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diff --git a/77335-0.txt b/77335-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8a71af4 --- /dev/null +++ b/77335-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2611 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77335 *** + + +_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ + + +ROMANCES + + JOHN BURNET OF BARNS + A LOST LADY OF OLD YEARS + THE HALF-HEARTED + PRESTER JOHN + SALUTE TO ADVENTURERS + THE THIRTY-NINE STEPS + THE POWER-HOUSE + GREENMANTLE + + +SHORT STORIES + + GREY WEATHER + THE WATCHER BY THE THRESHOLD + THE MOON ENDURETH + + +ESSAYS + + SCHOLAR-GIPSIES + SOME EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY BYWAYS + + +POLITICS AND TRAVEL + + THE AFRICAN COLONY + A LODGE IN THE WILDERNESS + THE TAXATION OF FOREIGN INCOME + + +HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY + + A HISTORY OF BRASENOSE COLLEGE + SIR WALTER RALEIGH + THE MARQUIS OF MONTROSE + ANDREW JAMESON, LORD ARDWALL + A HISTORY OF THE WAR (in course of publication). + + + + +POEMS + +SCOTS AND ENGLISH + + + + + POEMS + + SCOTS AND ENGLISH + + BY + JOHN BUCHAN + + _Dulces ... reminiscitur Argos_ + —VIRGIL + + T. C. & E. C. JACK, LIMITED + LONDON AND EDINBURGH + 1917 + + * * * * * + + _Printed in Great Britain + by Turnbull & Spears, Edinburgh_ + + * * * * * + + + TO MY BROTHER + + ALASTAIR BUCHAN + + LIEUTENANT, ROYAL SCOTS FUSILIERS + WHO FELL AT ARRAS + ON EASTER MONDAY 1917 + UNDER HIS COUNTRY’S + TRIUMPHING FLAG + + +Since there are many variants of our northern speech, it seems +fitting to say that the Scots pieces in this little collection are +written in the vernacular which is spoken in the hill country of the +Lowlands, from the Cheviots to Galloway. Scots has never been to me a +book-tongue; I could always speak it more easily than I could write it; +and I dare to hope that the faults of my verses, great as they are, are +not those of an antiquarian exercise. + + J. B. + + + + +CONTENTS + + +BOOK I.—SCOTS + + PAGE + +MIDIAN’S EVIL DAY—Dear Reverend Sir,—I tak my pen 13 + +THE HERD OF FARAWA—Losh, man! Did ever mortal see 21 + +THE ETERNAL FEMININE—When I was a freckled bit bairn 30 + +THE SOUTH COUNTRIE—I never likit the Kingdom o’ Fife— 32 + +THE SHORTER CATECHISM—When I was young and herdit sheep 34 + + +THEOCRITUS IN SCOTS + +THE KIRN—’Twas last back-end 36 + +THE FISHERS—’Tis puirtith sooples 44 + + +INTER ARMA + +SWEET ARGOS—When the Almichty took His hand 48 + +ON LEAVE—I had auchteen months o’ the war 55 + +THE KIRK BELL—When oor lads gaed ower the tap 59 + +HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD—Aifter the war, says the papers 62 + +FRAGMENT OF AN ODE—Ye’ll a’ hae heard tell 65 + +THE GREAT ONES—Ae morn aside the road frae Bray 67 + +FISHER JAMIE—Puir Jamie’s killed 69 + + +BOOK II.—ENGLISH + +FRATRI DILECTISSIMO—When we were little wandering boys 73 + +TO LIONEL PHILLIPS—Time, they say, must the best of us capture 76 + +TO SIR REGINALD TALBOT—I tell of old Virginian ways 77 + +FROM THE PENTLANDS, LOOKING NORTH AND SOUTH—Around my feet + the clouds are drawn 79 + +THE STRONG MAN ARMED—Gift me guerdon and grant me grace 84 + +THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE—I have seen thy face in the foray 86 + +THE SINGER—Cold blows the drift on the hill 88 + +PROCESSIONAL—In the ancient orderly places 91 + +AVIGNON, 1759—I walk abroad on winter days 93 + +THE GIPSY’S SONG TO THE LADY CASSILIS—The door is open to the wall 95 + +WOOD MAGIC—I will walk warily in the wise woods 97 + +THE SONG OF THE SEA CAPTAIN—I sail a lone sea captain 99 + +ANTIPHILUS OF BYZANTIUM—Give me a mat on the deck 105 + +AN ECHO OF MELEAGER—Scorn not my love, proud child 106 + + + + +BOOK I + +SCOTS + + + + +_Midian’s Evil Day_[1] + +(From Alexander Cargill, Elder of the Kirk of the Remnant in the + vale of Wae, to the Reverend Murdo Mucklethraw, Minister of the + aforesaid Kirk, anent the Great Case recently argued in the House + of Lords.) + + + Dear Reverend Sir,—I tak my pen + To tell yon great occasion when + We garred our licht shine afore men, + Yea, far and wide, + And smote the oppressor but and ben + For a’ his pride. + + Yoursel’, ye mind, was far frae weel— + A cauld ye catch’t at Kippenshiel, + Forbye rheumatics in your heel— + And thus it came, + Fou though ye were o’ holy zeal, + Ye stopped at hame. + + For me, my lambin’-time was bye, + The muirland hay was nane sae high, + The men were thrang, the grund was dry, + Sae when ye spak, + And bade me gang and testify, + I heldna back. + + Wi’ dowie hert I left that morn, + Reflectin’ on the waefu’ scorn + The Kirk maun thole, her courts forlorn, + Her pillars broke, + While Amalek exalts his horn, + And fills his poke. + + I pondered the mischances sair + The Lord had garred puir Scotland bear + Frae English folk baith late and ear’ + Sin’ Flodden year + To the twae beasts at Carlisle fair + I bocht ower dear. + + If true religion got a fa’ + Frae her auld courts and guid Scots law, + What hope o’ succour far awa’ + ’Mang godless chiels, + Whae at the Word sae crousely craw + And fling their heels. + + As weel expect the Gospel sap ’ill + Rise in uncovenantit thrapple + As saw a ploom to raise an apple, + Or think a soo + Fleein’ aloft on the hoose-tap ’ill + Sit like a doo. + + I like an owl in desert was, + When to the coorts I buid to pass, + Amang the crood to hear the Cause. + Nae freend I saw,— + Juist some auld lads set oot in raws + And belchin’ law. + + But ane sat cockit in atween, + A wee man but as gleg’s a preen: + A walth o’ sense was in his een + And foreheid massy. + “The Chancellor,” I was tellt, when keen + I speired whae was he. + + Wi’ prayerfu’ mind I watched the stert + While Maister Johnston[2] played his pairt, + And sune I fand my anxious hert + Gie a great loup. + “Yon Chancellor the ungodly’s cairt,” + I said, “will coup.” + + O sir, that day I kent indeed + There’s men o’ worth across the Tweed, + Men whae are steadfast in the creed + As Moses sel’, + Men whae the Word o’ God can read + And cling to Hell. + + I thocht they were a careless race, + Decked oot in cauld Erastian claes, + Whae traivelled a’ in slippery ways, + Whase thochts were vain: + But noo I ken they’ve gifts and grace + E’en like oor ain. + + A Lowden chiel[3]—black be his tryst!— + A wise-like man, but ill advised, + Led on the hosts o’ Antichrist, + And threepit bauld, + That man could never back be wysed + To Calvin’s fauld. + + He made the yett o’ Heaven sae wide + The veriest stirk could get inside: + Puffed up he was wi’ warldly pride + And fou o’ German, + Quotin’ auld pagans for his guide + And sic-like vermin. + + He feucht wi’ Prophets, jouked wi’ Psalms, + He got his legs clean ower the trams, + He garred th’ Apostles skip like rams + To dae his biddin’s: + Oor auld Confessions were but shams, + Their loss guid riddance. + + “God foreordained some men to Hell— + Granted, but man can please himsel’ + Up to a point—and if I dwell + Mair on free-will + Than on election, I do well, + A Christian still. + + “For these are mysteries,” quo’ he, + “Whereon nae twae men can agree, + And sae it’s richt for you and me— + The thing’s sae kittle— + Ane to consider half a lee,— + Whilk—maitters little. + + “It’s a’,” he said, “confüsion wild; + In siccan things the best’s a child; + Some walk an ell and some a mile; + But never fear, + Thae doots will a’ be reconciled + In higher sphere. + + “Therefore a kirk, whase lamps are bright, + Bequeathed by auld divines o’ might, + Can fling them tapsalteerie quite, + And think nae shame; + For white is black and black is white, + It’s a’ the same.” + + But what availed his carnal lear + Against a man o’ faith and prayer? + As through the thristles gangs the share + And dings them doun, + E’en sae the Chancellor cleft him fair + Frae heel to croun. + + He pinned him wi’ the Bible words, + He clove at him wi’ Calvin’s swirds, + He garred him loup aboot the boards + Wi’ muckle mense, + And bund him wi’ the hempen cords + O’ plain guid sense. + + “Threep as ye please, it’s clear to me, + Whether or no’ the twae agree, + Baith doctrines were appoint to be + The Kirk’s chief pillar. + If ane ye like to leave,” says he, + “Ye leave the siller.” + + Oh, wi’ what unction he restored + The auld commandments o’ the Lord, + Confoonded Bashan’s nowt that roared, + And ’stablished Hell! + Knox was nae soonder in the Word + Nor Calvin’s sel’. + + I’ll no’ deny yon Lowden chiel + Was gleg as ony slippery eel, + For twae-three men frae Kippenshiel + Begood to waver; + I half inclined to doot the Deil + A’ through his claver. + + But when a man o’ faith and power + Uprose, he couldna bide an hour: + The weakest’s doots were tided ower + Anither towmont. + The Kirk stood firm as auld stane tower + Wi’ safe endowment. + + * * * * * + + I hae a bull, a noble breed, + A shorthorn wi’ a massy heid, + Wi’ quarters fine and coat o’ reid: + On ilka lea + Frae Thurso to the banks o’ Tweed + He bears the gree. + + I ca’ed him Begg,[4] the same’s his sire; + But noo for sign to a’ the shire + O’ yon great day when frae the mire + Our feet we bore, + His name shall be in field and byre + “_The Chancellor_.” + + 1904 + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1] The occasion of these verses requires a note. The union in 1900 +of the Free Church of Scotland and the United Presbyterian Church led +to the secession of certain congregations of the former, who called +themselves the Free Church, and maintained that the union involved +a departure from the principles of that church and a breach of the +conditions under which certain properties were held. They brought +an action to establish their right to these properties, as the sole +remaining repository of Free Church principles. This action was decided +against the claimants in the Scottish courts, but, on appeal, the House +of Lords, under the guidance of Lord Halsbury (then Lord Chancellor), +reversed the decision. + +[2] Mr Henry Johnston, K.C., of the Scots Bar (afterwards Lord +Johnston), led for the appellants. + +[3] The leading counsel for the respondents was Mr R. B. Haldane (M.P. +for East Lothian), afterwards Lord Chancellor of England. + +[4] A famous Free Church divine of the old school. + + + + +_The Herd of Farawa_ + + Who in an April hailstorm discoursed to the traveller on the + present discontents. + + _Pastorum et solis exegit montibus aevum._—VIRGIL. + + + Losh, man! Did ever mortal see + Sic blasts o’ snaw? Ye’ll bide a wee, + Afore ye think to cross the lea, + And mount the slack! + Kin’le your pipe, and straucht your knee, + And gie’s your crack! + + Hoo lang, ye speir! An unco while! + It’s seeventy-sax ’ear came Aprile + That I cam here frae Auchentyle— + A bairn o’ nine; + And mony’s the dreich and dreary mile + I’ve gaed sin’ syne. + + My folk were herds, sae roond the fauld + Afore I was twae towmonts auld + They fand me snowkin’, crouse and bauld + In snaw and seep— + As Dauvid was to kingdoms called, + Sae I to sheep. + + I herdit first on Etterick side. + Dod, man, I mind the stound o’ pride + Gaed through my hert, when near and wide + My dowgs I ran. + Though no seeventeen till Lammastide + I walked a man. + + I got a wife frae Eskdalemuir, + O’ dacent herdin’ folk, and sair + We wrocht for lang, baith late and ’ear, + For weans cam fast, + And we were never aucht but puir + Frae first to last. + + Tales I could tell wad gar ye grue + O’ snawy lambin’s warstled through, + O’ drifty days, and win’s that blew + Frae norlan’ sky, + And spates that filled the haughlands fou + And drooned the kye. + + But, still and on, the life was fine, + For yon were happier days langsyne; + For gear to hain, and gear to tine + I had nae care— + Content I was wi’ what was mine, + And blithe to share. + + Sic flocks ye’ll never see the day, + Nae fauncy ills to mak ye wae, + Nae fauncy dips wi’ stawsome broo, + Wad fricht the French; + We wrocht alang the auld guid way, + And fand it stench. + + Nae mawkit kets, nae scabbit een, + But ilka yowe as trig’s a preen; + Sic massy tups as ne’er were seen + Sin’ Job’s allowance, + And lambs as thick on ilka green + As simmer gowans. + + Whaur noo ae hirsel jimp can bide + Three hirsels were the countra’s pride, + And mony a yaird was wavin’ wide, + And floo’ers were hingin’, + Whaur noo is but the bare hillside, + And linties singin’. + + * * * * * + + And God! the men! Whaur could ye find + Sic hertsome lads, sae crouse and kind; + Sic skeel o’ sheep, sic sarious mind + At kirk and prayer— + Yet aiblins no to haud or bind + At Boswells fair? + + Frae Galloway to Aiberdeen + (I mind the days as ’twere yestreen) + I’ve had my cantrips—Lord a wheen! + But through them a’, + The fear o’ God afore my een, + I keep’t the Law. + + My nieves weel hoddit in my breeks, + The Law I keep’t, and turned baith cheeks + Until the smiter, saft and meek’s + A bairn at schule; + Syne struck, and laid him bye for weeks + To learn the fule. + + Frae Melrose Cauld to Linkumdoddie, + I’d fecht and drink wi’ ony body; + Was there a couthy lad? Then, dod, he + Sune fand his fellow, + What time the tippenny or the toddy + Had garred us mellow. + + Nae wark or ploy e’er saw me shirk; + I had an airm wad fell a stirk; + I traivelled ten lang mile to kirk + In wind and snaw; + I tell ’e, sir, frae morn to mirk, + I keep’t the Law. + + * * * * * + + Weekly we gat, and never fail, + Screeds marrowy as a pat o’ kail, + And awfu’ as the Grey Meer’s Tail + In Lammas rain, + And stey and lang as Moffatdale, + And stieve’s a stane. + + Nae Gospel sowens fit for weans, + But doctrines teuch as channel-stanes; + We heard the Word wi’ anxious pains, + Sarious and happy. + And half the week we piked the banes, + And fand them sappy. + + Lang years aneath a man o’ God + I sat, my Bible on the brod; + He wasna feared to lift the rod + And scaud the errin’; + He walked whaur our great forbears trod, + And blest his farin’. + + But noo we’ve got a bairnly breed, + Whase wee-bit shilpit greetin’ screed + Soughs like a wast wind ower the heid, + Lichter than ’oo’; + Lassies and weans, it suits their need, + No me and you! + + My dochter’s servin’ in the toun, + She gangs to hear a glaikit loon, + Whae rows his een, and twirls him roun’ + Like ane dementit. + Nae word o’ Hell, nae sicht or soun’ + O’ sin repentit. + + But juist a weary, yammerin’ phrase + O’ “Saunts” and “Heaven” and “love” and “praise,” + Words that a grown man sudna üse, + God! sic a scunner! + I had to rise and gang my ways + To haud my denner. + + At halesome fauts they lift their han’, + Henceforth, they cry, this new comman’, + Bide quate and doucely in the lan’ + And love your brither— + This is the total end o’ man, + This and nae ither. + + And that’s their creed! An owercome braw + For folks that kenna fear or fa’, + Crouse birds that on their midden craw + Nor think o’ scaith, + That keep the trimmin’ o’ the Law + And scorn the pith. + + It’s no for men that nicht and day + See the Almichty’s awesome way, + And ken themselves but ripps o’ strae + Afore His wind, + And, dark or licht, maun watch and pray + His grace to find. + + My forbear, hunkerin’ in a hag, + Was martyred by the laird o’ Lagg; + He dee’d afore his heid wad wag + In God’s denial. + D’ye think the folk that rant and brag + Wad thole yon trial? + + Man, whiles I’d like to gang mysel + And wile auld Claverse back frae Hell; + Claverse, or maybe Tam Dalziel, + Wad stop their fleechin’; + I wager yon’s the lads to mell + And mend sic preachin’. + + * * * * * + + Whaure’er I look I find the same, + The warld’s nae gumption in its wame; + E’en sin’ I mind the human frame + Grows scrimp and shauchled, + O’ a’ man’s warks ye canna name + Ane that’s no bauchled. + + There’s mawkit sheep and feckless herds, + And poopits fou o’ senseless words; + Instead o’ kail we sup on curds, + And wersh the taste o’t; + To parritch-sticks we’ve turned our swirds, + Sae mak’ the maist o’t. + + And poalitics! I’ve seen the day + I’d walk ten mile ower burn and brae + To hear some billie hae his say + About the nation. + Tories and a’ their daft-like play + Fand quick damnation. + + I thocht—for I was young—that folk + Were a’ the same; I scorned the yoke + O’ cless or gear; wi’ pigs in poke + I took nae han’. + I daured the hale wide warld to choke + The richts o’ man. + + It’s still my creed, but hech! sin’ then + We’ve got the richts and lost the men; + We’ve got a walth o’ gear to spen’ + And nane to spend it; + The warld is waitin’ ripe to men’, + And nane to mend it. + + Our maisters are a flock o’ daws, + Led on by twae-three hoodie-craws; + They weir our siller, mak’ our laws, + And God! sic makin’! + And we sit roun’ wi’ lood applause, + And cheer their crakin’. + + We’re great; but daur we lift a nieve + Wi’oot our neebors grant their leave? + We’re free, folk say, to speak, believe, + Dae what we wull— + And what’s oor gain? A din to deave + A yearlin’ bull! + + * * * * * + + A dwaibly warld! I’ll no deny + There’s orra blessin’s. I can buy + My baccy cheap, and feed as high + For half the siller; + For saxpence ony man can lie + As fou’s the miller. + + A bawbee buys a walth o’ prent, + And every gowk’s in Paurliament; + The warld’s reformed—but sir, tak tent, + For a’ their threep, + There’s twae things noo that arena kent— + That’s MEN and SHEEP. + + 1907 + + + + +_The Eternal Feminine_ + + + When I was a freckled bit bairn + And cam in frae my ploys to the fire, + Wi’ my buits a’ clamjamphried wi’ shairn + And my jaicket a’ speldered wi’ mire, + I got gloomin’ and glunchin’ and paiks, + And nae bite frae the press or the pan, + And my auld grannie said as she skelped me to bed, + “Hech, sirs, what a burden is man!” + + When I was a lang-leggit lad, + At waddin’s and kirns a gey cheild, + I hae happit a lass in my maud + And gone cauldrife that she micht hae beild, + And convoyed her bye bogles and stirks, + A kiss at the hindmost my plan; + But a’ that I fand was the wecht o’ her hand, + And “Hech, sirs, what a burden is man!” + + When Ailie and me were made yin + We set up in a canty bit cot; + Sair wrocht we day oot and day in, + We were unco content wi’ oor lot. + But whiles wi’ a neebor I’d tak + A gless that my heid couldna stan’; + Syne she’d greet for a week, and nae word wad she speak + But “Hech, sirs, what a burden is man!” + + She dee’d, and my dochter and me + For the lave wi’ ilk ither maun shift. + Nae tentier lass could ye see; + The wooers cam doun like a drift; + But sune wi’ an unco blae glower + Frae the doorstep they rade and they ran, + And she’d sigh to hersel’, as she gae’d to the well, + “Hech, sirs, what a burden is man!” + + She’s mairrit by noo and she’s got + A white-heided lass o’ her ain. + White-heided mysel, as I stot + Roond the doors o’ her shouther I’m fain. + What think ye that wean said yestreen? + I’ll tell ye, believe’t if ye can; + She primmed up her mou’ and said saft as a doo, + “Hech, sirs, what a burden is man!” + + 1912 + + + + +_The South Countrie_ + + + I never likit the Kingdom o’ Fife— + Its kail’s as cauld as its wind and rain, + And the folk that bide benorth o’ the Clyde + They speak a langwidge that’s no my ain. + Doun in the west is a clarty nest, + And the big stane cities are no for me; + Sae I’ll buckle my pack on my auld bent back + And tak the road for the South Countrie. + + Whaur sall I enter the Promised Land, + Ower the Sutra or doun the Lyne, + Up the side o’ the water o’ Clyde + Or cross the muirs at the heid o’ Tyne, + Or staucherin’ on by Crawfordjohn + Yont to the glens whaur Tweed rins wee?— + It’s maitter sma’ whaur your road may fa’ + Gin it land ye safe in the South Countrie. + + Yon are the hills that my hert kens weel, + Hame for the weary, rest for the auld, + Braid and high as the Aprile sky, + Blue on the taps and green i’ the fauld: + At ilka turn a bit wanderin’ burn, + And a canty biggin’ on ilka lea— + There’s nocht sae braw in the wide world’s schaw + As the heughs and holms o’ the South Countrie. + + Yon are the lads that my hert loes weel, + Frank and couthy and kind to a’, + Wi’ the open broo and the mirthfu’ mou + And the open door at the e’enin’s fa’; + A trig hamesteid and a lauchin’ breed + O’ weans that hearten the auld to see— + Sma’ or great, can ye find the mate + O’ the folk that bide in the South Countrie? + + The lichtest fit that traivels the roads + Maun lag and drag as the end grows near; + Threescore and ten are the years o’ men, + And I’m bye the bit by a lang lang year. + Sae I’ll seek my rest in the land loe’d best, + And ask nae mair than that God sall gie + To my failin’ een for the hinmost scene + The gentle hills o’ the South Countrie. + + 1916 + + + + +_The Shorter Catechism_ + +(With Proofs) + + + When I was young and herdit sheep, + I read auld tales o’ Wallace wight; + My heid was fou o’ sangs and threep + O’ folk that feared nae mortal might. + But noo I’m auld and weel I ken + We’re made alike o’ gowd and mire; + There’s saft bits in the stievest men, + The bairnliest’s got a spunk o’ fire. + Sae hearken to me, lads, + It’s truith that I tell;— + There’s nae man a’ courage— + _I ken by mysel’_. + + I’ve been an elder forty year, + I’ve tried to keep the narrow way, + I’ve walked afore the Lord in fear, + I’ve never missed the kirk a day, + I’ve read the Bible in and oot, + I ken the feck o’t clean by hert;— + But still and on I sair misdoot + I’m better noo than at the stert. + + Sae hearken to me, lads, + It’s truith I maintain!— + Man’s works are but rags, for + _I ken by my ain_. + + I hae a name for dacent trade; + I’ll wager a’ the countryside + Wad swear nae trustier man was made + The ford to soom, the bent to bide. + But when it comes to coupin’ horse + I’m juist like a’ that e’er were born, + I fling my heels and tak my course— + I’d sell the minister the morn. + Sae hearken to me, lads, + It’s truith that I tell:— + There’s nae man deid honest— + _I ken by mysel’_. + + 1911 + + + + +THEOCRITUS IN SCOTS + + + + +_The Kirn_[5] + +(Idyll vii) + + + ’Twas last back-end that me and Dauvit Sma’ + And Robert Todd, the herd at Meldonha’, + The hairst weel ower and under rape and thack, + Set oot to keep the kirn at Haystounslack, + Wat Laidlaw’s fairm—for Wat’s the rale stench breed + The Borders kenned afore the auld lairds dee’d, + And a’ the soor-milk Wast ran doun the Tweed. + + We werena half the road, nor bye the grain + Whaur auncient Druids left the standin’ stane, + When Gidden Scott cam heinchin’ ower the muir, + Gidden the wale o’ men; ilk kirn and fair, + Clippin’ and spainin’, was a cheerier place + For ae sicht o’ his honest bawsened face. + He was a drover, famed frae Clyde to Spey, + The graundest juidge o’ beasts—a dealer tae. + His furthy coat o’ tup’s ’oo spun at hame, + His weel-worn maud that buckled roond his wame, + His snootit kep that hid the broos aneath, + His buits wi’ tackets like a harrow’s teeth, + His shairny leggin’s and his michty staff + Proclaimed him for a drover three mile aff. + + “Losh! lads,” he cried, “whaur are ye traivellin’ noo, + Trig as the lassies decked for them they loe? + Is’t to a countra splore, or to the toun + Whaur creeshy baillies to their feasts sit doun? + Or is’t some waddin’ wi’ its pipes and reels + That gars the chuckies loup ahint your heels?” + + “Weel met,” says I. “The day our jaunt we mak + To join Wat Laidlaw’s kirn at Haystounslack. + Lang is the gait, and, sin’ it’s pairtly yours, + What say ye to a sang to wile the ’oors? + In a’ the land frae Wigtoun to the Mearns + There’s nane that ploos sae straucht the rig o’ Burns + As your guid sel’ (so rins the countra sough); + And I, though frae sic genius far eneuch, + I, tae, hae clinkit rhymes at orra whiles. + We’ll niffer sangs to pass the muirland miles.” + + “Na, Jock,” says he, and wagged a sarious pow, + “Sma’ share hae I in that divinest lowe. + A roopy craw as weel a pairt micht claim + I’ the laverock’s sang as me in Robin’s fame. + But sin’ we’re a’ guid freends, I’ll sing a sang + I made last Monday drovin’ ower the Whang.”[6] + + +_Gidden’s Song_ + + Sin’ Andra took the jee and gaed aff across the sea + I’m as dowff as ony fisher-wife that watches on the sand, + I’m as restless as a staig, me that aince was like a craig, + When I think upon yon far frem’t land. + + We had aften cuisten oot, I mindna what aboot; + We had feucht a bit and flytit and gien and taen the blow; + But oor dander was nae mair than the rouk in simmer air, + For I loe’d him as a lassie loes her joe. + + He had sic a couthy way, aye sae canty and sae gay; + He garred a body’s hert loup up and kept the warld gaun roun’; + The dreichest saul could see he had sunlicht in his ee, + And there’s no his marrow left in the toun. + + We were ’greed like twae stirks that feed amang the birks, + My every thocht I shared wi’ him, his hinmost plack was mine; + We had nocht to hide frae ither, he was mair to me than brither; + But that’s a’ bye wi’t langsyne. + + As I gang oot and in, in my heid there rins a tüne, + Some tüne o’ Andra’s playin’ in the happy days that’s gane. + When I sit at festive scene there’s a mist comes ower my een + For the kind lad that’s left me my lane. + + So Gidden spak, and ower the lave o’ us cam + A sadness waur than penitential psalm. + The tüne was cried; nae jovial rantin’ stave + Wad set a mood sae pensive and sae grave. + Sae, followin’ on, I cleared my hass and sung + A sang I made langsyne when I was young. + + +_Jock’s Song_ + + Sing, lads, and bend the bicker; gloamin’ draps + On Wiston side. + A’ ye that dwal in sicht o’ Tintock’s taps + Frae Tweed to Clyde + Gae stert your reels and ding the warlock Care + At young bluid’s call. + _The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir + Will steal my saul._ + + Mind ye the lass that üsed to bide langsyne + At Coulter-fit? + (Gae pipe your sprigs, for youth is ill to bin’ + And pleesures flit.) + Her mither keep’t the inn, and doun the stair + A’ day wad bawl. + _The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir + Will steal my saul._ + + My heid rins round—I think they ca’d her Jean. + She looked sae high, + She walked sae prood, it micht hae been the Queen + As she gaed bye, + Buskit sae trig, and ower her yellow hair + A denty shawl. + _The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir + Will steal my saul._ + + Ae day the King himsel’ was ridin’ through + And saw her face. + He telled his son, “For ae kiss o’ her mou + I’d change my place + Wi’ ony gangrel, roup my royal share, + My kingly hall.” + _The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir + Will steal my saul._ + + I kenna if I loe’d the lassie true, + But this I ken; + To get a welcome frae her een o’ blue, + To see again + Her dimpled cheek, ten ’ears o’ life I’d spare + In prison wall. + _The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir + Will steal my saul._ + + Ae simmer morn when a’ the lift was clear + And saft winds sighed, + Wi’ kilted coats I saw her wanderin’ near + The burnie’s tide. + Thinks I, Queen Mary was na half as fair + In days o’ aul’. + _The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir + Will steal my saul._ + + Sing, lads, and bend the bicker; e’enin’ fa’s— + My denty doo + Has sell’t hersel’ for gowd and silken braws + That weemen loe. + A feckless laird has bocht her beauty rare, + Her love, her all. + _The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir + Will steal my saul._ + + I watched them as their coach gaed ower the pass + Wi’ blindit een; + A shilpit carle aside the brawest lass + That Scotland’s seen. + Far, far she’s gane, and toom the warld and puir + Whaur I maun dwal. + _The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir + Will steal my saul._ + + A’ day I wander like a restless ghaist + Ower hill and lea; + The gun hangs in the spence, the rod’s unüsed, + The dowg gangs free. + At nicht I dream, and O! my dreams are sair, + My hert’s in thrall. + _The wind that blaws frae yont the mountain muir + Has stown my saul._ + + Loud Gidden spak; “Weel dune!—The convoy’s ower. + Here we maun pairt, for I’m for Auchenlour. + Oor forbears, when they set a makkers’ test + Gied cups and wreaths to him that sang the best. + Nae drink hae I, thae muirland floo’ers are wauf, + Sae tak for awms my trustit hazel staff.” + + We cried guid-farin’ to his massy back, + And turned intil the road for Haystounslack. + Aroond the hills and heughs the gloamin’ crap, + And a braw mune cam ridin’ ower the slap. + The stirlin’s crooded thick as flees in air, + An auld blackcock was flytin’ on the muir. + Afore the steadin’ cairts were settin’ doun + Ilk snoddit lassie in her kirk-gaun gown, + And bauld young lads were swingin’ up the braes, + Ilk ane wi’ glancin’ een and dancin’ taes. + The fiddles scrapit and atower the din + The “Floo’ers o’ Embro’” soughed oot on the win’. + Furth frae the ben cam sic a noble reek + That hungry folk maun snowk but daurna speak;— + Haggis and tripe, and puddin’s black, and yill, + And guid saut beef and braxy frae the hill, + Crisp aiten farles, bannocks and seein’ kail; + And at the door stood Wat to cry us hail. + His walie nieves upheld a muckle bowl + Whase spicy scent was unction to the saul. + His ladle plowtered in the reamin’ brew, + And for us three he filled the rummers fou. + Nae nectar that the auld gods quaffed on hie, + Nae heather wine wanchancy warlocks prie, + Nae Well o’ Bethlehem or Siloam’s püle, + Was ever half as guid as Wattie’s yill. + + Heaven send anither ’ear that I gang back + To drink wi’ honest folk at Haystounslack! + + 1916 + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[5] The Greek text has not been followed in the songs, as it would be +hard to find equivalents for Lycidas and Simichidas in Lowland Scots. +Jock’s song is a free paraphrase of Victor Hugo’s _Guitare_. How close +that famous lyric is to the Theocritean manner will be admitted by +those who remember Walter Headlam’s Greek version of it. + +[6] The Lang Whang is the old Edinburgh-Lanark road. + + + + +THEOCRITUS IN SCOTS + + + + +_The Fishers_ + +(Idyll xxi) + + + ’Tis puirtith sooples heid and hand + And gars inventions fill the land; + And dreams come fast to folk that lie + Wi’ nocht atween them and the sky. + + Twae collier lads frae near Lasswade, + Auld skeely fishers, fand their bed + Ae simmer’s nicht aside the shaw + Whaur Manor rins by Cademuir Law. + Dry flowe-moss made them pillows fine, + And, for a bield to kep the win’, + A muckle craig owerhung the burn, + A’ thacked wi’ blaeberry and fern. + Aside them lay their rods and reels, + Their flee-books and their auncient creels. + The pooches o’ their moleskin breeks + Contained unlawfu’ things like cleeks, + For folk that fish to fill their wame + Are no fasteedious at the game. + + The twae aye took their jaunts thegither; + Geordie was ane and Tam the ither. + Their chaumer was the mune-bricht sky, + The siller stream their lullaby. + + When knocks in touns were chappin’ three, + Tam woke and rubbed a blinkin’ ee. + It was the ’oor when troots are boun’ + To gulp the May-flee floatin’ doun, + Afore the sun is in the glens + And dim are a’ the heughs and dens. + + TAM + + “Short is the simmer’s daurk, they say, + But this ane seemed as lang’s the day; + For siccan dreams as passed my sicht + I never saw in Januar’ nicht. + If some auld prophet chiel were here + I wad hae cürious things to speir.” + + GEORDIE + + “It’s conscience gars the nichtmares rin, + Sae, Tam my lad, what hae ye dune?” + + TAM + + “Nae ill; my saul is free frae blame, + Nor hae I wrocht ower hard my wame, + For last we fed, as ye maun awn, + On a sma’ troot and pease-meal scone. + But hear my dream, for aiblins you + May find a way to riddle’t true.... + + I thocht that I was castin’ steady + At the püle’s tail ayont the smiddy, + Wi’ finest gut and sma’est flee, + For the air was clear and the water wee; + When sudden wi’ a rowst and swish + I rase a maist enormous fish.... + I struck and heuked the monster shüre, + Guidsakes! to see him loup in air! + It was nae saumon, na, nor troot; + To the last yaird my line gaed oot, + As up the stream the warlock ran + As wild as Job’s Leviathan. + I got him stopped below the linn, + Whaur verra near I tummled in, + Aye prayin’ hard my heuk wad haud; + And syne he turned a dorty jaud, + Sulkin’ far doun amang the stanes. + I tapped the butt to stir his banes. + He warsled here and plowtered there, + But still I held him ticht and fair, + The water rinnin’ oxter-hie, + The sweat aye drippin’ in my ee. + Sae bit by bit I wysed him richt + And broke his stieve and fashious micht, + Till sair fordone he cam to book + And walloped in a shallow crook. + I had nae gad, sae doun my wand + I flang and pinned him on the sand. + I claucht him in baith airms and peched + Ashore—he was a michty wecht; + Nor stopped till I had got him shüre + Amang the threshes on the muir. + + Then, Geordie lad, my een I rowed + The beast was made o’ solid gowd!— + Sic ferlie as was never kenned, + A’ glitterin’ gowd frae end to end! + I lauched, I grat, my kep I flang, + I danced a sprig, I sang a sang. + And syne I wished that I micht dee + If wark again was touched by me.... + + Wi’ that I woke; nae fish was there— + Juist the burnside and empty muir. + Noo tell me honest, Geordie lad, + Think ye yon daftlike aith will haud?” + + GEORDIE + + “Tuts, Tam ye fule, the aith ye sware + Was like your fish, nae less, nae mair. + For dreams are nocht but simmer rouk, + And him that trusts them hunts the gowk.... + It’s time we catched some fish o’ flesh + Or we will baith gang brekfastless.” + + 1916 + + + + +INTER ARMA + + + + +_Sweet Argos_ + +An Epistle from Jock in billets to Sandy in the trenches. + + + When the Almichty took His hand + Frae shapin’ skies and seas and land, + Some orra bits left ower He fand, + Riddled them roun’— + A clart o’ stane and wud and sand— + And made this toun. + + A glaury loan, a tumblin’ kirk, + Twae glandered mears, a dwaibly stirk, + Hens, ae auld wife, a wauflike birk— + That’s whaur I dwal, + While you are fechtin’ like a Turk + Ayont Thiepval. + + The weet drips through the bauks abune, + Ootbye the cundies roar and rin, + There’s comfort naether oot nor in, + The wind gangs blather;— + We maun be michty sunk in sin + To earn sic wather. + + But, Sandy lad, for you it’s waur, + You on that muckle Zollern scaur, + Your lintwhite locks a’ fyled wi’ glaur, + And hungry—my word! + While Gairmans dae the best they daur + To send ye skyward.... + + * * * * * + + ’Twas late yestreen that we cam doun + The road that leads frae Morval toun; + We cam like mice, nae sang nor soun’, + Nae daff nor jest; + Like ghaists that trail the midnicht roun’ + We crap to rest. + + For sax weeks hunkerin’ in a hole + We’d kenned the warst a man can thole— + Nae skirlin’ dash frae goal to goal + Yellin’ like wud, + But the lang stell that wechts the soul + And tooms the bluid. + + Weel, yestereen we limped alang, + Me and auld Dave frae Cambuslang, + And Andra, him that had the gang + In Tamson’s mills, + And Linton Bob that wrocht amang + The Pentland Hills. + + And as we socht oor shauchlin’ way + Atween the runts o’ Bernafay, + The mune ayont the darkenin’ brae + Lichted a gap. + Bob peched. “Ma God,” I heard him say, + “The Cauldstaneslap!” + + Syne we won ower the hinmost rig + Amang the dumps, whaur warm and trig + The braziers lowe and wee trucks jig + Frae bing to ree. + Dave gripped my airm. “It’s fair Coatbrig!” + He stepped oot free.... + + * * * * * + + This morn I’m sittin’ on a box, + Reddin’ an unco pair o’ socks, + Watchin’ the yaird whaur muckle docks + And nettles blaw, + And turks’ caps, marygolds and phlox + Stand in a raw. + + The berry busses hing wi’ weet, + The smiddy clang comes doun the street, + A coo is routin’, bairnies greet, + A young cock craws.— + I shut my een; my traivelled feet + Were back i’ the Shaws. + + Back twenty year. A tautit wean, + I heard my granny’s voice complain + O’ bursted buits: I saw the rain + Rin aff the byre; + The burn wi’ foamin’ yellow mane + Roared doun the swire. + + A can o’ worms ae pooch concealed, + The tither scones weel brooned and jeeled; + Let eld sit cowerin’ in the beild, + Youth maun be oot; + The rain may pour, he’s for the field + To catch a troot.... + + * * * * * + + And, Sandy lad, a stound o’ joy + Gaed through my breist. A halflin’s ploy, + An auld wife’s tale, a bairnie’s toy, + A lassie’s favour, + Are things nae war can clean destroy + Nor kill the savour. + + It’s in sma’ things that greatness lies, + The simple aye confoonds the wise, + The towers that ettle at the skies + Crack, coup and tummle, + The blather, swalled to unco size, + Bursts wi’ a rummle.... + + Straucht to the Deil oor hainin’s fly; + A spate can droon the best o’ kye: + The day oor heids we cairry high + And wanton rarely:— + The morn in some black sheugh dounbye + We floonder sairly. + + The breist o’ man is fortune-pruif, + He heeds nor jade nor deil nor cuif, + If twae-three things the Guid Folk give + His lot to cheer, + The sma’ things that oor mortal luve + Maun aye haud dear. + + What gars us fecht? It’s no the law, + Nor poaliticians in a raw, + Nor hate o’ folk we never saw;— + Oot in yon hell + I’ve killed a wheen—the job wad staw + Auld Hornie’s sel’. + + It’s luve, my man, nae less nae mair,— + Luve o’ auld freends at kirk and fair, + Auld-farrant sangs that memories bear + O’ but and ben, + Some wee cot-hoose far up the muir + Or doun the glen. + + And Gairmans are nae doot the same: + The lad ye’ve stickin’ in the wame + Fechts no for deevilment or fame, + But juist for pride + In his bit dacent canty hame + By some burnside. + + It’s queer that the Almichty’s plan + Sud set oot man to fecht wi’ man + For the same luve—their native lan’, + And wife and weans. + It’s queer, but threep the best ye can, + The truith remains. + + The warld’s a fecht. Frae star to stane + The hale Creation strives in pain. + Paiks maun be tholed by ilk alane, + The cup be drainit, + If man’s to get the bunemost gain + That God’s ordainit. + + But luve’s the fire that keeps him gaun, + Ilk puir forjaskit weariet man. + Hate sparks like pouther in the pan, + And pride will flicker, + But luve will burn till skies are faun, + Mair clear and siccar. + + And a’ we socht o’ honest worth + We’ll find again in nobler birth, + For Heaven itsel’ begins on earth, + And caps the riggin’ + O’ what in pain and toil and dearth + We’ve aye been biggin’. + + Nae walth o’ gowden streets for me; + I ask but that my een sud see + The auld green hopes, the broomy lea, + The clear burn’s püles, + And wander whaur the wind blaws free + Frae heather hills. + + * * * * * + + Sae, Sandy, if it’s written true + That you and me sud warstle through, + Wi’ whatna joy we’ll hand the ploo + And delve the yaird! + Ten thoosandfauld the mair we’ll loe + Oor Border swaird! + + But if like ither dacent men + We’ve looked oor last on Etterick glen, + And some day sune will see the en’ + That brings nae shame, + We’ll face’t,—for in that ’oor we’ll ken + We’re hame, we’re hame. + + 1916 + + + + +_On Leave_ + + + I had auchteen months o’ the war, + Steel and pouther and reek, + Fitsore, weary and wauf,— + Syne I got hame for a week. + + Daft-like I entered the toun, + I scarcely kenned for my ain. + I sleepit twae days in my bed, + The third I buried my wean. + + The wife sat greetin’ at hame, + While I wandered oot to the hill, + My hert as cauld as a stane, + But my heid gaun roond like a mill. + + I wasna the man I had been,— + Juist a gangrel dozin’ in fits;— + The pin had faun oot o’ the warld, + And I doddered amang the bits. + + I clamb to the Lammerlaw + And sat me doun on the cairn;— + The best o’ my freends were deid, + And noo I had buried my bairn;— + + The stink o’ the gas in my nose, + The colour o’ bluid in my ee, + And the biddin’ o’ Hell in my lug + To curse my Maker and dee. + + But up in that gloamin’ hour, + On the heather and thymy sod, + Wi’ the sun gaun doun in the Wast + I made my peace wi’ God.... + + * * * * * + + I saw a thoosand hills, + Green and gowd i’ the licht, + Roond and backit like sheep, + Huddle into the nicht. + + But I kenned they werena hills, + But the same as the mounds ye see + Doun by the back o’ the line + Whaur they bury oor lads that dee. + + They were juist the same as at Loos + Whaur we happit Andra and Dave.— + There was naething in life but death, + And a’ the warld was a grave. + + A’ the hills were graves, + The graves o’ the deid langsyne, + And somewhere oot in the Wast + Was the grummlin’ battle-line. + + * * * * * + + But up frae the howe o’ the glen + Came the waft o’ the simmer een. + The stink gaed oot o’ my nose, + And I sniffed it, caller and clean. + + The smell o’ the simmer hills, + Thyme and hinny and heather, + Jeniper, birk and fern, + Rose in the lown June weather. + + It minded me o’ auld days, + When I wandered barefit there, + Guddlin’ troot in the burns, + Howkin’ the tod frae his lair. + + If a’ the hills were graves + There was peace for the folk aneath + And peace for the folk abune, + And life in the hert o’ death.... + + * * * * * + + Up frae the howe o’ the glen + Cam the murmur o’ wells that creep + To swell the heids o’ the burns, + And the kindly voices o’ sheep. + + And the cry o’ a whaup on the wing, + And a plover seekin’ its bield.— + And oot o’ my crazy lugs + Went the din o’ the battlefield. + + * * * * * + + I flang me doun on my knees + And I prayed as my hert wad break, + And I got my answer sune, + For oot o’ the nicht God spake. + + As a man that wauks frae a stound + And kens but a single thocht, + Oot o’ the wind and the nicht + I got the peace that I socht. + + Loos and the Lammerlaw, + The battle was feucht in baith, + Death was roond and abune, + But life in the hert o’ death. + + A’ the warld was a grave, + But the grass on the graves was green, + And the stanes were bields for hames, + And the laddies played atween. + + Kneelin’ aside the cairn + On the heather and thymy sod, + The place I had kenned as a bairn, + I made my peace wi’ God. + + 1916 + + + + +_The Kirk Bell_ + + + When oor lads gaed ower the tap + It was nine o’ a Sabbath morn. + I felt as my hert wad stap, + And I wished I had ne’er been born; + I wished I had ne’er been born + For I feared baith the foe and mysel’, + Till there fell on my ear forlorn + The jow o’ an auld kirk bell. + For a moment the guns were deid, + Sae I heard it faint and far; + And that bell was ringin’ inside my heid + As I stauchered into the war. + + I heard nae ither soun’, + Though the air was a wild stramash, + And oor barrage beat the grun’ + Like the crack o’ a cairter’s lash, + Like the sting o’ a lang whup lash; + And ilk breath war a prayer or an aith, + And whistle and drone and crash + Made the pitiless sang o’ death. + But in a’ that deavin’ din + Like the cry o’ the lost in Hell, + I was hearkenin’ to a peacefu’ tüne + In the jow o’ a far-off bell. + + I had on my Sabbath claes, + And was steppin’ doucely the gait + To the kirk on the broomy braes; + I was standin’ aside the yett, + Crackin’ aside the yett; + And syne I was singin’ lood + ’Mang the lasses snod and blate + Wi’ their roses and southernwood. + I hae nae mind o’ the tex’ + For the psalm was the thing for me, + And I gied a gey wheen Huns their paiks + To the tüne o’ auld “Dundee.” + + They tell me I feucht like wud, + And I’ve got a medal to shaw, + But in a’ that habble o’ smoke and bluid + My mind was far awa’; + My mind was far awa’ + In the peace o’ a simmer glen, + Daunderin’ hame ower the heathery law, + Wi’ twae-three ither men.... + But sudden the lift grew red + Ere we wan to the pairtin’ place; + And the next I kenned I was lyin’ in bed + And a Sister washin’ my face. + + My faither was stench U.P.; + Nae guid in Rome could he fin’; + But, this war weel ower, I’m gaun back to see + That kirk ahint the line— + That kirk ahint oor line, + And siller the priest I’ll gie + To pray for the sauls o’ the deid langsyne + Whae bigged the steeple for me. + It’s no that I’m chief wi’ the Pape, + But I owe the warld to yon bell; + And the beadle that swung the rape + Will get half a croon for himsel’. + + 1917 + + + + +_Home Thoughts from Abroad_ + + _Aifter the war, says the papers, they’ll no be content at hame, + The lads that hae feucht wi’ death twae ’ear i’ the mud + and the rain and the snaw; + For aifter a sodger’s life the shop will be unco tame; + They’ll ettle at fortune and freedom in the new lands far awa.’_ + + + No me! + By God! No me! + Aince we hae lickit oor faes + And aince I get oot o’ this hell, + For the rest o’ my leevin’ days + I’ll mak a pet o’ mysel’. + I’ll haste me back wi’ an eident fit + And settle again in the same auld bit. + And oh! the comfort to snowk again + The reek o’ my mither’s but-and-ben, + The wee box-bed and the ingle neuk + And the kail-pat hung frae the chimley-heuk! + + I’ll gang back to the shop like a laddie to play, + Tak doun the shutters at skreigh o’ day, + And weigh oot floor wi’ a carefu’ pride, + And hear the clash o’ the countraside. + I’ll wear for ordinar’ a roond hard hat, + A collar and dicky and black cravat. + If the weather’s wat I’ll no stir ootbye + Wi’oot an umbrella to keep me dry. + I think I’d better no tak a wife— + I’ve had a’ the adventure I want in life.— + But at nicht, when the doors are steeked, I’ll sit, + While the bleeze loups high frae the aiken ruit, + And smoke my pipe aside the crook. + And read in some douce auld-farrant book; + Or crack wi’ Davie and mix a rummer, + While the auld wife’s pow nid-nods in slum’er; + And hark to the winds gaun tearin’ bye + And thank the Lord I’m sae warm and dry. + + When simmer brings the lang bricht e’en, + I’ll daunder doun to the bowling-green, + Or delve my yaird and my roses tend + For the big floo’er-show in the next back-end. + Whiles, when the sun blinks aifter rain, + I’ll tak my rod and gang up the glen; + Me and Davie, we ken the püles + Whaur the troot grow great in the howes o’ the hills; + And, wanderin’ back when the gloamin’ fa’s + And the midges dance in the hazel shaws, + We’ll stop at the yett ayont the hicht + And drink great wauchts o’ the scented nicht, + While the hoose lamps kin’le raw by raw + And a yellow star hings ower the law. + Davie will lauch like a wean at a fair + And nip my airm to mak certain shüre + That we’re back frae yon place o’ dule and dreid, + To oor ain kind warld— + + _But Davie’s deid! + Nae mair gude nor ill can betide him. + We happit him doun by Beaumont toun, + And the half o’ my hert’s in the mools aside him._ + + 1917 + + + + +_Fragment of an Ode in Praise of the Royal Scots Fusiliers_ + + + Ye’ll a’ hae heard tell o’ the Fusilier Jocks, + The famous auld Fusilier Jocks! + They’re as stieve as a stane, + And as teuch as a bane, + And as gleg as a pack o’ muircocks. + They’re maistly as braid as they’re lang, + And the Gairman’s a pump off the fang + When he faces the fire in their ee. + They’re no verra bonny, + I question if ony + Mair terrible sicht ye could see + Than a chairge o’ the Fusilier Jocks. + It gars Hindenburg swear + “_Gott in Himmel_, nae mair + O’ thae sudden and scan’alous shocks!” + And the cannon o’ Krupp + Ane and a’ they shut up + Like a pentit bit jaick-in-the-box, + At the rush o’ the Fusilier Jocks. + + The Kaiser he says to his son + (The auld ane that looks like a fox)— + “I went ower far + When I stertit this war, + Forgettin’ the Fusilier Jocks. + I could manage the French and Italians and Poles, + The Russians and Tartars and yellow Mongols, + The Serbs and the Belgians, the English and Greeks, + And even the lads that gang wantin’ the breeks; + But what o’ thae Fusilier Jocks, + That stopna for duntin’ and knocks? + They’d rin wi’ a yell + Ower the plainstanes o’ Hell; + They’re no men ava—they are rocks! + They’d gang barefit + Through the Bottomless Pit, + And they’ll tak Berlin in their socks,— + Will thae terrible Fusilier Jocks!”... + + 1917 + + + + +_The Great Ones_ + + + Ae morn aside the road frae Bray + I wrocht my squad to mend the track; + A feck o’ sodgers passed that way + And garred me often straucht my back. + + By cam a General on a horse, + A jinglin’ lad on either side. + I gie’d my best salute of course, + Well pleased to see sic honest pride. + + And syne twae Frenchmen in a cawr— + Yon are the lads to speel the braes; + They speldered me inch-deep wi’ glaur + And verra near ran ower my taes. + + And last the pipes, and at their tail + Oor gaucy lads in martial line. + I stopped my wark and cried them hail, + And wished them weel for auld lang syne. + + * * * * * + + An auld chap plooin’ on the muir + Ne’er jee’d his heid nor held his han’, + But drave his furrow straucht and fair,— + Thinks I, “But ye’re the biggest man.” + + 1916 + + + + +_Fisher Jamie_ + + + Puir Jamie’s killed. A better lad + Ye wadna find to busk a flee + Or burn a püle or wield a gad + Frae Berwick to the Clints o’ Dee. + + And noo he’s in a happier land.— + It’s Gospel truith and Gospel law + That Heaven’s yett maun open stand + To folk that for their country fa’. + + But Jamie will be ill to mate; + He lo’ed nae müsic, kenned nae tünes + Except the sang o’ Tweed in spate, + Or Talla loupin’ ower its linns. + + I sair misdoot that Jamie’s heid + A croun o’ gowd will never please; + He liked a kep o’ dacent tweed + Whaur he could stick his casts o’ flees. + + If Heaven is a’ that man can dream + And a’ that honest herts can wish, + It maun provide some muirland stream, + For Jamie dreamed o’ nocht but fish. + + And weel I wot he’ll up and speir + In his bit blate and canty way, + Wi’ kind Apostles standin’ near + Whae in their time were fishers tae. + + He’ll offer back his gowden croun + And in its place a rod he’ll seek, + And bashfu’-like his herp lay doun + And speir a leister and a cleek. + + For Jims had aye a poachin’ whim; + He’ll sune grow tired, wi’ lawfu’ flee + Made frae the wings o’ cherubim, + O’ castin’ ower the Crystal Sea.... + + I picter him at gloamin’ tide + Steekin’ the backdoor o’ his hame + And hastin’ to the waterside + To play again the auld auld game; + + And syne wi’ saumon on his back, + Catch’t clean against the Heavenly law, + And Heavenly byliffs on his track, + Gaun linkin’ doun some Heavenly shaw. + + 1916 + + + + +BOOK II + +ENGLISH + + + + +_Fratri Dilectissimo_[7] + +W. H. B. + + + When we were little wandering boys, + And every hill was blue and high, + On ballad ways and martial joys + We fed our fancies, you and I. + With Bruce we crouched in bracken shade, + With Douglas charged the Paynim foes; + And oft in moorland noons I played + Colkitto to your grave Montrose. + + The obliterating seasons flow— + They cannot kill our boyish game. + Though creeds may change and kings may go, + Yet burns undimmed the ancient flame. + While young men in their pride make haste + The wrong to right, the bond to free, + And plant a garden in the waste, + Still rides our Scottish chivalry. + + Another end had held your dream— + To die fulfilled of hope and might, + To pass in one swift rapturous gleam + From mortal to immortal light— + But through long hours of labouring breath + You watched the world grow small and far, + And met the constant eyes of Death, + And haply knew how kind they are. + + One boon the Fates relenting gave— + Not where the scented hill-wind blows + From cedar thickets lies your grave, + Nor ’mid the steep Himálayan snows. + Night calls the stragglers to the nest, + And at long last ’tis home indeed + For your far-wandering feet to rest + Forever by the crooks of Tweed. + + In perfect honour, perfect truth, + And gentleness to all mankind, + You trod the golden paths of youth, + Then left the world and youth behind. + Ah no! ’Tis we who fade and fail— + And you from Time’s slow torments free + Shall pass from strength to strength and scale + The steeps of immortality. + + Dear heart, in that serener air, + If blessed souls may backward gaze, + Some slender nook of memory spare + For our old happy moorland days. + I sit alone, and musing fills + My breast with pain that shall not die, + Till once again o’er greener hills + We ride together, you and I. + + 1912 + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[7] From “The Marquis of Montrose.” + + + + +_To Lionel Phillips_[8] + + + Time, they say, must the best of us capture, + And travel and battle and gems and gold + No more can kindle the ancient rapture, + For even the youngest of hearts grows old. + But in you, I think, the boy is not over; + So take this medley of ways and wars + As the gift of a friend and a fellow-lover + Of the fairest country under the stars. + + 1909 + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[8] From “Prester John.” + + + + +_To Major-General The Hon. Sir Reginald Talbot, K.C.B._[9] + + + I tell of old Virginian ways; + And who more fit my tale to scan + Than you, who knew in far-off days + The eager horse of Sheridan; + Who saw the sullen meads of fate, + The tattered scrub, the blood-drenched sod, + Where Lee, the greatest of the great, + Bent to the storm of God? + + I tell lost tales of savage wars; + And you have known the desert sands, + The camp beneath the silver stars, + The rush at dawn of Arab bands, + The fruitless toil, the hopeless dream, + The fainting feet, the faltering breath, + While Gordon by the ancient stream + Waited at ease on death. + + And now, aloof from camp and field, + You spend your sunny autumn hours + Where the green folds of Chiltern shield + The nooks of Thames amid the flowers: + You who have borne that name of pride, + In honour clean from fear or stain, + Which Talbot won by Henry’s side + In vanquished Aquitaine. + + 1914 + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[9] From “Salute to Adventurers.” + + + + +_From the Pentlands, Looking North and South_ + + + Around my feet the clouds are drawn + In the cold mystery of the dawn; + No breezes cheer, no guests intrude + My mossy, mist-clad solitude; + When sudden down the steeps of sky + Flames a long, lightening wind. On high + The steel-blue arch shines clear, and far, + In the low lands where cattle are, + Towns smoke. And swift, a haze, a gleam,— + The Firth lies like a frozen stream, + Reddening with morn. Tall spires of ships, + Like thorns about the harbour’s lips, + Now shake faint canvas, now, asleep, + Their salt, uneasy slumbers keep; + While golden-grey o’er kirk and wall + Day wakes in the ancient capital. + + Before me lie the lists of strife, + The caravanserai of life, + Whence from the gates the merchants go + On the world’s highways; to and fro + Sail laden ships; and in the street + The lone foot-traveller shakes his feet, + And in some corner by the fire + Tells the old tale of heart’s desire. + Thither from alien seas and skies + Comes the far-quested merchandise:— + Wrought silks of Broussa, Mocha’s ware + Brown-tinted, fragrant, and the rare + Thin perfumes that the rose’s breath + Has sought, immortal in her death: + Gold, gems, and spice, and haply still + The red rough largess of the hill + Which takes the sun and bears the vines + Among the haunted Apennines. + And he who treads the cobbled street + To-day in the cold North may meet, + Come month, come year, the dusky East, + And share the Caliph’s secret feast; + Or in the toil of wind and sun + Bear pilgrim-staff, forlorn, fordone, + Till o’er the steppe, athwart the sand, + Gleam the far gates of Samarkand. + The ringing quay, the weathered face, + Fair skies, dusk hands, the ocean race, + The palm-girt isle, the frosty shore, + Gales and hot suns the wide world o’er, + Grey North, red South, and burnished West, + The goals of the old tireless quest, + Leap in the smoke, immortal, free, + Where shines yon morning fringe of sea. + + I turn;—how still the moorlands lie, + Sleep-locked beneath the awakening sky! + The film of morn is silver-grey + On the young heather, and away, + Dim, distant, set in ribs of hill, + Green glens are shining, stream and mill, + Clachan and kirk and garden-ground, + All silent in the hush profound + Which haunts alone the hills’ recess, + The antique home of quietness. + Nor to the folk can piper play + The tune of “Hills and Far Away,” + For they are with them. Morn can fire + No peaks of weary heart’s desire, + Nor the red sunset flame behind + Some ancient ridge of longing mind. + For Arcady is here, around, + In lilt of stream, in the clear sound + Of lark and moorbird, in the bold + Gay glamour of the evening gold. + And so the wheel of seasons moves + To kirk and market, to mild loves + And modest hates, and still the sight + Of brown kind faces, and when night + Draws dark around with age and fear + Theirs is the simple hope to cheer.— + A land of peace where lost romance + And ghostly shine of helm and lance + Still dwell by castled scarp and lea + And the lost homes of chivalry, + And the good fairy folk, my dear, + Who speak for cunning souls to hear, + In crook of glen and bower of hill + Sing of the Happy Ages still. + + O Thou to whom man’s heart is known, + Grant me my morning orison. + Grant me the rover’s path—to see + The dawn arise, the daylight flee, + In the far wastes of sand and sun! + Grant me with venturous heart to run + On the old highway, where in pain + And ecstasy man strives amain, + Outstrips his fellows, or, too weak, + Finds the great rest that wanderers seek! + Grant me the joy of wind and brine, + The zest of food, the taste of wine, + The fighter’s strength, the echoing strife, + The high tumultuous lists of life— + May I ne’er lag, nor hapless fall, + Nor weary at the battle-call!... + But when the even brings surcease, + Grant me the happy moorland peace; + That in my heart’s depth ever lie + That ancient land of heath and sky, + Where the old rhymes and stories fall + In kindly, soothing pastoral. + There in the hills grave silence lies, + And Death himself wears friendly guise; + There be my lot, my twilight stage, + Dear city of my pilgrimage. + + 1898 + + + + +_The Strong Man Armed_ + + + “Gift me guerdon and grant me grace,” + Said the Lord of the North. + “Nothing I ask thee of gear or place + Ere I get me forth. + Gift one guerdon to mine and me + For the shade and the sheen.” + + * * * * * + + “Ask and it shall be given unto thee,” + Said Mary the Queen. + + “May I never falter the wide world through, + But stand in the gate: + May my sword bite sharp and my steel ring true + At the ford and the strait: + Bide not on bed nor dally with song + When the strife goeth keen: + This be my boon from the Gods of the Strong!” + + * * * * * + + “Be it so,” said the Queen. + + “May I stand in the mist and the clear and the chill, + In the cycle of wars, + In the brown of the moss and the grey of the hill + With my eyes to the stars! + Gift this guerdon and grant this grace + That I bid good e’en, + The sword in the hand and the foot to the race, + The wind in my teeth and the rain in my face!” + + * * * * * + + “Be it so,” said the Queen. + + 1895 + + + + +_The Soldier of Fortune_ + + + I have seen thy face in the foray, I have heard thy voice in the fray, + When the stars shrunk in the silence, and the wild midnights blew. + Men have worn their steel blades, seeking by night and day; + Selling their souls for the vain dreams—I have followed the true. + Frosts have dulled the scabbard, suns have furrowed the thong, + And the great winds of the north-east have steeled the vagrant eye. + So through the world I wander, haggard and fierce and strong, + Seeking the goal I see not, toiling I tell not why. + + I have loved all good things, song and woman and wine, + The hearth’s red glow in the even, the gladsome face of a friend, + The suns and snows of the hill land, the sting of the winter’s brine, + Dawn and noon and the twilight, day and the daylight’s end. + I have ridden the old path, ridden it fierce and strong, + By camp and city and moorland and the grey face of the sea. + Wrath abides on my forehead but at my heart a song, + The ancient wayfaring ballad, the royal chant of the free. + + For ever in cloud or in maytide Thy voice has been in my ear, + In the quivering mists of battle Thy face has shone like a star. + Never the steel ranks broke when the Lord sent forth His fear + But Thy hand has held my bridle and girt my soul for war. + I am broken and houseless, lost my clan and my name; + A stranger treads on my homelands, no heart remembereth me.— + But be Thou my portion, Lady of dew and flame! + Little I ask of the red gold, having the winds and thee. + + 1899 + + + + +_The Singer_ + + + Cold blows the drift on the hill, + Sere is the heather, + High goes the wind and shrill, + Mirk is the weather. + Stout be the front I show, + Come what the gods send! + Plaided and girt I go + Forth to the world’s end. + + My brain is the stithy of years, + My heart the red gold + Which the gods with sharp anguish and tears + Have wrought from of old. + In the shining first dawn o’ the world, + I was old as the sky— + The morning dew on the field + Is no younger than I. + + I am the magician of life, + The hero of runes; + The sorrows of eld and old strife + Ring clear in my tunes. + The sea lends her minstrel voice, + The storm-cloud its grey; + And ladies have wept at my notes, + Fair ladies and gay. + + My home is the rim of the mist, + The ring of the spray. + The hart has his corrie, the hawk has her nest, + But I—the Lost Way. + Come dawning or noontide, come winter or spring, + Come leisure, come war, + I tarry not, I, but my burden I sing + Beyond and afar. + + I sing of lost hopes and old kings + And the maids of the past; + Ye shiver adread at my strings + But ye heed them at last. + I sing of cold death and the grave— + Fools tremble afraid: + I sing of hot life, and the brave + Go forth undismayed. + + I sleep by the well-head of joy + And the fountain of pain. + Man lives, loves, and fights, and then is not— + I only remain. + Ye mock me and hold me to scorn— + I seek not your grace; + Ye gird me with terror—forlorn, + I laugh in your face. + + 1898 + + + + +_Processional_[10] + + + In the ancient orderly places, with a blank and orderly mind, + We sit in our green walled gardens and our corn and oil increase; + Sunset nor dawn can wake us, for the face of the heavens is kind; + We light our taper at even and call our comfort peace. + + Peaceful our clear horizon; calm as our sheltered days + Are the lilied meadows we dwell in, the decent highways we tread. + Duly we make our offerings, but we know not the God we praise, + For He is the God of the living, and we, His children, are dead. + + I will arise and get me beyond this country of dreams, + Where all is ancient and ordered and hoar with the frost of years, + To the land where loftier mountains cradle their wilder streams, + And the fruitful earth is blessed with more bountiful smiles + and tears:— + + There in the home of the lightnings, where the fear of the Lord + is set free, + Where the thunderous midnights fade to the turquoise magic of morn, + The days of man are a vapour, blown from a shoreless sea, + A little cloud before sunrise, a cry in the void forlorn. + + I am weary of men and cities and the service of little things, + Where the flame-like glories of life are shrunk to a candle’s ray. + Smite me, my God, with Thy presence, blind my eyes with Thy wings, + In the heart of Thy virgin earth show me Thy secret way! + + 1906 + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[10] From “A Lodge in the Wilderness.” + + + + +_Avignon_ + +1759 + + _Hearts to break but nane to sell, + Gear to tine but nane to hain;— + We maun dree a weary spell + Ere our lad comes back again._ + + + I walk abroad on winter days, + When storms have stripped the wide champaign, + For northern winds have norland ways, + And scents of Badenoch haunt the rain. + And by the lipping river path, + When in the fog the Rhone runs grey, + I see the heather of the strath, + And watch the salmon leap in Spey. + + The hills are feathered with young trees,— + I set them for my children’s boys. + I made a garden deep in ease, + A pleasance for my lady’s joys. + Strangers have heired them. Long ago + She died,—kind fortune thus to die; + And my one son by Beauly flow + Gave up the soul that could not lie. + + Old, elbow-worn, and pinched I bide + The final toll the gods may take. + The laggard years have quenched my pride; + They cannot kill the ache, the ache. + Weep not the dead, for they have sleep + Who lie at home; but ah, for me + In the deep grave my heart will weep + With longing for my lost countrie. + + _Hearts to break but nane to sell, + Gear to tine but nane to hain;— + We maun dree a weary spell + Ere our lad comes back again._ + + 1911 + + + + +_The Gipsy’s Song to the Lady Cassilis_ + +“Whereupon the Faas, coming down from the Gates of Galloway, did so + bewitch my lady that she forgat husband and kin, and followed the + tinkler’s piping.”—Chap-book of the _Raid of Cassilis_. + + + The door is open to the wall, + The air is bright and free; + Adown the stair, across the hall, + And then—the world and me; + The bare grey bent, the running stream, + The fire beside the shore; + And we will bid the hearth farewell, + And never seek it more, + My love, + And never seek it more. + + And you shall wear no silken gown, + No maid shall bind your hair; + The yellow broom shall be your gem, + Your braid the heather rare. + Athwart the moor, adown the hill, + Across the world away; + The path is long for happy hearts + That sing to greet the day, + My love, + That sing to greet the day. + + When morning cleaves the eastern grey, + And the lone hills are red; + When sunsets light the evening way + And birds are quieted; + In autumn noon and springtide dawn, + By hill and dale and sea, + The world shall sing its ancient song + Of hope and joy for thee, + My love, + Of hope and joy for thee. + + And at the last no solemn stole + Shall on thy breast be laid; + No mumbling priest shall speed thy soul, + No charnel vault thee shade. + But by the shadowed hazel copse, + Aneath the greenwood tree, + Where airs are soft and waters sing, + Thou’lt ever sleep by me, + My love, + Thou’lt ever sleep by me. + + 1898 + + + + +_Wood Magic_ + +(9th Century) + + + I will walk warily in the wise woods on the fringes of eventide, + For the covert is full of noises and the stir of nameless things. + I have seen in the dusk of the beeches the shapes of the lords that ride, + And down in the marish hollow I have heard the lady who sings. + And once in an April gloaming I met a maid on the sward, + All marble-white and gleaming and tender and wild of eye;— + I, Jehan the hunter, who speak am a grown man, middling hard, + But I dreamt a month of the maid, and wept I knew not why. + + Down by the edge of the firs, in a coppice of heath and vine, + Is an old moss-grown altar, shaded by briar and bloom, + Denys, the priest, hath told me ’twas the lord Apollo’s shrine + In the days ere Christ came down from God to the Virgin’s womb. + I never go past but I doff my cap and avert my eyes— + (Were Denys to catch me I trow I’d do penance for half a year.)— + For once I saw a flame there and the smoke of a sacrifice, + And a voice spake out of the thicket that froze my soul with fear. + + Wherefore to God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, + Mary the Blessed Mother, and the kindly Saints as well, + I will give glory and praise, and them I cherish the most, + For they have the keys of Heaven, and save the soul from Hell. + But likewise I will spare for the lord Apollo a grace, + And a bow for the lady Venus—as a friend but not as a thrall. + ’Tis true they are out of Heaven, but some day they may win the place; + For gods are kittle cattle, and a wise man honours them all. + + 1911 + + + + +_The Song of the Sea Captain_ + +Diego d’Alboquerque, brother of the great Affonso, a knight of the + Portuguese Order of Jesus Christ, having landed on the coast north + of Zanzibar, wandered to the Abyssinian highlands, where he saw + and loved Prester John’s daughter, Melissa, a cousin of the Lady + of Tripoli (_la princesse lointaine_). He was slain off Goa in the + great fight with the Sultan of Muscat. + + + I sail a lone sea captain + Around the southern seas; + Worn as my cheek, the flag of Christ + Floats o’er me on the breeze. + By green isle and by desert, + By little white-walled town, + To west wind and to east wind + I lead my galleons down. + + I know the black south-easter, + I know the drowsy calms + When the slow tide creeps shoreward + To lave the idle palms. + Of many a stark sea battle + The Muslim foe can tell, + When their dark dhows I sent to crabs + And their dark souls to hell. + + Small reck have I of Muslim, + Small reck of winds and seas, + The waters are my pathway + To bring me to my ease. + The dawns that burn above me + Are torches set to light + My footsteps to a garden + Of roses red and white. + + * * * * * + + Five months we stood from Lagos, + While, scant of food and sleep, + We tracked da Gama’s highroad + Across the Guinea deep. + All spent we were with watching + When, ghostly as a dream, + The Bona Esperanza cape + Rose dark upon the beam. + + Then by the low green inlets + We groped our passage forth, + Outside the shallow surf-bars + We headed for the north. + Sofala gave us victual, + Inyaka ease and rest, + But of the wayside harbours + I loved Melinda best. + + ’Twas on a day in April, + The Feast of Rosaly, + We beached our weary vessels, + Cried farewell to the sea, + And with ten stout companions + And hearts with youth made bold + We sought the inland mountains + Of which our fathers told. + + No chart had we or counsel + To guide our weary feet, + To north and west we wandered + In drought and dust and heat, + Till o’er the steaming tree-tops + We saw the far-off dome + Of mystic icy mountains, + And knew the Prester’s home. + + Nine days we clomb the foothills, + Nine days the mountain wall, + Sheer cliff and ancient forest + And fretted waterfall; + And on the tenth we entered + A meadow cool and deep, + And in the Prester’s garden + We laid us down to sleep. + + Long time we fared like princes + In palaces of stone, + For never guest goes cheerless + Who meets with Prester John; + Where woodlands mount to gardens + And gardens climb to snows + And wells of living water + Sing rondels to the rose. + + And there among the roses, + More white and red than they, + There walked the gleaming lady, + The princess far away. + Dearer her golden tresses + Than the high pomp of wars, + And deep and still her eyes as lakes + That brood beneath the stars. + + There walked we and there spoke we + Of things that may not cease, + Of life and death and God’s dear love + And the eternal peace. + For in that shadowed garden + The world had grown so small + That one white girl in one white hand + Could clasp and hold it all. + + I craved the Prester’s blessing, + I kissed his kingly hand: + “Too soon has come the parting + From this fair mountain land. + But shame it were for Christian knight + To take his leisure here + When o’er the broad and goodly earth + The Muslim sends his fear. + + “I go to gird my sword on, + To drive my fleets afar, + To court the wrath of tempests, + The dusty toils of war. + But when my vows are ended, + Then, joyous from the fray, + I come to claim my lady, + The princess far away.” + + * * * * * + + I sail a lone sea captain + Across the southern seas; + Worn as my cheek, the flag of Christ + Still flaunts upon the breeze. + By green isle and by desert, + By little white-walled town, + To west wind and to east wind + I lead my galleons down. + + But in the starkest tempest, + And in the drowsy heats, + Where on the shattered coral + The far-drawn breaker beats: + In seas of dreaming water, + And in the wind-swept spray, + I see my snow-white lady, + The princess far away. + + Sometimes in inland places + We march for weary days, + Where thorns parch in the noontide + Or fens are dark with haze;— + For me ’tis but a march of dreams, + For ever, clear and low, + I hear cool waters falling + In the garden of the snow. + + Small reck have I of Muslim, + Small reck of sands or seas; + The wide world is my pathway + To lead me to my ease. + The dawns that burn above me + Are torches set to light + My footsteps to a garden + Of rose red and white. + + 1905 + + + + +_Antiphilus of Byzantium_ + +_Anth. Pal._ ix. 546. + + + Give me a mat on the deck, + When the awnings sound to the blows of the spray, + And the hearthstones crack with the flames a-back + And the pot goes bubbling away. + Give me a boy to cook my broth; + For table a ship’s plank lacking a cloth, + And never a fork or knife; + And, after a game with a rusty pack, + The bo’sun’s whistle to pipe us back— + That’s the fortune fit for a king, + For Oh! I love common life! + + 1895 + + + + +_An Echo of Meleager_ + + + Scorn not my love, proud child. The summers wane. + Long ere the topmost mountain snows have gone + The Spring is fleeting; ’neath the April rain + For one brief day flowers laugh on Helicon. + The breeze that fans thy honeyed cheek this noon + To-morrow will be blasts that scourge the main, + And youth and joy and laughter fleet too soon.— + Scorn not my love, proud child. The summers wane. + + To-day the rose blooms by the garden plot, + The swallows twitter ’neath the Parian dome; + But soon the roses fall and lie forgot, + And soon the swallows will be turning home. + Tempt not the arrows of the Cyprian’s eye, + Vex not the god that will not brook disdain;— + Love is the port to which the wise barks fly. + Scorn not my love, proud child. The summers wane. + + 1910 + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77335 *** |