + With daily virtues Heaven’s top, + And bear the falling sky with ease, + Unfrowning caryatides. + Those he approves that ply the trade, + That rock the child, that wed the maid, + That with weak virtues, weaker hands, + Sow gladness on the peopled lands, + And still with laughter, song and shout, + Spin the great wheel of earth about. + + But ye?—O ye who linger still + Here in your fortress on the hill, + With placid face, with tranquil breath, + The unsought volunteers of death, + Our cheerful General on high + With careless looks may pass you by. + + + +XXIV + + + NOT yet, my soul, these friendly fields desert, + Where thou with grass, and rivers, and the breeze, + And the bright face of day, thy dalliance hadst; + Where to thine ear first sang the enraptured birds; + Where love and thou that lasting bargain made. + The ship rides trimmed, and from the eternal shore + Thou hearest airy voices; but not yet + Depart, my soul, not yet awhile depart. + + Freedom is far, rest far. Thou art with life + Too closely woven, nerve with nerve intwined; + Service still craving service, love for love, + Love for dear love, still suppliant with tears. + Alas, not yet thy human task is done! + A bond at birth is forged; a debt doth lie + Immortal on mortality. It grows— + By vast rebound it grows, unceasing growth; + Gift upon gift, alms upon alms, upreared, + From man, from God, from nature, till the soul + At that so huge indulgence stands amazed. + + Leave not, my soul, the unfoughten field, nor leave + Thy debts dishonoured, nor thy place desert + Without due service rendered. For thy life, + Up, spirit, and defend that fort of clay, + Thy body, now beleaguered; whether soon + Or late she fall; whether to-day thy friends + Bewail thee dead, or, after years, a man + Grown old in honour and the friend of peace. + Contend, my soul, for moments and for hours; + Each is with service pregnant; each reclaimed + Is as a kingdom conquered, where to reign. + + As when a captain rallies to the fight + His scattered legions, and beats ruin back, + He, on the field, encamps, well pleased in mind. + Yet surely him shall fortune overtake, + Him smite in turn, headlong his ensigns drive; + And that dear land, now safe, to-morrow fall. + But he, unthinking, in the present good + Solely delights, and all the camps rejoice. + + + +XXV + + + IT is not yours, O mother, to complain, + Not, mother, yours to weep, + Though nevermore your son again + Shall to your bosom creep, + Though nevermore again you watch your baby sleep. + + Though in the greener paths of earth, + Mother and child, no more + We wander; and no more the birth + Of me whom once you bore, + Seems still the brave reward that once it seemed of yore; + + Though as all passes, day and night, + The seasons and the years, + From you, O mother, this delight, + This also disappears— + Some profit yet survives of all your pangs and tears. + + The child, the seed, the grain of corn, + The acorn on the hill, + Each for some separate end is born + In season fit, and still + Each must in strength arise to work the almighty will. + + So from the hearth the children flee, + By that almighty hand + Austerely led; so one by sea + Goes forth, and one by land; + Nor aught of all man’s sons escapes from that command + + So from the sally each obeys + The unseen almighty nod; + So till the ending all their ways + Blindfolded loth have trod: + Nor knew their task at all, but were the tools of God. + + And as the fervent smith of yore + Beat out the glowing blade, + Nor wielded in the front of war + The weapons that he made, + But in the tower at home still plied his ringing trade; + + So like a sword the son shall roam + On nobler missions sent; + And as the smith remained at home + In peaceful turret pent, + So sits the while at home the mother well content. + + + +XXVI—THE SICK CHILD + + + _Child_. O MOTHER, lay your hand on my brow! + O mother, mother, where am I now? + Why is the room so gaunt and great? + Why am I lying awake so late? + + _Mother_. Fear not at all: the night is still. + Nothing is here that means you ill— + Nothing but lamps the whole town through, + And never a child awake but you. + + _Child_. Mother, mother, speak low in my ear, + Some of the things are so great and near, + Some are so small and far away, + I have a fear that I cannot say, + What have I done, and what do I fear, + And why are you crying, mother dear? + + _Mother_. Out in the city, sounds begin + Thank the kind God, the carts come in! + An hour or two more, and God is so kind, + The day shall be blue in the window-blind, + Then shall my child go sweetly asleep, + And dream of the birds and the hills of sheep. + + + +XXVII—IN MEMORIAM F. A. S. + + + YET, O stricken heart, remember, O remember + How of human days he lived the better part. + April came to bloom and never dim December + Breathed its killing chills upon the head or heart. + + Doomed to know not Winter, only Spring, a being + Trod the flowery April blithely for a while, + Took his fill of music, joy of thought and seeing, + Came and stayed and went, nor ever ceased to smile. + + Came and stayed and went, and now when all is finished, + You alone have crossed the melancholy stream, + Yours the pang, but his, O his, the undiminished + Undecaying gladness, undeparted dream. + + All that life contains of torture, toil, and treason, + Shame, dishonour, death, to him were but a name. + Here, a boy, he dwelt through all the singing season + And ere the day of sorrow departed as he came. + +_Davos_, 1881. + + + +XXVIII—TO MY FATHER + + + PEACE and her huge invasion to these shores + Puts daily home; innumerable sails + Dawn on the far horizon and draw near; + Innumerable loves, uncounted hopes + To our wild coasts, not darkling now, approach: + Not now obscure, since thou and thine are there, + And bright on the lone isle, the foundered reef, + The long, resounding foreland, Pharos stands. + + These are thy works, O father, these thy crown; + Whether on high the air be pure, they shine + Along the yellowing sunset, and all night + Among the unnumbered stars of God they shine; + Or whether fogs arise and far and wide + The low sea-level drown—each finds a tongue + And all night long the tolling bell resounds: + So shine, so toll, till night be overpast, + Till the stars vanish, till the sun return, + And in the haven rides the fleet secure. + + In the first hour, the seaman in his skiff + Moves through the unmoving bay, to where the town + Its earliest smoke into the air upbreathes + And the rough hazels climb along the beach. + To the tugg’d oar the distant echo speaks. + The ship lies resting, where by reef and roost + Thou and thy lights have led her like a child. + + This hast thou done, and I—can I be base? + I must arise, O father, and to port + Some lost, complaining seaman pilot home. + + + +XXIX—IN THE STATES + + + WITH half a heart I wander here + As from an age gone by + A brother—yet though young in years. + An elder brother, I. + + You speak another tongue than mine, + Though both were English born. + I towards the night of time decline, + You mount into the morn. + + Youth shall grow great and strong and free, + But age must still decay: + To-morrow for the States—for me, + England and Yesterday. + +_San Francisco_. + + + +XXX—A PORTRAIT + + + I AM a kind of farthing dip, + Unfriendly to the nose and eyes; + A blue-behinded ape, I skip + Upon the trees of Paradise. + + At mankind’s feast, I take my place + In solemn, sanctimonious state, + And have the air of saying grace + While I defile the dinner plate. + + I am “the smiler with the knife,” + The battener upon garbage, I— + Dear Heaven, with such a rancid life, + Were it not better far to die? + + Yet still, about the human pale, + I love to scamper, love to race, + To swing by my irreverent tail + All over the most holy place; + + And when at length, some golden day, + The unfailing sportsman, aiming at, + Shall bag, me—all the world shall say: + _Thank God_, _and there’s an end of that_! + + + +XXXI + + + SING clearlier, Muse, or evermore be still, + Sing truer or no longer sing! + No more the voice of melancholy Jacques + To wake a weeping echo in the hill; + But as the boy, the pirate of the spring, + From the green elm a living linnet takes, + One natural verse recapture—then be still. + + + +XXXII—A CAMP {66} + + + THE bed was made, the room was fit, + By punctual eve the stars were lit; + The air was still, the water ran, + No need was there for maid or man, + When we put up, my ass and I, + At God’s green caravanserai. + + + +XXXIII—THE COUNTRY OF THE CAMISARDS {67} + + + WE travelled in the print of olden wars, + Yet all the land was green, + And love we found, and peace, + Where fire and war had been. + + They pass and smile, the children of the sword— + No more the sword they wield; + And O, how deep the corn + Along the battlefield! + + + +XXXIV—SKERRYVORE + + + FOR love of lovely words, and for the sake + Of those, my kinsmen and my countrymen, + Who early and late in the windy ocean toiled + To plant a star for seamen, where was then + The surfy haunt of seals and cormorants: + I, on the lintel of this cot, inscribe + The name of a strong tower. + + + +XXXV—SKERRYVORE: THE PARALLEL + + + HERE all is sunny, and when the truant gull + Skims the green level of the lawn, his wing + Dispetals roses; here the house is framed + Of kneaded brick and the plumed mountain pine, + Such clay as artists fashion and such wood + As the tree-climbing urchin breaks. But there + Eternal granite hewn from the living isle + And dowelled with brute iron, rears a tower + That from its wet foundation to its crown + Of glittering glass, stands, in the sweep of winds, + Immovable, immortal, eminent. + + + +XXXVI + + + _My house_, I say. But hark to the sunny doves + That make my roof the arena of their loves, + That gyre about the gable all day long + And fill the chimneys with their murmurous song: + _Our house_, they say; and _mine_, the cat declares + And spreads his golden fleece upon the chairs; + And _mine_ the dog, and rises stiff with wrath + If any alien foot profane the path. + So too the buck that trimmed my terraces, + Our whilome gardener, called the garden his; + Who now, deposed, surveys my plain abode + And his late kingdom, only from the road. + + + +XXXVII + + + MY body which my dungeon is, + And yet my parks and palaces:— + Which is so great that there I go + All the day long to and fro, + And when the night begins to fall + Throw down my bed and sleep, while all + The building hums with wakefulness— + Even as a child of savages + When evening takes her on her way, + (She having roamed a summer’s day + Along the mountain-sides and scalp) + Sleeps in an antre of that alp:— + Which is so broad and high that there, + As in the topless fields of air, + My fancy soars like to a kite + And faints in the blue infinite:— + Which is so strong, my strongest throes + And the rough world’s besieging blows + Not break it, and so weak withal, + Death ebbs and flows in its loose wall + As the green sea in fishers’ nets, + And tops its topmost parapets:— + Which is so wholly mine that I + Can wield its whole artillery, + And mine so little, that my soul + Dwells in perpetual control, + And I but think and speak and do + As my dead fathers move me to:— + If this born body of my bones + The beggared soul so barely owns, + What money passed from hand to hand, + What creeping custom of the land, + What deed of author or assign, + Can make a house a thing of mine? + + + +XXXVIII + + + SAY not of me that weakly I declined + The labours of my sires, and fled the sea, + The towers we founded and the lamps we lit, + To play at home with paper like a child. + But rather say: _In the afternoon of time_ + _A strenuous family dusted from its hands_ + _The sand of granite_, _and beholding far_ + _Along the sounding coast its pyramids_ + _And tall memorials catch the dying sun_, + _Smiled well content_, _and to this childish task_ + _Around the fire addressed its evening hours_. + + + + +BOOK II.—_In Scots_ + + +TABLE OF COMMON SCOTTISH VOWEL SOUNDS + +ae, ai open A as in rare. +a’, au, aw AW as in law. +ea open E as in mere, but this with + exceptions, as heather = heather, + wean = wain, lear = lair. +ee, ei, ie open E as in mere. +oa open O as in more. +ou doubled O as in poor. +ow OW as in bower. +u doubled O as in poor. +ui or ü before R (say roughly) open A as in rare. +ui or ü before any other (say roughly) close I as in grin. +consonant +y open I as in kite. +i 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. + + + + + +I—THE MAKER TO POSTERITY + + + FAR ’yont amang the years to be + When a’ we think, an’ a’ we see, + An’ a’ we luve, ’s been dung ajee + By time’s rouch shouther, + An’ what was richt and wrang for me + Lies mangled throu’ther, + + It’s possible—it’s hardly mair— + That some ane, ripin’ after lear— + Some auld professor or young heir, + If still there’s either— + May find an’ read me, an’ be sair + Perplexed, puir brither! + + “_What tongue does your auld bookie speak_?” + He’ll spier; an’ I, his mou to steik: + “_No bein’ fit to write in Greek_, + _I write in Lallan_, + _Dear to my heart as the peat reek_, + _Auld as Tantallon_. + + “_Few spak it then_, _an’ noo there’s nane_. + _My puir auld sangs lie a’ their lane_, + _Their sense_, _that aince was braw an’ plain_, + _Tint a’thegether_, + _Like runes upon a standin’ stane_ + _Amang the heather_. + + “_But think not you the brae to speel_; + _You_, _tae_, _maun chow the bitter peel_; + _For a’ your lear_, _for a’ your skeel_, + _Ye’re nane sae lucky_; + _An’ things are mebbe waur than weel_ + _For you_, _my buckie_. + + “_The hale concern_ (_baith hens an’ eggs_, + _Baith books an’ writers_, _stars an’ clegs_) + _Noo stachers upon lowsent legs_ + _An’ wears awa’_; + _The tack o’ mankind_, _near the dregs_, + _Rins unco law_. + + “_Your book_, _that in some braw new tongue_, + _Ye wrote or prentit_, _preached or sung_, + _Will still be just a bairn_, _an’ young_ + _In fame an’ years_, + _Whan the hale planet’s guts are dung_ + _About your ears_; + + “_An’ you_, _sair gruppin’ to a spar_ + _Or whammled wi’ some bleezin’ star_, + _Cryin’ to ken whaur deil ye are_, + _Hame_, _France_, _or Flanders_— + _Whang sindry like a railway car_ + _An’ flie in danders_.” + + + +II—ILLE TERRARUM + + + FRAE nirly, nippin’, Eas’lan’ breeze, + Frae Norlan’ snaw, an’ haar o’ seas, + Weel happit in your gairden trees, + A bonny bit, + Atween the muckle Pentland’s knees, + Secure ye sit. + + Beeches an’ aiks entwine their theek, + An’ firs, a stench, auld-farrant clique. + A’ simmer day, your chimleys reek, + Couthy and bien; + An’ here an’ there your windies keek + Amang the green. + + A pickle plats an’ paths an’ posies, + A wheen auld gillyflowers an’ roses: + A ring o’ wa’s the hale encloses + Frae sheep or men; + An’ there the auld housie beeks an’ dozes, + A’ by her lane. + + The gairdner crooks his weary back + A’ day in the pitaty-track, + Or mebbe stops awhile to crack + Wi’ Jane the cook, + Or at some buss, worm-eaten-black, + To gie a look. + + Frae the high hills the curlew ca’s; + The sheep gang baaing by the wa’s; + Or whiles a clan o’ roosty craws + Cangle thegether; + The wild bees seek the gairden raws, + Weariet wi’ heather. + + Or in the gloamin’ douce an’ gray + The sweet-throat mavis tunes her lay; + The herd comes linkin’ doun the brae; + An’ by degrees + The muckle siller müne maks way + Amang the trees. + + Here aft hae I, wi’ sober heart, + For meditation sat apairt, + When orra loves or kittle art + Perplexed my mind; + Here socht a balm for ilka smart + O’ humankind. + + Here aft, weel neukit by my lane, + Wi’ Horace, or perhaps Montaigne, + The mornin’ hours hae come an’ gane + Abüne my heid— + I wadnae gi’en a chucky-stane + For a’ I’d read. + + But noo the auld city, street by street, + An’ winter fu’ o’ snaw an’ sleet, + Awhile shut in my gangrel feet + An’ goavin’ mettle; + Noo is the soopit ingle sweet, + An’ liltin’ kettle. + + An’ noo the winter winds complain; + Cauld lies the glaur in ilka lane; + On draigled hizzie, tautit wean + An’ drucken lads, + In the mirk nicht, the winter rain + Dribbles an’ blads. + + Whan bugles frae the Castle rock, + An’ beaten drums wi’ dowie shock, + Wauken, at cauld-rife sax o’clock, + My chitterin’ frame, + I mind me on the kintry cock, + The kintry hame. + + I mind me on yon bonny bield; + An’ Fancy traivels far afield + To gaither a’ that gairdens yield + O’ sun an’ Simmer: + To hearten up a dowie chield, + Fancy’s the limmer! + + + +III + + + WHEN aince Aprile has fairly come, + An’ birds may bigg in winter’s lum, + An’ pleisure’s spreid for a’ and some + O’ whatna state, + Love, wi’ her auld recruitin’ drum, + Than taks the gate. + + The heart plays dunt wi’ main an’ micht; + The lasses’ een are a’ sae bricht, + Their dresses are sae braw an’ ticht, + The bonny birdies!— + Puir winter virtue at the sicht + Gangs heels ower hurdies. + + An’ aye as love frae land to land + Tirls the drum wi’ eident hand, + A’ men collect at her command, + Toun-bred or land’art, + An’ follow in a denty band + Her gaucy standart. + + An’ I, wha sang o’ rain an’ snaw, + An’ weary winter weel awa’, + Noo busk me in a jacket braw, + An’ tak my place + I’ the ram-stam, harum-scarum raw, + Wi’ smilin’ face. + + + +IV—A MILE AN’ A BITTOCK + + + A MILE an’ a bittock, a mile or twa, + Abüthe burn, ayont the law, + Davie an’ Donal’ an’ Cherlie an’ a’, + An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly! + + Ane went hame wi’ the ither, an’ then + The ither went hame wi’ the ither twa men, + An’ baith wad return him the service again, + An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly! + + The clocks were chappin’ in house an’ ha’, + Eleeven, twal an’ ane an’ twa; + An’ the guidman’s face was turnt to the wa’, + An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly! + + A wind got up frae affa the sea, + It blew the stars as clear’s could be, + It blew in the een of a’ o’ the three, + An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly! + + Noo, Davie was first to get sleep in his head, + “The best o’ frien’s maun twine,” he said; + “I’m weariet, an’ here I’m awa’ to my bed.” + An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly! + + Twa o’ them walkin’ an’ crackin’ their lane, + The mornin’ licht cam gray an’ plain, + An’ the birds they yammert on stick an’ stane, + An’ the müne was shinin’ clearly! + + O years ayont, O years awa’, + My lads, ye’ll mind whate’er befa’— + My lads, ye’ll mind on the bield o’ the law, + When the müne was shinin’ clearly. + + + +V—A LOWDEN SABBATH MORN + + + THE clinkum-clank o’ Sabbath bells + Noo to the hoastin’ rookery swells, + Noo faintin’ laigh in shady dells, + Sounds far an’ near, + An’ through the simmer kintry tells + Its tale o’ cheer. + + An’ noo, to that melodious play, + A’ deidly awn the quiet sway— + A’ ken their solemn holiday, + Bestial an’ human, + The singin’ lintie on the brae, + The restin’ plou’man, + + He, mair than a’ the lave o’ men, + His week completit joys to ken; + Half-dressed, he daunders out an’ in, + Perplext wi’ leisure; + An’ his raxt limbs he’ll rax again + Wi’ painfü’ pleesure. + + The steerin’ mither strang afit + Noo shoos the bairnies but a bit; + Noo cries them ben, their Sinday shüit + To scart upon them, + Or sweeties in their pouch to pit, + Wi’ blessin’s on them. + + The lasses, clean frae tap to taes, + Are busked in crunklin’ underclaes; + The gartened hose, the weel-filled stays, + The nakit shift, + A’ bleached on bonny greens for days, + An’ white’s the drift. + + An’ noo to face the kirkward mile: + The guidman’s hat o’ dacent style, + The blackit shoon, we noo maun fyle + As white’s the miller: + A waefü’ peety tae, to spile + The warth o’ siller. + + Our Marg’et, aye sae keen to crack, + Douce-stappin’ in the stoury track, + Her emeralt goun a’ kiltit back + Frae snawy coats, + White-ankled, leads the kirkward pack + Wi’ Dauvit Groats. + + A thocht ahint, in runkled breeks, + A’ spiled wi’ lyin’ by for weeks, + The guidman follows closs, an’ cleiks + The sonsie missis; + His sarious face at aince bespeaks + The day that this is. + + And aye an’ while we nearer draw + To whaur the kirkton lies alaw, + Mair neebours, comin’ saft an’ slaw + Frae here an’ there, + The thicker thrang the gate an’ caw + The stour in air. + + But hark! the bells frae nearer clang; + To rowst the slaw, their sides they bang; + An’ see! black coats a’ready thrang + The green kirkyaird; + And at the yett, the chestnuts spang + That brocht the laird. + + The solemn elders at the plate + Stand drinkin’ deep the pride o’ state: + The practised hands as gash an’ great + As Lords o’ Session; + The later named, a wee thing blate + In their expression. + + The prentit stanes that mark the deid, + Wi’ lengthened lip, the sarious read; + Syne wag a moraleesin’ heid, + An’ then an’ there + Their hirplin’ practice an’ their creed + Try hard to square. + + It’s here our Merren lang has lain, + A wee bewast the table-stane; + An’ yon’s the grave o’ Sandy Blane; + An’ further ower, + The mither’s brithers, dacent men! + Lie a’ the fower. + + Here the guidman sall bide awee + To dwall amang the deid; to see + Auld faces clear in fancy’s e’e; + Belike to hear + Auld voices fa’in saft an’ slee + On fancy’s ear. + + Thus, on the day o’ solemn things, + The bell that in the steeple swings + To fauld a scaittered faim’ly rings + Its walcome screed; + An’ just a wee thing nearer brings + The quick an’ deid. + + But noo the bell is ringin’ in; + To tak their places, folk begin; + The minister himsel’ will shüne + Be up the gate, + Filled fu’ wi’ clavers about sin + An’ man’s estate. + + The tünes are up—_French_, to be shüre, + The faithfü’ _French_, an’ twa-three mair; + The auld prezentor, hoastin’ sair, + Wales out the portions, + An’ yirks the tüne into the air + Wi’ queer contortions. + + Follows the prayer, the readin’ next, + An’ than the fisslin’ for the text— + The twa-three last to find it, vext + But kind o’ proud; + An’ than the peppermints are raxed, + An’ southernwood. + + For noo’s the time whan pews are seen + Nid-noddin’ like a mandareen; + When tenty mithers stap a preen + In sleepin’ weans; + An’ nearly half the parochine + Forget their pains. + + There’s just a waukrif’ twa or three: + Thrawn commentautors sweer to ’gree, + Weans glowrin’ at the bumlin’ bee + On windie-glasses, + Or lads that tak a keek a-glee + At sonsie lasses. + + Himsel’, meanwhile, frae whaur he cocks + An’ bobs belaw the soundin’-box, + The treesures of his words unlocks + Wi’ prodigality, + An’ deals some unco dingin’ knocks + To infidality. + + Wi’ sappy unction, hoo he burkes + The hopes o’ men that trust in works, + Expounds the fau’ts o’ ither kirks, + An’ shaws the best o’ them + No muckle better than mere Turks, + When a’s confessed o’ them. + + Bethankit! what a bonny creed! + What mair would ony Christian need?— + The braw words rumm’le ower his heid, + Nor steer the sleeper; + And in their restin’ graves, the deid + Sleep aye the deeper. + +_Note_.—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. + + + +VI—THE SPAEWIFE + + + O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I— + Why chops are guid to brander and nane sae guid to fry. + An’ siller, that’s sae braw to keep, is brawer still to gi’e. + —_It’s gey an’ easy spierin’_, says the beggar-wife to me. + + O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I— + Hoo a’ things come to be whaur we find them when we try, + The lasses in their claes an’ the fishes in the sea. + —_It’s gey an’ easy spierin’_, says the beggar-wife to me. + + O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I— + Why lads are a’ to sell an’ lasses a’ to buy; + An’ naebody for dacency but barely twa or three + —_It’s gey an’ easy spierin’_, says the beggar-wife to me. + + O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar-wife says I— + Gin death’s as shüre to men as killin’ is to kye, + Why God has filled the yearth sae fu’ o’ tasty things to pree. + —_It’s gey an’ easy spierin’_, says the beggar-wife to me. + + O, I wad like to ken—to the beggar wife says I— + The reason o’ the cause an’ the wherefore o’ the why, + Wi’ mony anither riddle brings the tear into my e’e. + —_It’s gey an’ easy spierin’_, says the beggar-wife to me. + + + +VII—THE BLAST—1875 + + + IT’S rainin’. Weet’s the gairden sod, + Weet the lang roads whaur gangrels plod— + A maist unceevil thing o’ God + In mid July— + If ye’ll just curse the sneckdraw, dod! + An’ sae wull I! + + He’s a braw place in Heev’n, ye ken, + An’ lea’s us puir, forjaskit men + Clamjamfried in the but and ben + He ca’s the earth— + A wee bit inconvenient den + No muckle worth; + + An’ whiles, at orra times, keeks out, + Sees what puir mankind are about; + An’ if He can, I’ve little doubt, + Upsets their plans; + He hates a’ mankind, brainch and root, + An’ a’ that’s man’s. + + An’ whiles, whan they tak heart again, + An’ life i’ the sun looks braw an’ plain, + Doun comes a jaw o’ droukin’ rain + Upon their honours— + God sends a spate outower the plain, + Or mebbe thun’ers. + + Lord safe us, life’s an unco thing! + Simmer an’ Winter, Yule an’ Spring, + The damned, dour-heartit seasons bring + A feck o’ trouble. + I wadnae try’t to be a king— + No, nor for double. + + But since we’re in it, willy-nilly, + We maun be watchfü’, wise an’ skilly, + An’ no mind ony ither billy, + Lassie nor God. + But drink—that’s my best counsel till ’e: + Sae tak the nod. + + + +VIII—THE COUNTERBLAST—1886 + + + MY bonny man, the warld, it’s true, + Was made for neither me nor you; + It’s just a place to warstle through, + As job confessed o’t; + And aye the best that we’ll can do + Is mak the best o’t. + + There’s rowth o’ wrang, I’m free to say: + The simmer brunt, the winter blae, + The face of earth a’ fyled wi’ clay + An’ dour wi’ chuckies, + An’ life a rough an’ land’art play + For country buckies. + + An’ food’s anither name for clart; + An’ beasts an’ brambles bite an’ scart; + An’ what would WE be like, my heart! + If bared o’ claethin’? + —Aweel, I cannae mend your cart: + It’s that or naethin’. + + A feck o’ folk frae first to last + Have through this queer experience passed; + Twa-three, I ken, just damn an’ blast + The hale transaction; + But twa-three ithers, east an’ wast, + Fand satisfaction, + + Whaur braid the briery muirs expand, + A waefü’ an’ a weary land, + The bumblebees, a gowden band, + Are blithely hingin’; + An’ there the canty wanderer fand + The laverock singin’. + + Trout in the burn grow great as herr’n, + The simple sheep can find their fair’n’; + The wind blaws clean about the cairn + Wi’ caller air; + The muircock an’ the barefit bairn + Are happy there. + + Sic-like the howes o’ life to some: + Green loans whaur they ne’er fash their thumb. + But mark the muckle winds that come + Soopin’ an’ cool, + Or hear the powrin’ burnie drum + In the shilfa’s pool. + + The evil wi’ the guid they tak; + They ca’ a gray thing gray, no black; + To a steigh brae, a stubborn back + Addressin’ daily; + An’ up the rude, unbieldy track + O’ life, gang gaily. + + What you would like’s a palace ha’, + Or Sinday parlour dink an’ braw + Wi’ a’ things ordered in a raw + By denty leddies. + Weel, than, ye cannae hae’t: that’s a’ + That to be said is. + + An’ since at life ye’ve taen the grue, + An’ winnae blithely hirsle through, + Ye’ve fund the very thing to do— + That’s to drink speerit; + An’ shüne we’ll hear the last o’ you— + An’ blithe to hear it! + + The shoon ye coft, the life ye lead, + Ithers will heir when aince ye’re deid; + They’ll heir your tasteless bite o’ breid, + An’ find it sappy; + They’ll to your dulefü’ house succeed, + An’ there be happy. + + As whan a glum an’ fractious wean + Has sat an’ sullened by his lane + Till, wi’ a rowstin’ skelp, he’s taen + An’ shoo’d to bed— + The ither bairns a’ fa’ to play’n’, + As gleg’s a gled. + + + +IX—THE COUNTERBLAST IRONICAL + + + IT’S strange that God should fash to frame + The yearth and lift sae hie, + An’ clean forget to explain the same + To a gentleman like me. + + They gutsy, donnered ither folk, + Their weird they weel may dree; + But why present a pig in a poke + To a gentleman like me? + + They ither folk their parritch eat + An’ sup their sugared tea; + But the mind is no to be wyled wi’ meat + Wi’ a gentleman like me. + + They ither folk, they court their joes + At gloamin’ on the lea; + But they’re made of a commoner clay, I suppose, + Than a gentleman like me. + + They ither folk, for richt or wrang, + They suffer, bleed, or dee; + But a’ thir things are an emp’y sang + To a gentleman like me. + + It’s a different thing that I demand, + Tho’ humble as can be— + A statement fair in my Maker’s hand + To a gentleman like me: + + A clear account writ fair an’ broad, + An’ a plain apologie; + Or the deevil a ceevil word to God + From a gentleman like me. + + + +X—THEIR LAUREATE TO AN ACADEMY CLASS DINNER CLUB + + + DEAR Thamson class, whaure’er I gang + It aye comes ower me wi’ a spang: + “_Lordsake_! _they Thamson lads_—(_deil hang_ + _Or else Lord mend them_!)— + _An’ that wanchancy annual sang_ + _I ne’er can send them_!” + + Straucht, at the name, a trusty tyke, + My conscience girrs ahint the dyke; + Straucht on my hinderlands I fyke + To find a rhyme t’ ye; + Pleased—although mebbe no pleased-like— + To gie my time t’ye. + + “_Weel_,” an’ says you, wi’ heavin’ breist, + “_Sae far_, _sae guid_, _but what’s the neist_? + _Yearly we gaither to the feast_, + _A’ hopefü’ men_— + _Yearly we skelloch_ ‘_Hang the beast_— + _Nae sang again_!’” + + My lads, an’ what am I to say? + Ye shürely ken the Muse’s way: + Yestreen, as gleg’s a tyke—the day, + Thrawn like a cuddy: + Her conduc’, that to her’s a play, + Deith to a body. + + Aft whan I sat an’ made my mane, + Aft whan I laboured burd-alane + Fishin’ for rhymes an’ findin’ nane, + Or nane were fit for ye— + Ye judged me cauld’s a chucky stane— + No car’n’ a bit for ye! + + But saw ye ne’er some pingein’ bairn + As weak as a pitaty-par’n’— + Less üsed wi’ guidin’ horse-shoe airn + Than steerin’ crowdie— + Packed aff his lane, by moss an’ cairn, + To ca’ the howdie. + + Wae’s me, for the puir callant than! + He wambles like a poke o’ bran, + An’ the lowse rein, as hard’s he can, + Pu’s, trem’lin’ handit; + Till, blaff! upon his hinderlan’ + Behauld him landit. + + Sic-like—I awn the weary fac’— + Whan on my muse the gate I tak, + An’ see her gleed e’e raxin’ back + To keek ahint her;— + To me, the brig o’ Heev’n gangs black + As blackest winter. + + “_Lordsake_! _we’re aff_,” thinks I, “_but whaur_? + _On what abhorred an’ whinny scaur_, + _Or whammled in what sea o’ glaur_, + _Will she desert me_? + _An’ will she just disgrace_? _or waur_— + _Will she no hurt me_?” + + Kittle the quaere! But at least + The day I’ve backed the fashious beast, + While she, wi’ mony a spang an’ reist, + Flang heels ower bonnet; + An’ a’ triumphant—for your feast, + Hae! there’s your sonnet! + + + +XI—EMBRO HIE KIRK + + + THE Lord Himsel’ in former days + Waled out the proper tünes for praise + An’ named the proper kind o’ claes + For folk to preach in: + Preceese and in the chief o’ ways + Important teachin’. + + He ordered a’ things late and air’; + He ordered folk to stand at prayer, + (Although I cannae just mind where + He gave the warnin’,) + An’ pit pomatum on their hair + On Sabbath mornin’. + + The hale o’ life by His commands + Was ordered to a body’s hands; + But see! this _corpus juris_ stands + By a’ forgotten; + An’ God’s religion in a’ lands + Is deid an’ rotten. + + While thus the lave o’ mankind’s lost, + O’ Scotland still God maks His boast— + Puir Scotland, on whase barren coast + A score or twa + Auld wives wi’ mutches an’ a hoast + Still keep His law. + + In Scotland, a wheen canty, plain, + Douce, kintry-leevin’ folk retain + The Truth—or did so aince—alane + Of a’ men leevin’; + An’ noo just twa o’ them remain— + Just Begg an’ Niven. + + For noo, unfaithfü’, to the Lord + Auld Scotland joins the rebel horde; + Her human hymn-books on the board + She noo displays: + An’ Embro Hie Kirk’s been restored + In popish ways. + + O _punctum temporis_ for action + To a’ o’ the reformin’ faction, + If yet, by ony act or paction, + Thocht, word, or sermon, + This dark an’ damnable transaction + Micht yet determine! + + For see—as Doctor Begg explains— + Hoo easy ’t’s düne! a pickle weans, + Wha in the Hie Street gaither stanes + By his instruction, + The uncovenantit, pentit panes + Ding to destruction. + + Up, Niven, or ower late—an’ dash + Laigh in the glaur that carnal hash; + Let spires and pews wi’ gran’ stramash + Thegether fa’; + The rumlin’ kist o’ whustles smash + In pieces sma’. + + Noo choose ye out a walie hammer; + About the knottit buttress clam’er; + Alang the steep roof stoyt an’ stammer, + A gate mis-chancy; + On the aul’ spire, the bells’ hie cha’mer, + Dance your bit dancie. + + Ding, devel, dunt, destroy, an’ ruin, + Wi’ carnal stanes the square bestrewin’, + Till your loud chaps frae Kyle to Fruin, + Frae Hell to Heeven, + Tell the guid wark that baith are doin’— + Baith Begg an’ Niven. + + + +XII—THE SCOTSMAN’S RETURN FROM ABROAD + + +In a letter from Mr. Thomson to Mr. Johnstone. + + IN mony a foreign pairt I’ve been, + An’ mony an unco ferlie seen, + Since, Mr. Johnstone, you and I + Last walkit upon Cocklerye. + Wi’ gleg, observant een, I pass’t + By sea an’ land, through East an’ Wast, + And still in ilka age an’ station + Saw naething but abomination. + In thir uncovenantit lands + The gangrel Scot uplifts his hands + + At lack of a’ sectarian füsh’n, + An’ cauld religious destitütion. + He rins, puir man, frae place to place, + Tries a’ their graceless means o’ grace, + Preacher on preacher, kirk on kirk— + This yin a stot an’ thon a stirk— + A bletherin’ clan, no warth a preen, + As bad as Smith of Aiberdeen! + + At last, across the weary faem, + Frae far, outlandish pairts I came. + On ilka side o’ me I fand + Fresh tokens o’ my native land. + Wi’ whatna joy I hailed them a’— + The hilltaps standin’ raw by raw, + The public house, the Hielan’ birks, + And a’ the bonny U.P. kirks! + But maistly thee, the bluid o’ Scots, + Frae Maidenkirk to John o’ Grots, + The king o’ drinks, as I conceive it, + Talisker, Isla, or Glenlivet! + + For after years wi’ a pockmantie + Frae Zanzibar to Alicante, + In mony a fash and sair affliction + I gie’t as my sincere conviction— + Of a’ their foreign tricks an’ pliskies, + I maist abominate their whiskies. + Nae doot, themsel’s, they ken it weel, + An’ wi’ a hash o’ leemon peel, + And ice an’ siccan filth, they ettle + The stawsome kind o’ goo to settle; + Sic wersh apothecary’s broos wi’ + As Scotsmen scorn to fyle their moo’s wi’. + + An’, man, I was a blithe hame-comer + Whan first I syndit out my rummer. + Ye should hae seen me then, wi’ care + The less important pairts prepare; + Syne, weel contentit wi’ it a’, + Pour in the sperrits wi’ a jaw! + I didnae drink, I didnae speak,— + I only snowkit up the reek. + I was sae pleased therein to paidle, + I sat an’ plowtered wi’ my ladle. + + An’ blithe was I, the morrow’s morn, + To daunder through the stookit corn, + And after a’ my strange mishanters, + Sit doun amang my ain dissenters. + An’, man, it was a joy to me + The pu’pit an’ the pews to see, + The pennies dirlin’ in the plate, + The elders lookin’ on in state; + An’ ’mang the first, as it befell, + Wha should I see, sir, but yoursel’ + + I was, and I will no deny it, + At the first gliff a hantle tryit + To see yoursel’ in sic a station— + It seemed a doubtfü’ dispensation. + The feelin’ was a mere digression; + For shüne I understood the session, + An’ mindin’ Aiken an’ M‘Neil, + I wondered they had düne sae weel. + I saw I had mysel’ to blame; + For had I but remained at hame, + Aiblins—though no ava’ deservin’ ’t— + They micht hae named your humble servant. + + The kirk was filled, the door was steeked; + Up to the pu’pit ance I keeked; + I was mair pleased than I can tell— + It was the minister himsel’! + Proud, proud was I to see his face, + After sae lang awa’ frae grace. + Pleased as I was, I’m no denyin’ + Some maitters were not edifyin’; + For first I fand—an’ here was news!— + Mere hymn-books cockin’ in the pews— + A humanised abomination, + Unfit for ony congregation. + Syne, while I still was on the tenter, + I scunnered at the new prezentor; + I thocht him gesterin’ an’ cauld— + A sair declension frae the auld. + Syne, as though a’ the faith was wreckit, + The prayer was not what I’d exspeckit. + Himsel’, as it appeared to me, + Was no the man he üsed to be. + But just as I was growin’ vext + He waled a maist judeecious text, + An’, launchin’ into his prelections, + Swoopt, wi’ a skirl, on a’ defections. + + O what a gale was on my speerit + To hear the p’ints o’ doctrine clearit, + And a’ the horrors o’ damnation + Set furth wi’ faithfü’ ministration! + Nae shauchlin’ testimony here— + We were a’ damned, an’ that was clear, + I owned, wi’ gratitude an’ wonder, + He was a pleisure to sit under. + + + +XIII + + + LATE in the nicht in bed I lay, + The winds were at their weary play, + An’ tirlin’ wa’s an’ skirlin’ wae + Through Heev’n they battered;— + On-ding o’ hail, on-blaff o’ spray, + The tempest blattered. + + The masoned house it dinled through; + It dung the ship, it cowped the coo’. + The rankit aiks it overthrew, + Had braved a’ weathers; + The strang sea-gleds it took an’ blew + Awa’ like feathers. + + The thrawes o’ fear on a’ were shed, + An’ the hair rose, an’ slumber fled, + An’ lichts were lit an’ prayers were said + Through a’ the kintry; + An’ the cauld terror clum in bed + Wi’ a’ an’ sindry. + + To hear in the pit-mirk on hie + The brangled collieshangie flie, + The warl’, they thocht, wi’ land an’ sea, + Itsel’ wad cowpit; + An’ for auld airn, the smashed debris + By God be rowpit. + + Meanwhile frae far Aldeboran, + To folks wi’ talescopes in han’, + O’ ships that cowpit, winds that ran, + Nae sign was seen, + But the wee warl’ in sunshine span + As bricht’s a preen. + + I, tae, by God’s especial grace, + Dwall denty in a bieldy place, + Wi’ hosened feet, wi’ shaven face, + Wi’ dacent mainners: + A grand example to the race + O’ tautit sinners! + + The wind may blaw, the heathen rage, + The deil may start on the rampage;— + The sick in bed, the thief in cage— + What’s a’ to me? + Cosh in my house, a sober sage, + I sit an’ see. + + An’ whiles the bluid spangs to my bree, + To lie sae saft, to live sae free, + While better men maun do an’ die + In unco places. + “_Whaur’s God_?” I cry, an’ “_Whae is me_ + _To hae sic graces_?” + + I mind the fecht the sailors keep, + But fire or can’le, rest or sleep, + In darkness an’ the muckle deep; + An’ mind beside + The herd that on the hills o’ sheep + Has wandered wide. + + I mind me on the hoastin’ weans— + The penny joes on causey stanes— + The auld folk wi’ the crazy banes, + Baith auld an’ puir, + That aye maun thole the winds an’ rains + An’ labour sair. + + An’ whiles I’m kind o’ pleased a blink, + An’ kind o’ fleyed forby, to think, + For a’ my rowth o’ meat an’ drink + An’ waste o’ crumb, + I’ll mebbe have to thole wi’ skink + In Kingdom Come. + + For God whan jowes the Judgment bell, + Wi’ His ain Hand, His Leevin’ Sel’, + Sall ryve the guid (as Prophets tell) + Frae them that had it; + And in the reamin’ pat o’ Hell, + The rich be scaddit. + + O Lord, if this indeed be sae, + Let daw that sair an’ happy day! + Again’ the warl’, grawn auld an’ gray, + Up wi’ your aixe! + An’ let the puir enjoy their play— + I’ll thole my paiks. + + + +XIV—MY CONSCIENCE! + + + OF a’ the ills that flesh can fear, + The loss o’ frien’s, the lack o’ gear, + A yowlin’ tyke, a glandered mear, + A lassie’s nonsense— + There’s just ae thing I cannae bear, + An’ that’s my conscience. + + Whan day (an’ a’ excüse) has gane, + An’ wark is düne, and duty’s plain, + An’ to my chalmer a’ my lane + I creep apairt, + My conscience! hoo the yammerin’ pain + Stends to my heart! + + A’ day wi’ various ends in view + The hairsts o’ time I had to pu’, + An’ made a hash wad staw a soo, + Let be a man!— + My conscience! whan my han’s were fu’, + Whaur were ye than? + + An’ there were a’ the lures o’ life, + There pleesure skirlin’ on the fife, + There anger, wi’ the hotchin’ knife + Ground shairp in Hell— + My conscience!—you that’s like a wife!— + Whaur was yoursel’? + + I ken it fine: just waitin’ here, + To gar the evil waur appear, + To clart the guid, confüse the clear, + Mis-ca’ the great, + My conscience! an’ to raise a steer + Whan a’s ower late. + + Sic-like, some tyke grawn auld and blind, + Whan thieves brok’ through the gear to p’ind, + Has lain his dozened length an’ grinned + At the disaster; + An’ the morn’s mornin’, wud’s the wind, + Yokes on his master. + + + +XV—TO DOCTOR JOHN BROWN + + + (_Whan the dear doctor_, _dear to a’_, + _Was still amang us here belaw_, + _I set my pipes his praise to blaw_ + _Wi’ a’ my speerit_; + _But noo_, _Dear Doctor_! _he’s awa’_, + _An’ ne’er can hear it_.) + + BY Lyne and Tyne, by Thames and Tees, + By a’ the various river-Dee’s, + In Mars and Manors ’yont the seas + Or here at hame, + Whaure’er there’s kindly folk to please, + They ken your name. + + They ken your name, they ken your tyke, + They ken the honey from your byke; + But mebbe after a’ your fyke, + (The trüth to tell) + It’s just your honest Rab they like, + An’ no yoursel’. + + As at the gowff, some canny play’r + Should tee a common ba’ wi’ care— + Should flourish and deleever fair + His souple shintie— + An’ the ba’ rise into the air, + A leevin’ lintie: + + Sae in the game we writers play, + There comes to some a bonny day, + When a dear ferlie shall repay + Their years o’ strife, + An’ like your Rab, their things o’ clay, + Spreid wings o’ life. + + Ye scarce deserved it, I’m afraid— + You that had never learned the trade, + But just some idle mornin’ strayed + Into the schüle, + An’ picked the fiddle up an’ played + Like Neil himsel’. + + Your e’e was gleg, your fingers dink; + Ye didnae fash yoursel’ to think, + But wove, as fast as puss can link, + Your denty wab:— + Ye stapped your pen into the ink, + An’ there was Rab! + + Sinsyne, whaure’er your fortune lay + By dowie den, by canty brae, + Simmer an’ winter, nicht an’ day, + Rab was aye wi’ ye; + An’ a’ the folk on a’ the way + Were blithe to see ye. + + O sir, the gods are kind indeed, + An’ hauld ye for an honoured heid, + That for a wee bit clarkit screed + Sae weel reward ye, + An’ lend—puir Rabbie bein’ deid— + His ghaist to guard ye. + + For though, whaure’er yoursel’ may be, + We’ve just to turn an’ glisk a wee, + An’ Rab at heel we’re shüre to see + Wi’ gladsome caper:— + The bogle of a bogle, he— + A ghaist o’ paper! + + And as the auld-farrand hero sees + In Hell a bogle Hercules, + Pit there the lesser deid to please, + While he himsel’ + Dwalls wi’ the muckle gods at ease + Far raised frae hell: + + Sae the true Rabbie far has gane + On kindlier business o’ his ain + Wi’ aulder frien’s; an’ his breist-bane + An’ stumpie tailie, + He birstles at a new hearth stane + By James and Ailie. + + + +XVI + + + IT’S an owercome sooth for age an’ youth + And it brooks wi’ nae denial, + That the dearest friends are the auldest friends + And the young are just on trial. + + There’s a rival bauld wi’ young an’ auld + And it’s him that has bereft me; + For the sürest friends are the auldest friends + And the maist o’ mines hae left me. + + There are kind hearts still, for friends to fill + And fools to take and break them; + But the nearest friends are the auldest friends + And the grave’s the place to seek them. + + * * * * * + + _Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_. + + + + +Footnotes + + +{27} _Life on the Lagoons_, by H. F. Brown, originally burned in the +fire at Messrs. Kegan Paul, Trench. and Co.’s. + +{66} From _Travels with a Donkey_. + +{67} From _Travels with a Donkey_. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNDERWOODS*** + + +******* This file should be named 438-0.txt or 438-0.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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