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Library 

of  llic 

University  of  Toronto 


COME  HITHER 


GOME 
HITHER 


o°a»f  •* 


COLLECTION 
OF  RHYMES 

AND  POEMS 

FOR  THE 

YOUNG  OF 

ALL  AGES 


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fe  WAITER  DE  LA  MARE  £& 

^v  AND  EMBELLISHED  /  %^f 

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W  *>P*  MCMXXH1  7t?f?f 


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>  9*3 


PRINTED  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN  BY  ROBERT  MACI.EHOSE  ANP  CO.  LTD. 
THE   UNIVERSITY   TRESf,  GLASGOW 


U  Tilling  Ai   llllllll    "    «»!»■■■  "  - »-r  .IIIIIII-"  ■■!■■■■  ^ 


o  mm  n  annul  mmniEnnmigJLaiBHmLgtaiiiJ 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The  Story  of  this  Book vii 

Morning  and  May     -------  i 

Mother,  Home,  and  Sweetheart       -         -         -         -  19 

Feasts  :  Fairs  :  Beggars  :  Gipsies  63 

Beasts  of  the  Field  :   Fowls  of  the  Air       -         -  87 

Ouph  :  Elphin  :  Fay-         -.-_..  ny 

Summer  :  Greenwood  :  Solitude       -        -         -  135 

War 165 

Dance,  Music  and  Bells  -                           ...  I9^ 

Autumn  Leaves  :  Winter  Snow        -         -         -         -  217 

"  Like  Stars  upon  some  Gloomy  Grove  "       -         -  249 

Far      ----- 289 

"  Lily  Bright  and  Shine-a  " 343 

"  Echo  then  shall  again 

Tell  her  I  follow  "      -  371 

Old  Tales  and  Balladry         -  413 

Evening  and  Dream  -----..  44- 

The  Garden        ________  ^-g 

About  and  Roundabout    - 495 

Acknowledgments     -         -         -         -         -         -         -  671 

Index  of  Authors     -         -         -         -         -         -         -  677 

Index  of  Poems          _______  53^ 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  BOOK 

In  my  rovings  and  ramblings  as  a  boy  I  had  often  skirted 
the  old  stone  house  in  the  hollow.  But  my  first  clear 
remembrance  of  it  is  of  a  hot  summer's  day.  I  had 
climbed  to  the  crest  of  a  hill  till  then  unknown  to  me, 
and  stood  there,  hot  and  breathless  in  the  bright  slippery 
grass,  looking  down  on  its  grey  walls  and  chimneys  as  if 
out  of  a  dream.  And  as  if  out  of  a  dream  already 
familiar  to  me. 

My  real  intention  in  setting  out  from  home  that  morn- 
ing had  been  to  get  to  a  place  called  East  Dene.  My 
mother  had  often  spoken  to  me  of  East  Dene — of  its  trees 
and  waters  and  green  pastures,  and  the  rare  birds  and 
flowers  to  be  found  there.  Ages  ago,  she  had  told  me,  an 
ancestor  of  our  family  had  dwelt  in  this  place.  But  she 
smiled  a  little  strangely  when  I  asked  her  to  take  me  there. 
"  All  in  good  time,  my  dear,"  she  whispered  into  my  ear, 
"  all  in  very  good  time  ■  Just  follow  your  small  nose." 
What  kind  of  time,  I  wondered,  was  very  good  time. 
And  follow  my  nose — how  far  ?  Such  reflections  indeed 
only  made  me  the  more  anxious  to  be  gone. 

Early  that  morning,  then,  I  had  started  out  when  the 
dew  was  still  sparkling,  and  the  night  mists  had  but  just 
lifted.  But  my  young  legs  soon  tired  of  the  steep, 
boulder-strown  hills,    the  chalky  ravines,   and  burning 

vii  b 


II  IK  STOIIV  OF    THIS   HOOK 

sun,  .md  having,  as  1  say,  come  into  view  of  the  house 

in  the  valley,   1  went  no  further,     [nstead,  I  sat  down 

the  hot  turf-   the  sweet  smell  of  thyme  in  the  air,  a 

lew  harebells  nodding  around  me — and  stared,  down 
and  down. 

After  that  first  visit,  si  arcely  a  week  passed  but  that 
I  found  myself  on  this  hill  again.  The  remembrance 
of  the  house  stayed  in  my  mind  ;  would  keep  returning 

me,  like  a  bird  to  its  nest.  Sometimes  even  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  I  would  wake  up  and  lie  unable  to 
sleep  again  for  thinking  of  it — seeing  it  in  my  head  ; 
solemn,  secret,  strange. 

There  is  a  little  flickering  lizard  called  the  Chameleon 
which,  they  say,  changes  its  colour  according  to  the  place 
where  it  happens  to  be.  So  with  this  house.  It  was 
never  the  same  for  tw*o  hours  together.  I  have  seen  it 
gathered  close  up  in  its  hollow  in  the  livid  and  coppery 
gloom  of  storm  ;  crouched  like  a  hare  in  winter  under 
a  mask  of  snow  ;  dark  and  silent  beneath  the  changing 
sparkle  of  the  stars  ;  and  like  a  palace  out  of  an  Arabian 
tale  in  the  milky  radiance  of  the  moon.  Thrae  was  the 
name  inscribed  on  its  gateway,  but  in  letters  so  faint 
and  faded  as  to  be  almost  illegible. 

In  a  sense  I  was,  I  suppose,  a  trespasser  in  this  Thrae  ; 
until  at  least  I  became  acquainted  with  Miss  Taroone, 
the  lady  who  lived  in  it.  For  I  made  pretty  free  with 
her  valley,  paddled  and  fished  in  its  stream,  and  now 
and  then  helped  myself  to  a  windfall  in  her  green 
bird-haunted  orchards,  where  grew  a  particularly  sharp 
and  bright-rinded  apple  of  which  I  have  never  heard  the 
name.  As  custom  gave  me  confidence,  I  ventured 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  house  and  would  sometimes 

viii 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  BOOK 

take  a  rest  squatting  on  a  manger  in  the  big  empty  barn, 
looking  out  into  the  sunshine.  The  wings  of  the  flies 
shone  like  glass  in  its  shafts  of  light,  and  the  robins 
whistled  under  its  timber  roof  so  shrill  as  almost  to 
deafen  one's  ears. 

Few  strangers  passed  that  way.  Now  and  then  I  saw 
in  the  distance  what  might  have  been  a  beggar.  To 
judge  from  his  bundle  he  must  have  done  pretty  well  at 
the  house.  Once,  as  I  turned  out  of  a  little  wood  of 
birches,  I  met  a  dreadful-faced  man  in  the  lane  who 
lifted  up  his  hand  at  sight  of  me,  and  with  white  glaring 
eyes,  uttered  a  horrible  imprecation.  He  was  chewing 
some  fruit  stolen  out  of  the  orchard,  and  at  the  very 
sight  of  him  I  ran  like  Wat  himself. 

Once,  too,  as  my  head  looked  over  the  hill-crest,  there 
stood  an  old  carriage  and  a  drowsy  horse  drawn  up 
beside  the  porch — with  its  slender  wooden  pillars  and  a 
kind  of  tray  above,  on  which  rambled  winter  jasmine, 
tufts  of  self-sown  weeds  and  Traveller's  Joy.  I  edged 
near  enough  to  see  there  was  a  crown  emblazoned  on  the 
panel  of  the  carriage  door.  Nobody  sat  inside,  and  the 
coachman  asleep  on  the  box  made  me  feel  more  solitary 
and  inquisitive  than  ever. 

Yet  in  its  time  the  old  house  must  have  seen  plenty  of 
company.  Friends  of  later  years  have  spoken  to  me 
of  it.  Indeed,  not  far  distant  from  Thrae  as  the  crow 
flies,  there  was  a  crossing  of  high  roads,  so  that  any 
traveller  from  elsewhere  not  in  haste  could  turn  aside 
and  examine  the  place  if  he  cared  for  its  looks  and  was 
in  need  of  a  night's  lodging.  Yet  I  do  not  think  many 
such  travellers — if  they  were  men  merely  of  the  Town — 
can  have  chosen  to  lift  that  knocker  or  to  set  ringing 

ix 


THE  STORY  OF   THIS  BOOK 

th.it  bell.  I'"  any  one  already  lost  and  benighted  its 
looks  must  have  been  forbidding. 

Well,  .>■-  I  say,  again  and  again,  my  lessons  (lone, 
morning  or  evening  would  find  me  either  on  the  ^r.is- 
sl<>P< -  above  Thrae,  or  actually  in  its  valley      It'  I  was 

tired,  I  would  watch  from  a  good  distance  off  its  small 
dark  windows  in   their  Stone  embrasures,   and  up  above 

them  the  round  greenish  tower  or  turret  over  which  a 
winged  weather-vane  twirled  with  the  wind.     1  might 

watch  :  but  the  only  person  that  1  ever  actually  observed 
at  the  windows  was  an  old  maid  with  flaps  to  her  cap,  who 
would  sometimes  shake  a  duster  out  into  the  air  as  if 
for  a  signal  to  someone  up  in  the  hills. 

Apart  from  her,  I  had  occasionally  seen  Miss  Taroone 
herself  in  the  overgrown  garden,  with  her  immense 
shears,  or  with  her  trencher  of  bread-crumbs  and  other 
provender,  feeding  the  birds.  And  I  once  stole  near 
enough  under  a  hedge  to  watch  this  sight.  They  hopped 
and  pecked  in  a  multitude  beneath  her  hands,  tits  and 
robins,  starlings  and  blackbirds,  and  other  much  wilder 
and  rarer  birds,  as  if  they  had  no  need  here  for  wings,  or 
were  under  an  enchantment  more  powerful  than  that 
of  mere  crumbs  of  bread.  The  meal  done,  the  platter 
empty,  Miss  Taroone  would  clap  her  hands,  and  off  they 
would  fly  with  a  skirring  of  wings,  with  shrill  cries  and 
snatches  of  song  to  their  haunts. 

She  seemed  to  mind  no  weather  ;  standing  bare- 
headed in  heavy  rain  or  scorching  sunlight.  And  I 
confess  the  sight  of  her  never  failed  to  alarm  me.  But 
I  made  up  my  mind  always  to  keep  my  wits  about  me 
and  my  eyes  open  ;    and  never  to  be  caught  trespassing. 

Then  one  day,  as  I  slid  down  from  the  roof  of  the  barn 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  BOOK 

from  amid  the  branches  of  a  chestnut  tree,  green  with  its 
spiky  balls  of  fruit,  I  found  Miss  Taroone  standing  there 
in  the  entry,  looking  out  on  me  as  if  out  of  a  frame,  or 
like  a  stone  figure  in  the  niche  of  a  church.  She  made 
no  stir  herself,  but  her  eyes  did.  Clear  cold  eyes  of  the 
colour  of  pebbly  water,  in  which  I  seemed  to  be  of  no 
more  importance  than  a  boat  floating  on  the  sea.  I 
could  neither  speak  nor  run  away.  I  could  only  gawk 
at  her,  my  pockets  bulging  with  the  unripe  chestnuts 
I  had  pilfered,  and  a  handsome  slit  in  one  leg  of  my 
breeches. 

She  asked  me  what  I  did  there  ;  my  name  ;  why  I 
was  not  at  school  ;  where  I  lived  ;  and  did  I  eat  the 
chestnuts.  It  appeared  she  had  more  often  seen  me — 
I  suppose  from  her  windows — than  I  had  seen  her. 
She  made  no  movement,  never  even  smiled  while  I 
stammered  out  answers  to  her  questions,  but  merely 
kept  her  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  me,  while  her  own  lips 
just  opened  enough  to  let  the  words  out  of  her  mouth. 
She  listened  to  me  with  a  severe  face,  and  said,  "  Well, 
if  you  are  happy  to  be  here  with  the  rest,  so  much  the 
better." 

It  was  a  relief  when  she  turned  away,  bidding  me 
follow  her — and  a  foolish  figure  I  must  have  cut  as  I 
clattered  after  her  across  the  cobbled  yard  under  the 
old  red-brick  arch  and  so  through  the  porch  and  into 
the  house. 

When  I  was  sat  down  in  one  of  the  shaded  rooms 
within  the  house,  she  summoned  the  tall  gaunt  old  maid 
with  the  cap-flaps  I  had  seen  at  the  windows,  and  bade 
her  bring  me  some  fruit  and  a  dish  of  cream.  Miss 
Taroone  watched  me  while  I  ate  it.     And  uncommonly 

xi 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  hook 

I  it  was,  though  I  would  rather  have  been  enjoying 
it  alone.  From  the  way  she  looked  .it  mc  it  might  have 
been  supposed  it  was  a  bird  or  a  small  animal  thai  was 
sitting  up  at  her  table.  The  last  spoonful  finished,  she 
asked  me  yet  more  questions  and  appeared  to  be  not 
displeased  with  my  rambling  answers,  for  she  invited  mc 
to  come  again  and  watched  me  take  up  my  cap  and 
retire. 

This  was  the  first  time  I  was  ever  in  Miss  Taroone's 
house — within  its  solid  walls  I  mean  ;  and  what  a 
multitude  of  rooms,  with  their  coffers  and  presses  and 
cabinets,  containing  I  knew  not  what  treasures  and 
wonders  !  But  Thrac  was  not  Miss  Taroone's  only 
house,  for  more  than  once  she  spoke  of  another — named 
Sure  Vine,  as  if  of  a  family  mansion  and  estate,  very 
ancient  and  magnificent.  When,  thinking  of  my  mother, 
I  myself  ventured  a  question  about  East  Dene,  her 
green-grey  eyes  oddly  settled  on  mine  a  moment,  but 
she  made  no  answer.     I  noticed  this  particularly. 

Soon  I  was  almost  as  free  and  familiar  in  Miss  Taroone's 
old  house  as  in  my  own  father's.  Yet  I  cannot  say  that 
she  was  ever  anything  else  than  curt  with  me  in  her 
manner.  It  was  a  long  time  before  I  became  accustomed 
to  the  still,  secret  way  she  had  of  looking  at  me.  I  liked 
best  being  in  her  company  when  she  appeared,  as  was 
usually  so,  not  to  be  aware  that  she  was  not  alone.  She 
had  again  asked  me  my  name  "  for  a  sign  "  as  she  said, 
"  to  know  you  by  "  ;  though  she  always  afterwards 
addressed  me  as  Simon.  Certainly  in  those  days  I  was 
"  simple  "  enough. 

My  next  friend  was  the  woman  whom  I  had  seen 
shaking  her  duster  out  of  the  upper  windows.     She,   I 

xii 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  BOOK 

discovered,  was  called  Linnet  Sara  Queek  or  Quek  or 
Cuec  or  Cueque,  I  don't  know  how  to  spell  it.  She  was 
an  exceedingly  curious  woman  and  looked  as  if  she  had 
never  been  any  different,  though,  of  course,  she  must 
once  have  been  young  and  have  grown  up.  She  was 
bony,  awkward,  and  angular,  and  when  you  spoke  to  her, 
she  turned  on  you  with  a  look  that  was  at  the  same  time 
vacant  and  piercing.  At  first  she  greeted  me  sourly, 
but  soon  became  friendlier,  and  would  allow  me  to  sit 
in  her  huge  kitchen  with  her  parrot,  her  sleek  tabby  cat, 
and  perhaps  a  dainty  or  two  out  of  her  larder. 

She  was  continually  muttering — though  I  could  never 
quite  catch  what  she  said  ;  never  idle  ;  and  though  slow 
and  awkward  in  her  movements,  she  did  a  vast  deal  of 
work.  With  small  short-sighted  eyes  fixed  on  her 
mortar  she  would  stand  pounding  and  pounding  ;  or 
stewing  and  seething  things  in  pots — strange-looking 
roots  and  fruits  and  fungi.  Her  pantry  was  crammed 
with  pans,  jars,  bottles,  and  phials,  all  labelled  in  her 
queer  handwriting.  An  extraordinary  place — especially 
when  the  sunbeams  of  evening  struck  into  it  from  a  high 
window  in  its  white-washed  wall. 

Linnet  she  might  be  called,  but  her  voice  was  no  bird's, 
unless  the  crow's  ;  and  you  would  have  guessed  at  once, 
at  sight  of  her  standing  in  front  of  the  vast  open  hearth, 
stooping  a  little,  her  long  gaunt  arms  beside  her,  that  her 
other  name  was  Sara.  But  she  could  tell  curious  and 
rambling  stories  (as  true  as  she  could  make  them)  ; 
and  many  of  them  were  about  the  old  days  in  Thrae, 
older  days  in  Sure  Vine,  and  about  Miss  Taroone,  in 
whose  service  she  had  been  since  she  was  a  small 
child. 

xiii 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  BOOK 

She  told  me,  too,  some  specially  good  talcs    .1  i 

Grimm    about  some  villages  she  knew  of  called  the 

Ten  Laps;    and  gave  me  a  custard  when  I  asked  for 

more.  [  once  mentioned  East  Dene  to  her,  too,  and  she 
-aid  there  was  a  short  cut  to  it  (though  it  seemed  to  me  a 
long  way  about)  through  the  quarry,  by  tlie  pits,  and 
that  way  round.  "And  then  you  come  to  a  Wall,"  she 
said,  staring  at  me.      '  And  you  climb  over." 

■  Did  you  ?  "  said  I,  laughing;  and  at  that  she  was 
huffed. 

Boy  though  I  was,  it  occurred  to  me  that  in  this 
immense  house  there  must  be  a  great  deal  more  work 
than  Sara  could  manage  unaided.  Something  gave  me 
the  fancy  that  other  hands  must  lend  their  help  ;  but 
if  any  maids  actually  came  in  to  Thrae  from  East  Dene, 
or  from  elsewhere,  they  must  have  come  and  gone  very 
late,  or  early.  It  seemed  bad  manners  to  be  too  curious. 
On  the  other  hand,  I  rarely  saw  much  of  the  back  parts 
of  the  house. 

I  have  sometimes  wondered  if  Thrae  had  not  once  in 
fact  lain  within  the  borders  of  East  Dene,  and  that  being 
so,  if  Miss  Taroone,  like  myself,  was  unaware  of  it.  It 
may  have  been  merely  pride  that  closed  her  lips,  for 
one  day,  she  showed  me,  with  a  curious  smile,  how  Thrae's 
architect,  centuries  before,  had  planned  its  site.  She 
herself  led  me  from  room  to  room  ;  and  she  talked  as 
she  had  never  talked  before. 

Its  southernmost  window  looked  on  a  valley,  beyond 
which  on  clear  still  days  was  visible  the  sea,  and  perhaps  a 
brig  or  a  schooner  on  its  surface — placid  blue  as  turquoise. 
Sheer  against  its  easternmost  window  the  sun  mounted 
to  his  summer  solstice  from  in  between  a  cleft  of  the 

xiv 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  BOOK 

hills — like  a  large  topaz  between  the  forks  of  a  catapult. 
On  one  side  of  this  cleft  valley  was  a  windmill,  its  sails 
lanking  up  into  the  sky,  and  sometimes  spinning  in  the 
wind  with  an  audible  faint  clatter.  Who  owned  the 
mill  and  what  he  ground  I  never  heard. 

Northwards,  through  a  round  bull's-eye  window  you 
could  see,  past  a  maze  of  coppices  and  hills,  and  in  the 
distance,  the  cock  of  a  cathedral  spire.  And  to  the  west 
stood  a  wood  of  yew,  its  pool  partially  greened  over, 
grey  with  willows,  and  the  haunt  of  rare  birds.  On  the 
one  side  of  this  pool  spread  exceedingly  calm  meadows  ; 
and  on  the  other,  in  a  hollow,  the  graveyard  lay.  The 
stones  and  bones  in  it  were  all  apparently  of  Miss 
Taroone's  kinsfolk.  At  least  Linnet  Sara  told  me  so. 
Nor  was  she  mournful  about  it.  She  seemed  to  have 
nobody  to  care  for  but  her  mistress  ;  working  for  love, 
whatever  her  wages  might  be. 

It  is  an  odd  thing  to  say,  but  though  I  usually  tried  to 
avoid  meeting  Miss  Taroone,  and  was  a  little  afraid  of 
her,  there  was  a  most  curious  happiness  at  times  in  being 
in  her  company.  She  never  once  asked  me  about  my 
character,  never  warned  me  of  anything,  never  said 
"  You  must  "  ;  and  yet  I  knew  well  that  if  in  stupidity 
or  carelessness  I  did  anything  in  her  house  which  she  did 
not  approve  of,  my  punishment  would  come. 

She  once  told  me,  "  Simon,  you  have,  I  see,  the  begin- 
nings of  a  bad  feverish  cold.  It  is  because  you  were 
stupid  enough  yesterday  to  stand  with  the  sweat  on  your 
face  talking  to  me  in  a  draught.  It  will  probably  be 
severe."     And  so  it  was. 

She  never  said  anything  affectionate  ;  she  never  lost 
her  temper.     I  never  saw  her  show  any  pity  or  meanness 

XV 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  BOOK 

or  reveng  "Well,  Simon,"  she  would  say,  "Good 
morning  "  ;  or  "  Good  evening  "  (as  the  case  mighl  be)  ; 
'you  arc  always  welcome.  Have  a  good  look  about 
you.  Don't  waste  your  time  here.  Even  when  all  is 
said,  you  will  not  sec  too  much  of  nu  and  mine.  But  don't 
believe  everything  you  may  hear  in  the  kitchen.     Linnet 

Sara  is  a  good  servant,  but  Still  a  groper." 

\"t  the  least  notion  of  what  she  meant  occurred  to  me. 
But  I  peacocked  about  for  a  while  as  if  she  had  paid  me 
a  compliment  An  evening  or  two  afterwards,  and  soon 
after  sunset,  I  found  her  sitting  in  her  westward  window. 
Perhaps  because  rain  was  coming,  the  crouching  head- 
stones under  the  hill  looked  to  be  furlongs  nearer. 
"  Sleeping,  waking  ;  waking,  sleeping,  Simon  ;  "  she  said, 
"sing  while  you  can."  Like  a  little  owl  I  fixed  sober 
eyes  on  the  yew-wood,  but  again  I  hadn't  any  inkling  of 
what  she  meant. 

She  would  sit  patiently  listening  to  me  as  long  as  I 
cared  to  unbosom  myself  to  her.  Her  calm,  severe,  and 
yet,  I  think,  beautiful  face  is  clear  in  my  memory.  It 
resembles  a  little  the  figure  in  Albrecht  Diirer's  picture 
of  a  woman  sitting  beneath  the  wall  of  a  house,  with  a 
hound  couched  beside  her,  an  inclined  ladder,  the  rain- 
bowed  sea  in  the  distance,  and  a  bat — a  tablet  of  magic 
numbers  and  a  pent-housed  bell  over  her  head. 

Sometimes  I  would  be  questioned  at  home  about  my 
solitary  wanderings,  but  I  never  mentioned  Miss 
Taroone's  name,  and  spoke  of  her  house  a  little  deceit- 
fully, since  I  did  not  confess  how  much  I  loved  being  in  it. 

One  evening — and  it  was  already  growing  late — Miss 
Taroone,  after  steadily  gazing  into  my  eyes  for  a  few 
moments,  asked  me  if  I  liked  pictures.     I  professed  that 

xvi 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  BOOK 

I  did,  though  I  had  never  spent  much  time  in  looking 
at  the  queer  portraits  and  charts  and  mementoes  that 
hung  thick  and  closely  on  her  own  walls.  '  Well,"  she 
replied,  "  if  you  like  pictures  I  must  first  tell  you  about 
Nahum." 

I  could  not  at  first  make  head  or  tail  of  Mr.  Nahum. 
Even  now  I  am  uncertain  whether  he  was  Miss  Taroone's 
brother  or  her  nephew  or  a  cousin  many  times  removed  ; 
or  whether  perhaps  she  was  really  and  truly  Mrs. 
Taroone  and  he  her  only  son  ;  or  she  still  Miss  Taroone 
and  he  an  adopted  one.  I  am  not  sure  even  whether  or 
not  she  had  much  love  for  him,  though  she  appeared  to 
speak  of  him  with  pride.  What  I  do  know  is  that  Miss 
Taroone  had  nurtured  him  from  his  cradle,  and  had 
taught  him  all  the  knowledge  that  was  not  already  his 
by  right  of  birth. 

Before  he  was  come  even  to  be  my  own  age,  she  told 
me,  Nahum  Taroone  had  loved  "  exploring."  As  a  boy 
he  had  ranged  over  the  countryside  for  miles  around.  I 
never  dared  ask  her  if  he  had  sat  on  Linnet  Sara's 
"  Wall  "  !  He  had  scrawled  plans  and  charts  and  maps, 
marking  on  them  all  his  wanderings.  And  not  only 
the  roads,  paths,  chaces,  and  tracks,  the  springs  and 
streams,  but  the  rarer  birds'  nesting-places  and  the  rarer 
wild  flowers,  the  eatable  or  poisonous  fruits,  trees, 
animal  lairs,  withies  for  whips,  clay  for  modelling,  elder 
shoots  for  pitch  pipes,  pebbles  for  his  catapult,  flint 
arrows,  and  everything  of  that  kind.  He  was  a  night- 
boy  too  ;  could  guide  himself  by  the  stars,  was  a 
walking  almanac  of  the  moon  ;  and  could  decoy  owls  and 
nightjars,  and  find  any  fox's  or  badger's  earth  he  was 
after,  even  in  a  dense  mist. 

xvii 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  BOOK 

!  came  to  know  Mr.  N. ilium  pretty  w<  ll    so  far  al  .my 

r.it c  as  one  can  know  anybody  from  hearsay    before 

raroone  referred   to  the  pictun     again.     And    I 

tme  curious  aboul  him,  and  hoped  to  sec  this  strange 

traveller,   and   frequently  hung  about   Thrae   in   mere 

t  hance  of  that. 

Strangely  enough,  by  the  looks  on  her  face  and  the 
tones  of  her  voice,  Miss  Taroone  was  inclined  to  mock 
a  little  at  Mr.  Nahum  because  of  his  restlessness.  She 
didn't  seem  to  approve  of  his  leaving  her  so  much — 
though  she  herself  had  come  from  Sure  Vine.  Her 
keys  would  jangle  at  her  chatelaine  as  if  they  said, 
"  Ours  secrets  enough."  And  she  would  stand  listening, 
and  mute,  as  if  in  expectation  of  voices  or  a  footfall. 
Then  as  secretly  as  I  could,  I  would  get  away. 

All  old  memories  resemble  a  dream.  And  so  too  do 
these  of  Miss  Taroone  and  Thrae.  When  I  was  most 
busy  and  happy  and  engrossed  in  it,  it  seemed  to  be  a 
house  which  might  at  any  moment  vanish  before  your 
eyes,  showing  itself  to  be  but  the  outer  shell  or  hiding 
place  of  an  abode  still  more  enchanting. 

This  sounds  nonsensical.  But  if  you  have  ever  sat 
and  watched  a  Transformation  Scene  in  a  pantomime, 
did  you  suppose,  just  before  the  harlequin  slapped  with 
his  wand  on  what  looked  like  a  plain  brick-and-mortar 
wall,  that  it  would  instantly  after  dissolve  into  a  radiant 
coloured  scene  of  trees  and  fountains  and  hidden  beings 
— growing  lovelier  in  their  own  showing  as  the  splendour 
spread  and  their  haunts  were  revealed  ?  Well,  so  at 
times  I  used  to  feel  in  Thrae. 

At  last,  one  late  evening  in  early  summer,  beckoning 
me  with  her  ringer,  Miss  Taroone  lit  a  candle  in  an  old 

xviii 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  BOOK 

brass  stick  and  bade  me  follow  her  down  a  long  narrow 
corridor  and  up  a  steep  winding  stone  staircase.  '  You 
have  heard,  Simon,  of  Mr.  Nahum's  round  room  ;  now 
you  shall  see  it." 

On  the  wider  step  at  the  top,  before  a  squat  oak  door, 
she  stayed,  lifted  her  candle,  and  looked  at  me.  l  You 
will  remember,"  she  said,  "  that  what  I  am  about  to 
admit  you  into  is  Mr.  Nahum's  room  ;  not  mine.  You 
may  look  at  the  pictures,  you  may  examine  anything 
that  interests  you,  you  may  compose  yourself  to  the 
view.  But  replace  what  you  look  at,  have  a  care  in 
your  handling,  do  nothing  out  of  idle  curiosity,  and  come 
away  when  you  are  tired.  Remember  that  Mr.  Nahum 
may  be  returning  at  any  hour.  He  would  be  pleased  to 
find  you  here.  But  hasten  away  out  of  his  room  the  very 
instant  you  feel  you  have  no  right,  lot  or  pleasure  to  be 
in  it.  Hasten  away,  I  mean,  so  that  you  may  return 
to  it  with  a  better  mind  and  courage." 

She  laid  two  fingers  on  my  shoulder,  cast  another 
look  into  my  face  under  her  candle,  turned  the  key  in 
the  lock,  gently  thrust  me  beyond  the  door,  shut  it :  and 
left  me  to  my  own  devices. 

What  first  I  noticed,  being  for  awhile  a  little  alarmed 
at  this  strange  proceeding,  was  the  evening  light  that 
poured  in  on  the  room  from  the  encircling  windows. 
Below,  by  walking  some  little  distance  from  room  to 
room,  corridor  to  corridor,  you  could  get  (as  I  have  said) 
a  single  narrow  view  out  north,  south,  east  or  west. 
Here,  you  could  stand  in  the  middle,  and  turning  slowly 
like  a  top  on  your  heels,  could  watch  float  by  one  after 
the  other,  hill  and  windmill,  ocean,  distant  city,  dark 
yew-wood. 

xix 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  BOOK 

The  crooning  of  doves  was  audible  on  the  roof,  swallows 
were  coursing  in  the  placid  and  rosy  air,  the  whole  world 
seemed  to  be  turning  softly  out  oi  the  day's  sunshine, 
stretching  long  dark  shadows  across  hill  and  valley  as  if 
in  delight  to  be  on  the  verge  of  rest  and  slumber  again, 

a-  that  the  heats  of  full  summer  were  so  mar. 

But  I  believe  inv  first  thought  was — What  a  boiling 
hot  and  glaring  place  to  sit  in  in  the  middle  of  the 
morning.  And  then  I  noticed  that  heavy  curtains  hung 
on  either  side  each  rounded  window,  for  shade,  conceal- 
ment and  solitude.  As  soon,  however,  as  my  eyes  were 
accustomed  to  the  dazzle,  I  spent  little  time  upon  the 
great  view,  but  immediately  peered  about  me  at  what 
was  in  this  curious  chamber. 

Never  have  I  seen  in  any  room — and  this  was  none  so 
large — such  a  hugger-mugger  of  strange  objects — odd- 
shaped  coloured  shells,  fragments  of  quartz,  thunder- 
bolts and  fossils  ;  skins  of  brilliant  birds  ;  outlandish 
shoes  ;  heads,  faces,  masks  of  stone,  wood,  glass,  wax, 
and  metal ;  pots,  images,  glass  shapes,  and  what  not  ; 
lanterns  and  bells  ;  bits  of  harness  and  ornament  and 
weapons.  There  were,  besides,  two  or  three  ships  of 
different  rigs  in  glass  cases,  and  one  in  a  green  bottle ; 
peculiar  tools,  little  machines  ;  silent  clocks,  instruments 
of  music,  skulls  and  bones  of  beasts,  frowsy  bunches  of 
linen  or  silk  queerly  marked,  and  a  mummied  cat  (I 
think).  And  partly  concealed,  as  I  twisted  my  head, 
there,  dangling  in  an  alcove,  I  caught  sight  of  a  full- 
length  skeleton,  one  hollow  eye-hole  concealed  by  a 
curtain  looped  to  the  floor  from  the  ceiling. 

I  just  cast  my  glance  round  on  all  these  objects  without 
of  course  seeing  them  one  by  one.     The  air  was  clear  as 

XX 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  BOOK 

water  in  the  evening  light,  a  little  dust  had  fallen  ;  all 
was  in  order,  though  at  that  first  hasty  glance  there 
seemed  none.  Last,  but  not  least,  there  was  row  on  row 
of  painted  pictures.  Wherever  there  was  space  on  the 
walls  free  of  books,  this  round  tower  room  was  hung 
with  them  as  close  as  their  frames  and  nails  allowed. 
There  I  stood,  hearing  faintly  the  birds,  conscious  of  the 
pouring  sunlight,  the  only  live  creature  amidst  this 
departed  traveller's  treasures  and  possessions. 

I  was  so  much  taken  aback  by  it  all,  so  mystified  by 
Miss  Taroone's  ways,  so  cold  at  sight  of  the  harmless 
bones  above  me,  and  felt  so  suddenly  out  of  my  familiars, 
that  without  a  moment's  hesitation  I  turned  about, 
flung  open  the  door  and  went  helter  skelter  clattering 
down  the  stairs — out  of  the  glare  into  the  gloom. 

There  was  no  sign  of  Miss  Taroone  as  I  crossed  through 
the  house  and  sneaked  off  hastily  through  the  garden. 
And  not  until  the  barn  had  shut  me  out  from  the  lower 
windows  behind  me  did  I  look  back  at  the  upper  ones 
of  Mr.  Nahum's  tower.  Until  that  moment  I  did  not 
know  how  frightened  I  had  been.  Yet  why,  or  at  what, 
I  cannot  even  now  decide. 

But  I  soon  overcame  this  folly.  Miss  Taroone  made 
no  inquiry  how  I  had  fared  on  this  first  visit  to  Mr. 
Nahum's  fortress.  As  I  have  said,  she  seldom  asked 
questions — except  with  her  eyes,  expressions,  and  hands. 
But  some  time  afterwards,  and  after  two  or  three  spells 
of  exploration,  I  myself  began  to  talk  to  her  of  the  strange 
things  up  there. 

I  have  looked  at  a  good  many,  Miss  Taroone.  But 
the  pictures  !  Some  of  them  are  of  places  I  believe  I 
know.     I   wish    I   could   be   a   traveller   and   see  what 

xxi 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  BOOK 

the  others   .uc   of.     Did   Mr.    N'ahuiu   paint   them   all 
himself  ?" 

Miss  Taroone  was  sitting  bolt  upright  in  a  high-backed 
chair,  her  eyes  and  tan-  very  intent,  as  always  happened 

when   Mr.    Xahunfs   name   was  mentioned. 

'  I  know  very  little  about  them,  Simon.  When 
Nahum  was  younger  he  used  to  make  pictures  of  Thrae, 
and  of  the  woods  and  valleys  hereabouts.  There  are 
boxfulls  put  away.  Others  arc  pictures  brought  back 
fiom  foreign  parts,  but  many  of  them,  as  I  believe," 
she  turned  her  face  and  looked  into  a  shadowy  corner 
of  the  room,  '  are  pictures  of  nothing  on  earth.  He 
his  two  worlds.  Take  your  time.  Some  day  you 
too,  I  dare  say,  will  go  off  on  your  travels.  Remember 
that,  like  Nahum,  you  are  as  old  as  the  hills  which 
neither  spend  nor  waste  time,  but  dwell  in  it  for  ages, 
as  if  it  were  light  or  sunshine.  Some  day  perhaps 
Nahum  will  shake  himself  free  of  Thrae  altogether. 
I  don't  know,  myself,  Simon.  This  house  is  enough  for 
me,  and  what  I  remember  of  Sure  Vine,  compared  with 
which  Thrae  is  but  the  smallest  of  bubbles  in  a  large 
glass." 

I  do  not  profess  to  have  understood  one  half  of  what 
Miss  Taroone  meant  in  these  remarks.  It  was  in 
English  and  yet  in  a  hidden  tongue. 

But  by  this  time  I  had  grown  to  be  bolder  in  her 
company,  and  pounced  on  this  : — "  What,  please  Miss 
Taroone,  do  you  mean  by  the  '  two  worlds  '  ?  Or  shall 
I  ask  downstairs  ?"  I  added  the  latter  question 
because  now  and  then  in  the  past  Miss  Taroone  had 
bidden  me  go  down  to  Linnet  Sara  for  my  answers. 
She  now  appeared  at  first  not  to  have  heard  it. 

x  x  i  i 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  BOOK 

"  Now  I  must  say  to  you,  Simon,"  she  replied  at  last, 
folding  her  hands  on  her  knee,  "  wherever  you  may  be 
in  that  body  of  yours,  you  feel  you  look  out  of  it,  do  you 
not?" 

I  nodded.     "  Yes,  Miss  Taroone." 

"  Now  think,  then,  of  Mr.  Nahum's  round  room  ; 
where  is  that  ?" 

"  Up  there,"  said  I,  pointing  up  a  rambling  finger. 

"Ah!"  cried  Miss  Taroone,  "so  it  may  be.  But 
even  if  to-morrow  you  are  thousands  of  miles  distant 
from  here  on  the  other  side  of  this  great  Ball,  or  in  its 
bowels,  or  flying  free— you  will  still  carry  a  picture  of 
it,  will  you  not  ?     And  that  will  be  within  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  in  my  mind,  Miss  Taroone  ?"  I  answered  rather 
sheepishly. 

"  In  your  mind,"  she  echoed  me,  but  not  as  if  she  were 
particularly  pleased  at  the  fact.  "  Well,  many  of  the 
pictures  I  take  it  in  Mr.  Nahum's  round  tower  are  of 
that  world.  His  mind.  I  have  never  examined  them. 
My  duties  are  elsewhere.  Your  duty  is  to  keep  your 
senses,  heart  and  courage  and  to  go  where  you  are 
called.  And  in  black  strange  places  you  will  at  times 
lose  yourself  and  find  yourself,  Simon.  Now  Mr.  Nahum 
is  calling.  Don't  think  of  me  too  much.  I  have  great 
faith  in  him.  Sit  up  there  with  him  then.  Share  your 
eyes  with  his  pictures.  And  having  seen  them,  compare 
them  if  you  will.  Say,  This  is  this,  and  that  is  that. 
And  make  of  all  that  he  has  exactly  what  use  you 
can." 

With  this  counsel  in  my  head  I  once  more  groped  my 
way  up  the  corkscrew  stone  staircase,  and  once  more 
passed  on  from  picture  to  picture  ;  in  my  engrossment 

xxiii  c 


THE  STORY  OF  TINS  hook 

actually  knocking  my  head  against  the  dangling  foot- 
bones  of  Mr.  Nahum's  treasured  and  no"w  unalarming 

skeleton. 

The  pictures  were  of  all  kinds  and  sizes — in  water 
colour,  in  chalks,  and  in  oil.  Some  I  liked  for  their 
vivid  colours  and  deep  shadows,  and  some  I  did  not 
like  at  all.  Nor  could  I  always  be  sure  even  what  they 
were  intended  to  represent.  Many  of  them  completely 
perplexed  me.  A  few  of  them  seemed  to  me  to  be 
absurd  ;  some  made  me  stupidly  ashamed  ;  and  one  or 
two  of  them  terrified  me.  But  I  went  on  examining 
them  when  I  felt  inclined,  and  a  week  or  so  after,  as  I 
was  lifting  out  one  of  them  into  the  sunshine,  by  chance 
it  twisted  on  its  cord  and  disclosed  its  wooden  back. 

And  there,  pasted  on  to  it,  was  a  scrap  of  yellowing 
paper  with  the  letters  Blake,  followed  by  a  number— 
cxlvii,  in  Roman  figures.  As  with  this  one,  so  with  the 
others.     Each  had  its  name  and  a  number. 

And  even  as  I  stood  pondering  what  this  might  mean, 
my  eyes  rested  on  a  lower  shelf  of  one  of  Mr.  Nahum's 
cases  of  books — book-cases  which  I  have  forgotten  to 
say  stood  all  round  the  lower  part  of  the  room.  I  had 
already  discovered  that  many  of  these  books  were  the 
writings  of  travellers  in  every  part  of  the  globe.  One 
whole  book-case  consisted  of  what  Mr.  Nahum  appeared 
to  call  Kitchen  Work.  But  the  one  on  a  lower  shelf 
which  had  now  taken  my  attention  was  new  to  me — an 
enormous,  thick,  home-made-looking  volume  covered  in 
a  greenish  shagreen  or  shark-skin. 

Scrawled  in  ungainly  capitals  on  the  strip  of  vellum 
pasted  to  the  back  of  this  book  was  its  title  :  Theother- 
worlde.     Would  you  believe  it  ? — at  first  I  was  stupid 

xxiv 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  BOOK 

enough  to  suppose  this  title  was  one  word,  a  word  in  a 
strange  tongue,  which  I  pronounced  to  myself  as  best  I 
could,  Theeothaworldie — saying  the  th  as  in  thimble. 
And  that  is  what,  merely  for  old  sake's  sake,  I  have 
continued  to  call  the  book  in  my  mind  to  this  day ! 

I  glanced  out  of  the  window.  The  upper  boughs  of 
the  yew-wood  and  the  stones  this  side  of  it  among  the 
bright  green  grasses  were  impurpled  by  the  reflected  sun- 
light. Nothing  there  but  motionless  shadows.  I  stood 
looking  vacantly  out  for  a  moment  or  two  ;  then  stooped 
and  lugged  out  the  ponderous  fusty  old  volume  on  to  the 
floor  and  raised  its  clumsy  cover. 

To  my  surprise  and  pleasure,  I  found,  that  attached 
within  was  the  drawing  of  a  boy  of  about  my  own  age, 
but  dressed  like  a  traveller,  whose  face  faintly  resembled 
a  portrait  I  had  noticed  on  the  walls  downstairs,  though 
this  child  had  wings  painted  to  his  shoulders  and  there 
was  a  half  circle  of  stars  around  his  head.  Beneath  this 
portrait  in  the  book,  in  small  letters,  was  scrawled  in 
a  faded  handwriting,  Nahum  Tarune.  This,  then,  was 
Mr.  Nahum  when  he  was  a  boy.  It  pleased  me  to  find 
that  he  was  no  better  a  speller  than  myself.  He  had  not 
even  got  his  own  name  right  !  I  liked  his  face.  He 
looked  out  from  under  his  stars  at  me,  full  in  the  eyes. 

Next — after  I  had  searched  his  looks  and  clothes 
and  what  he  carried  pretty  closely — I  turned  over  a 
few  of  the  stiff  leaves  and  found  more  of  his  writing 
with  a  big  VII  scrawled  on  the  top.  On  page  one 
of  this  book  you  will  find  the  writing.  I  should  have 
been  a  stupider  boy  even  than  I  was  if  I  had  not  at 
once  turned  over  the  pictures  till  I  came  to  that  with 
VII  on  the  label  on  the  back  of  it.     This  picture  was  of  a 

XXV 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  BOOK 

Maze  outlined  in  gaudy  colours  which  faded  towards  the 
middle  a  sort  of  oasis  in  which  grew  a  tree.  Fabulous* 
looking  animals  and  creatures  with  wings  sprawled 
around  its  margins.    After  repeated  attempts  I  found 

to  my  disappointment  that  your  only  way  out  of  the 
oasi<  and  the  maze  was,  alter  long  groping,  by  the  way 
you  went  m.  Underneath  it  was  written  "  This  is  the 
key."  And  above  it  in  green  letters  stood  this  :  -Behold 
upon  the  mountains  the  feet  of  him  that  bringeth  good 
tidings,  that  publisheth  peace  I 

It  was  unfortunate  that  so  little  more  of  daylight  was 
now  left  dying  in  the  sky  that  evening  ;  for  as  yet  I  had 
not  the  confidence  to  kindle  the  wax  candles  that  stood 
in  their  brass  sticks  in  the  round  tower.  It  was  high 
time  for  me  to  be  getting  home.  In  my  haste  to  be  off 
I  nearly  collided  with  Miss  Taroone,  who  happened  to  be 
standing  in  the  dusklight  looking  out  from  under  her 
porch.  Too  much  excited  even  to  beg  her  pardon,  I 
blurted  out  :  "  Miss  Taroone,  I  have  found  out  what 
the  pictures  are  of.  It's  a  Book.  Theeothaworldie.  Mr. 
Nahum's  portrait's  in  it,  but  they've  put  wings  to  him  ; 
and  it's  all  in  his  writing — rhymes." 

She  looked  down  at  me,  though  I  could  not  quite  see 
her  face. 

11  Then,  good-night  to  you,  Simon  ;  and  happy  dreams," 
she  said,  in  her  unfriendly  voice. 

"  I  like  the  round  room  better  and  better,"  I  replied 
as  heartily  as  I  could.  That  picture  of  Mr.  Nahum — 
and  there  are  lots  more,  I  think — is  a  little  bit  like  an 
uncle  of  mine  who  died  in  Russia  ;    my  Uncle  John." 

"  John's  as  good  a  name,  I  suppose,  as  any  other, 
Simon,"  said  Miss  Taroone.     She  stood  looking  out  on 

xxvi 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  BOOK 

the  dusky  country  scene.     "  There's  a  heavy  dew  to- 
night, and  the  owls  are  busy." 

They  were  indeed.  Their  screechings  sounded  on  all 
sides  of  me  as  I  ran  off  homewards,  chanting  over  to 
myself  the  words  that  had  somehow  stuck  in  my  memory. 

Well,  at  last  I  began  to  read  in  Mr.  Nahum's  book — 
I  won't  say  page  by  page,  but  as  the  fancy  took  me.  It 
consisted  chiefly  of  rhymes  and  poems,  and  some  of  them 
had  pictured  capitals  and  were  decorated  in  clear  bright 
colours  like  the  pages  of  the  old  books  illuminated  by 
monks  centuries  ago.  Apart  from  the  poems  were  here 
and  there  pieces  of  prose.  These,  I  found,  always  had 
some  bearing  on  the  poems,  and,  like  them,  many  of 
them  were  queerly  spelt.  Occasionally  Mr.  Nahum  had 
jotted  down  his  own  thoughts  in  the  margin.  But  the 
pictures  were  my  first  concern. 

Sometimes  I  went  off  to  them  from  the  book  in  order 
to  find  the  particular  one  I  wanted.  And  sometimes  the 
other  way  round  :  I  would  have  a  good  long  stare  at  a 
picture,  then  single  out  the  proper  rhyme  in  the  book. 
Often,  either  in  one  way  or  the  other,  I  failed.  For 
there  were  far  fewer  pictures  than  there  were  pages  in 
the  book,  and  for  scores  of  pages  I  found  no  picture  at 
all.  It  seemed  Mr.  Nahum  had  made  paintings  only 
of  those  he  liked  best. 

The  book  itself,  I  found,  was  the  first  of  three,  the 
other  two  being  similar  to  itself  but  much  thicker  and 
heavier.  Into  these  I  dipped  occasionally,  but  found 
that  the  rhymes  in  them  interested  me  less  or  were  less 
easily  understandable.  Even  some  of  those  in  the  first 
book  were  a  little  beyond  my  wits  at  the  time.  But 
experience  seems  to   be  like    the    shining  of    a    bright 

xxvii 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  BOOK 

lantern.  It  suddenly  makes  clear  in  the  mind  what 
was  already  there  perhaps,  bul  dim.  And  often  though 
I  immediately  liked  what  I  read,  long  years  were  to  go 
by  luii. re    1   really  understood   it,   made   it    my   own. 

There  would  mine  a  moment,  something  would  happen; 
and  I  would  say  to  myself:  "Oh,  that,  then,  is  what 
thai  meant  !" 

Before  going  any  further  I  must  confess  that  I  was 
eedingly  slow  over  Mr.  Nahum's  writings.  Even 
over  Volume  I.  When  first  I  opened  its  pages  I  had 
had  a  poor  liking  for  poetry  because  of  a  sort  of  contempt 
for  it.  '  Poetry  !"  I  would  scoff  to  myself,  and  would 
shut  up  the  covers  of  any  such  book  with  a  kind  of 
yawn  inside  me.  Some  of  it  had  come  my  way  in 
lesson  books.  This  I  could  gabble  off  like  a  parrot,  and 
with  as  much  understanding  ;  and  I  had  just  begun  to 
grind  out  a  little  Latin  verse  for  my  father. 

But  I  had  never  troubled  to  think  about  it  ;  to  share 
my  Self  with  it ;  to  examine  it  in  order  to  see  whether  or 
not  it  was  true  ;  or  to  ask  why  it  was  written  in  this  one 
way  and  in  no  other  way.  But  apart  from  this,  there  were 
many  old  rhymes  in  Mr.  Nahum's  book — nursery  things — 
which  I  had  known  since  I  knew  anything.  And  I  still 
have  an  old  childish  love  for  rhymes  and  jingles  like  them. 

But  what  about  the  others  ?  I  began  to  ponder. 
After  being  so  many  hours  alone  in  Mr.  Nahum's  room, 
among  his  secret  belongings,  I  almost  felt  his  presence 
there.  When  your  mind  is  sunk  in  study,  it  is  as  if  you 
were  in  a  dream.  But  you  cannot  tell  where,  or  in  whose 
company,  you  may  wake  out  of  a  dream.  I  remember 
one  sultry  afternoon  being  startled  out  of  my  wits  by  a 
sudden  clap  of  thunder.     I  looked  up,  to  find  the  whole 

xxviii 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  BOOK 

room  black,  zigzag,  and  strange,  and  for  a  moment  I 
fancied  Mr.  Nahum  was  actually  there  behind  me  ;  and 
not  a  friendly  Mr.  Nahum. 

That  is  mere  fancy  ;  though  in  other  ways  he  became 
so  real  to  me  at  last  that  I  would  do  things  as  if  he  had 
asked  me  to  do  them.  For  this  reason,  I  think,  I 
persevered  with  his  book,  swallowing  some  of  the  poems 
as  if  they  were  physic,  simply  because  he  had  written 
them  there.  But  the  more  I  read,  the  more  I  came  to 
enjoy  them  for  their  own  sakes.  Not  all  of  them,  of 
course.  But  I  did  see  this,  that  like  a  carpenter  who 
makes  a  table,  a  man  who  has  written  a  poem  has  written 
it  like  that  on  purpose. 

With  this  thought  in  my  head  I  tried  one  day  to  alter 
the  words  of  one  or  two  of  the  simple  and  easy  poems  ; 
or  to  put  the  words  in  a  different  order.  And  I  found 
by  so  doing  that  you  not  only  altered  the  sound  of  the 
poem,  but  that  even  the  slightest  alteration  in  the 
sound  a  little  changed  the  sense.  Either  you  lost 
something  of  the  tune  and  runningness  ;  or  the  words 
did  not  clash  right ;  or  you  blurred  the  picture  the  words 
gave  you  ;  or  some  half-hidden  meaning  vanished  away. 
I  don't  mean  that  every  poem  is  perfect ;  but  only  that 
when  I  changed  them  it  was  almost  always  very  much 
for  the  worse.  I  was  very  slow  in  all  this  ;  but,  still, 
I  went  on.  No.  Ill,  I  remember,  was  the  old  nursery 
jingle,  "  Old  King  Cole  "  :— 

Old  King  Cole  was  a  merry  old  soul, 
And  a  merry  old  soul  was  he  ; 

He  called  for  his  pipe, 

And  he  called  for  his  bowl, 
And  he  called  for  his  fiddlers  three.  .  .  . 
xxix 


mi:  STORY  OF  this  hook 

Now,  suppose,  instead  ol  these  four  lines  ol  the  rhyme 
you  put  :  — 

Old  K 1 1 ) l;  Cole  was  ,i  jolly  old  man, 

The  j oiliest  old  man  alive  ; 

IK-  called  for  Ins  cup,  and  he  called  for  a  pipe 

And  In-  tailed  tor  h\<  tiddlers  five. 

By  so  doing  you  have  actually  added  two  extra 
tiddlers  ;  ami  yet  somehow  you  have  taken  away  some 
of  the  old  three's  music.     Or  you  may  pul  : — 

'Cole  the  First  was  now  a  monarch  advanced  in 
age,  and  of  a  convivial  temperament.  On  any  festive 
occasion  he  would  bid  his  retainers  bring  him  his 
goblet  and  smoking  materials,  and  would  command 
his  musicians  to  entertain  him  on  their  violins  :  which 
they  did.' 

Well,  all  the  facts  are  there  and  many  more  words,  but 
scarcely  a  trace  of  my  old  King  Cole,  and  not  a  single 
tweedle-cedle  of  the  fiddling.  Would  anyone  trouble  to 
learn  that  by  heart  ? 

Now  underneath  this  rhyme  Mr.  Nahum  had  written 
a  sort  of  historical  account  of  King  Cole,  a  good  deal  of 
it  in  German  and  other  languages.  All  I  could  make 
out  of  it  was  this  :  if  ever  a  King  Cole  inhabited  the 
world,  he  probably  had  another  name  ;  that  he  lived 
too  far  back  in  history  for  anyone  to  make  sure  when  he 
had  lived  or  that  he  had  lived  at  all  ;  and  that  his  "  pipe  " 
and  "  bowl  "  probably  stand  for  objects  much  more 
mysterious  and  far  less  common. 

Having  the  rhyme  quite  free  to  myself,  I  didn't  mind 
reading  this  ;  but  if  ever  I  have  to  give  up  either,  I  shall 
keep  the  rhyme. 

XXX 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  BOOK 

Having  discovered,  then,  that  every  poem  must  have 
been  written  as  it  was  written,  on  purpose,  I  took  a  little 
more  pains  with  those  I  cared  for  least.  In  some  even 
then  I  could  not  quite  piece  out  the  meaning  ;  in  others 
I  could  not  easily  catch  the  beat  and  rhythm  and  tune. 
But  I  learned  to  read  them  very  slowly,  so  as  fully  and 
quietly  to  fill  up  the  time  allowed  for  each  line  and  to 
listen  to  its  music,  and  to  see  and  hear  all  that  the  words 
were  saying. 

Then,  too,  what  Miss  Taroone  had  said  came  back  to 
my  mind.  Even  when  Mr.  Nahum's  poems  were  about 
real  things  and  places  and  people,  they  were  still  only 
of  places  and  people  the  words  made  for  me  in  my  mind. 
I  must,  that  is,  myself  imagine  all  they  told.  And  I 
found  that  the  mention  in  a  poem  even  of  quite  common 
and  familiar  things — such  as  a  star,  or  a  buttercup,  or  a 
beetle — did  not  bring  into  the  mind  quite  the  same  kind 
of  images  of  them  as  the  things  and  creatures  themselves 
do  in  the  naked  eye. 

Now  the  day  is  over, 
Night  is  drawing  nigh  ; 
Shadows  of  the  evening 
Steal  across  the  sky. . .  . 

This  was  one  of  the  earliest  poems  in  Mr.  Nahum's 
book.  I  had  often,  of  course,  seen  the  shadows  of 
evening — every  grass-blade  or  pebble  casts  its  own  ; 
but  these  words  not  only  called  them  vividly  into  my 
mind,  but  set  shadows  there  (shadows  across  the  sky) 
that  I  had  never  really  seen  at  all — with  my  own  eyes 
I  mean.  I  discovered  afterwards,  also,  that  shadows 
are  only  the  absence  of  light,  though  light  is  needed  to 

xxxi 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  BOOK 

make  them   visible.    Just    the  same,   again,   with   the 
sailo/S  in  the  same  poem  : 

(  mard  the  sailors  tossing 
On  the  deep  blue  sea.  . .  . 

They  are  plain  and  common  words,  but  their  order 
here  is  the  poem's  only,  and  the  effect  they  had  on  me, 
and  still  have,  is  different  from  the  effect  of  any  other 
words  on  the  same  subject.  Though,  too,  like  Mr. 
Nahum,  I  have  now  seen  something  of  the  world  (have 
been  seasick  and  nearly  drowned)  I  have  never  forgotten 
those  imaginary  sailors,  or  that  imaginary  sea  ;  can  still 
hear  the  waves  lapping  against  that  (unmentioned) 
ship's  thin  wooden  walls,  as  if  I  myself  were  sleeping 
there,  down  below. 

So  what  I  then  read  has  remained  a  clear  and  single 
remembrance,  as  if  I  myself  had  seen  it  in  a  world  made 
different,  or  in  a  kind  of  vision  or  dream.  And  I  think 
Mr.  Nahum  had  chosen  such  poems  in  Volume  I.  as 
carried  away  the  imagination  like  that  ;  either  into  the 
past,  or  into  another  mind,  or  into  the  all-but-forgotten  ; 
at  times  as  if  into  another  world.  And  this  kind  has 
been  my  choice  in  this  book. 

Not  that  his  picture  to  a  particular  poem  was  always 
the  picture  I  should  have  made  of  it.  Take  for  example 
another  nursery  jingle  in  his  book: 

'  How  many  miles  to  Babylon  ? ' 

'Three  score  and  ten.' 
'Can  I  get  there  by  candle-light?' 

'Ay,  and  back  again.' 

Mr.  Nahum's  corresponding  picture  was  not  of  Babylon 
or  of  a  candle,  or  of  a  traveller  at  all,  but  of  a  stone  tomb. 

xxxii 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  BOOK 

On  its  thick  upper  slab  he  had  drawn-in  an  old  earthen 
lamp,  with  a  serpent  for  handle — its  wick  alight,  and 
shining  up  on  a  small  owl  perched  in  the  lower  branches 
of  the  thick  tree  above. 

That  is  one  of  the  pleasures  of  reading — you  may  make 
any  picture  out  of  the  words  you  can  and  will  ;  and  a 
poem  may  have  as  many  different  meanings  as  there  are 
different  minds. 

There  I  would  sit,  then,  and  Mr.  Nahum's  book  made 
of  "  one  little  room  an  everywhere."  And  though  I 
was  naturally  rather  stupid  and  dense,  I  did  in  time 
realise  that  "  rare  poems  ask  rare  friends,"  and  that  even 
the  simplest  ones  may  have  secrets  which  will  need  a 
pretty  close  searching  out. 

Of  course  I  could  not  copy  out  all  of  the  poems  even 
in  Theeothaworldie,  Volume  I.,  and  I  took  very 
few  from  Volumes  II.  and  III.  I  chose  what  I  liked 
best — those  that,  when  I  read  them,  never  failed  to 
carry  me  away,  as  if  on  a  Magic  Carpet,  or  in  Seven 
League  Boots,  into  a  region  of  their  own.  When  the 
nightingale  sings,  other  birds,  it  is  said,  will  sit  and 
listen  to  him  :  and  I  remember  very  well  hearing  a 
nightingale  so  singing  on  a  spray  in  a  dewy  hedge,  and 
there  were  many  small  birds  perched  mute  and  quiet 
near.  The  cock  crows  at  midnight ;  and  for  miles  around 
his  kinsmen  answer.  The  fowler  whistles  his  decoy  for 
the  wild  duck  to  come.  So  certain  rhymes  and  poems 
affected  my  mind  when  I  was  young,  and  continue  to 
do  so  now  that  I  am  old. 

To  these  (and  the  few  bits  of  prose)  which  I  chose 
from  Mr.  Nahum,  I  added  others  afterwards,  and  they 
are  in  this  book  too.     All  of  them  are  in  English ;  a  few 

xxxiii 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  hook 

from  over  the  ocean:  but  how  very  few  they  all  arc  by 

imparison  with  the  multitudes  even  of  their  own  kind. 
Vnl  there  are  the  whole  world's  Languages  besides! 
Even  of  my  own  favourites  nol  all  have  found  a  place. 
There  was  not  room  enough.  1  have  left  out  others  also 
that  may  be  found  easily  elsewhere.  I  am  afraid,  too, 
there  may  be  many  mistakes  in  my  copying,  though 
I  have  tried  to  be  careful. 

Miss  Tannine  knew  that  I  was  making  use  of  Mr. 
\. dium's  book  ;  though  she  never  questioned  me  about 
it.  I  came  and  went  in  her  house  at  last  like  a  rabbit 
in  a  warren,  a  mouse  in  a  mousery.  The  hours  I  spent 
in  those  far-gone  days  in  Mr.  Nahum's  round  room  ! 
At  times  I  wearied  of  it,  and  hated  his  books,  and 
even  wished  I  had  never  so  much  as  set  eyes  on  Thrae 
at  all. 

But  after  such  sour  moments,  a  gossip  and  an  apple 
with  Linnet  Sara  in  her  kitchen,  or  a  scamper  home,  or  a 
bathe  under  the  hazels  in  the  stream  whose  source,  I 
believe,  is  in  the  hills  beyond  East  Dene,  would  set  me 
to  rights  again.  For  sheer  joy  of  return  I  could  scarcely 
breathe  for  a  while  after  remounting  the  stone  staircase, 
re-entering  Mr.  Nahum's  room,  and  closing  the  door 
behind  me. 

From  above  his  broad  scrawled  pages  I  would  lift  my 
eyes  to  his  windows  and  stare  as  if  out  of  one  dream  into 
another.  How  strange  from  across  the  sky  was  the 
gentle  scented  breeze  blowing  in  on  my  cheek,  softly 
stirring  the  dried  kingfisher  skin  that  hung  from  its 
beam ;  how  near  understanding  then  the  tongues  of  the 
wild  birds  ;  how  close  the  painted  scene — as  though  I 
were  but  a  picture  too,  and  this  my  frame. 

xxxiv 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  BOOK 

But  there  came  a  day  that  was  to  remove  me  out  of 
the  neighbourhood  of  Miss  Taroone's  Thrae  into  a 
different  kind  of  living  altogether.  I  was  to  be  sent  to 
school.  After  a  hot  debate  with  myself,  and  why  I 
scarcely  know,  I  asked  my  father's  permission  to  spend 
the  night  at  Miss  Taroone's.  He  gave  me  a  steady  look 
and  said,  Yes. 

I  found  Miss  Taroone  seated  on  the  steps  of  her  porch, 
and  now  that  I  look  back  at  her  then,  she  curiously 
reminds  me — though  she  was  ages  older — of  a  picture 
you  will  find  in  the  second  stanza  of  poem  No.  233  in  this 
book.  Standing  before  her- — it  was  already  getting 
towards  dark — I  said  I  was  come  to  bid  her  goodbye  ; 
and  might  I  spend  the  night  in  Mr.  Nahum's  round 
room.  She  raised  her  eyes  on  me,  luminous  and  my- 
sterious as  the  sky  itself,  even  though  in  the  dusk. 

"  You  may  say,  goodbye,  Simon,"  she  replied  ;  '  but 
unless  I  myself  am  much  mistaken  in  you,  your  feet 
will  not  carry  you  out  of  all  thought  of  me  ;  and  some 
day  they  will  return  to  me  whether  you  will  or  not." 

Inside  I  was  already  in  a  flutter  at  thought  of  the  hours 
to  come,  and  I  was  accustomed  to  her  strange  speeches, 
though  this  struck  on  my  mind  more  coldly  than  usual. 
I  made  a  little  jerk  forwards  ;  "  I  must  thank  you, 
please  Miss  Taroone,  for  having  been  so  kind  to  me," 
I  gulped  in  an  awkward  voice.  '  And  I  hope,"  I  added, 
as  she  made  no  answer,  "  I  hope  I  haven't  been  much 
of  a  bother- — coming  like  this,  I  mean?" 

"None,  Simon;"  was  her  sole  reply.  The  hand 
that  I  had  begun  to  hold  out,  went  back  into  my  pocket, 
and  feeling  extremely  uncomfortable  I  half  turned  away. 

"  Why,  who  knows  ? — "  said  the  solemn  voice,  "  Mr. 

XXXV 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  BOOK 

NTahum  may  at  this  very  moment  he  riding  home.  1  Live 
a  candle  alight." 

1  Thank  you,  Miss  Taroonc.  Thank  you  very  much 
indeed." 

With  that  I  turned  about  and  hastened  across  the 
darkening  garden  into  the  house.  My  candlestick  and 
matches  stood  ready  on  the  old  oak  bench  at  the  foot  of 
the  tower.  I  lit  up,  and  began  to  climb  the  cold  steps. 
My  heart  in  my  mouth,  I  hesitated  at  the  hob-nailed 
door  ;    but  managed  at  last  to  turn  the  key  in  the  lock. 

With  two  taller  candles  kindled,  and  its  curtains 
drawn  over  the  western  window,  I  at  once  began  to  copy 
out  the  last  few  things  I  wanted  for  mine  in  Volume  I. 
But  there  were  two  minds  in  me  as  midnight  drew  on, 
almost  two  selves,  the  one  busy  with  pen  and  ink,  the 
other  stealthily  listening  to  every  faintest  sound  in  my 
eyrie,  a  swift  glance  now  and  then  up  at  the  darkened 
glass  only  setting  me  more  sharply  to  work.  I  had 
never  before  sat  in  so  enormous  a  silence  ;  the  scratching 
of  my  pen  its  only  tongue. 

Steadily  burned  my  candles  ;  no  sound  of  hoofs,  no 
owl-cry,  no  knocking  disturbed  my  peace  ;  the  nightin- 
gales had  long  since  journeyed  South.  What  I  had 
hoped  for,  expected,  dreaded  in  this  long  vigil,  I  cannot 
recall  ;  all  that  I  remember  of  it  is  that  I  began  to  shiver 
a  little  at  last,  partly  because  my  young  nerves  were  on 
the  stretch,  and  partly  because  the  small  hours  grew 
chill.  In  the  very  middle  of  the  night  there  came  to  my 
ear  what  seemed  a  distant  talking  or  gabbling.  It  may 
have  been  fancy  ;  it  may  have  been  Linnet  Sara.  What 
certainly  was  fancy  is  the  notion  that,  as  I  started  up 
out  of  an  instant's  drowse,  a  stooping  shape  had  swiftly 

xxxvi 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  BOOK 

withdrawn  itself  from  me.  But  this  was  merely  the 
shadow  of  a  dream. 

I  returned  at  last  from  the  heavy  sleep  I  had  fallen  into, 
my  forehead  resting  on  the  backs  of  my  hands,  and  they 
fiat  on  the  huge  open  volume,  my  whole  body  stiff  with 
cold,  and  the  first  clear  grey  of  daybreak  in  the  East. 
And  suddenly,  as  my  awakened  eyes  stared  dully  about 
them  in  that  thin  light — the  old  windows,  the  strange 
outlandish  objects,  the  clustering  pictures,  the  count- 
less books,  my  own  ugly  writing  on  my  paper — an 
indescribable  despair  and  anxiety — almost  terror  even 
— seized  upon  me  at  the  rushing  thought  of  my  own 
ignorance  ;  of  how  little  I  knew,  of  how  unimportant 
I  was.  And,  again  and  again,  my  ignorance.  Then 
I  thought  of  Miss  Taroone,  of  Mr.  Nahum,  of  the  life 
before  me,  and  everything  yet  to  do.  And  a  sullen 
misery  swept  up  in  me  at  these  reflections.  And  once 
more  I  wished  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  that  I  had 
never  come  to  this  house. 

But  gradually  the  light  broadened.  And  with  it, 
confidence  began  to  return.  The  things  around  me 
that  had  seemed  strange  and  hostile  became  familiar 
again.  I  stood  up  and  stretched  myself  and,  I  think, 
muttered  a  prayer. 

To  this  day  I  see  the  marvellous  countryside  of  that 
morning  with  its  hills  and  low  thick  mists  and  wood- 
lands stretched  like  a  painted  scene  beneath  the  windows 
— and  that  finger  of  light  from  the  risen  Sun  presently 
piercing  across  the  dark  air,  and  as  if  by  a  miracle 
causing  birds  and  water  to  awake  and  sing  and  shine. 

With  a  kind  of  grief  that  was  yet  rapture  in  my 
mind,  I  stood  looking  out  over  the  cold  lichen-crusted 

xxxvii 


THE  STORY  OF  THIS  HOOK 

shingled  roof  of  Thrae  towards  the  Easl  and  towards 
tlmsc  far  horizons.  Yet  again  the  apprehension  (that 
was  almost  a  hope  drew  over  note  that  at  any  moment 
wall  and  chimney-shafl  might  thin  softly  away,  and  the 
Transformation  Scene  begin.  I  was  but  jnst  awake: 
and  so  too  was  the  world  itself,  and  ever  is.  And  some- 
where    Wall  or  no  Wall— was  my  mother's  East  Dene. .  . . 

In  a  while  I  crept  softly  downstairs,  let  myself  out,  and 
ran  off  into  the  morning.  Having  climbed  the  hill  from 
which  I  had  first  stared  down  upon  Thrae,  I  stopped  for 
a  moment  to  recover  my  breath,  and  looked  back.  I 
looked  back. 

The  gilding  sun-rays  beat  low  upon  the  house  in  the 
valley.  All  was  still,  wondrous,  calm.  For  a  moment 
my  heart  misgave  me  at  this  farewell.  The  next,  in 
sheer  excitement — the  cold  sweet  air,  the  height,  the 
morning,  a  few  keen  beckoning  stars — I  broke  into  a 
kind  of  Indian  war-dance  in  the  thin  dewy  grass,  and 
then,  with  a  last  wave  of  my  hand,  like  Mr.  Nahum 
himself,  I  set  off  at  a  sharp  walk  on  the  journey  that 
has  not  vet  come  to  an  end. 


XXXV1U 


MORNING  AND  MAY 


THIS  IS  THE  KEY 

This  is  the  Key  of  the  Kingdom  : 

In  that  Kingdom  is  a  city  ; 

In  that  city  is  a  town  ; 

In  that  town  there  is  a  street ; 

In  that  street  there  winds  a  lane  ; 

In  that  lane  there  is  a  yard  ; 

In  that  yard  there  is  a  house ; 

In  that  house  there  waits  a  room  ; 

In  that  room  an  empty  bed  ; 

And  on  that  bed  a  basket — 

A  Basket  of  Sweet  Flowers  : 

Of  Flowers,  of  Flowers  ; 

A  Basket  of  Sweet  Flowers. 

Flowers  in  a  Basket ; 
Basket  on  the  bed  ; 
Bed  in  the  chamber  ; 
Chamber  in  the  house  ; 
House  in  the  weedy  yard  ; 
Yard  in  the  winding  lane  ; 
Lane  in  the  broad  street  ; 
Street  in  the  high  town  ; 
Town  in  the  city  ; 
City  in  the  Kingdom — 
This  is  the  Key  of  the  Kingdom. 
Of  the  Kingdom  this  is  the  Key. 


MORNING  AM)  MAY 


\   MAY   YKAK   CAROL 

Heri  we  bring  new  water 
from  the  will  so  clear, 

For  to  worship  God  with, 
tins  happy  New  Year. 

Sm-  levy  dew,  sing  levy  dew, 
the  water  and  the  wine  ; 

The  seven  bright  gold  wires 
and  t he  bugles  that  do  shine. 

Sing  reign  of  Fair  Maid, 
with  gold  upon  her  toe, — 

Open  you  the  West  Door, 
and  turn  the  Old  Year  go. 

Sing  reign  of  Fair  Maid 

with  gold  upon  her  chin, — 
Open  you  the  East  Door, 

and  let  the  New  Year  in. 
vmg  levy  dew,  sing  levy  dew, 

the  water  and  the  wine  ; 
The  seven  bright  gold  wires 

and  the  bugles  they  do  shine. 


HEY !  NOW  THE  DAY  DAWNS 


"  Hay,  nou  the  day  dauis  ; 
The  jolie  Cok  crauis  ; 
Nou  shroudis  the  shauis, 

Throu  Natur  anone. 
The  thissell-cok  cryis 
On  louers  wha  lyis, 
Nou  skaillis  the  skyis  ; 

The  nicht  is  neir  gone. 

"  The  feildis  ouerflouis 
With  gowans  that  grouis, 


Hey  !   now  the  day  dawns  ; 
The  jolly  Cock  crows  ; 
Thick-leaved  the  green  shaws, 

Through  Nature  anon. 
The  thistle-cock  cries 
On  lovers  who  lies, 
All  cloudless  the  skies  ; 

The  night  is  near  gone. 

The  fields  overflow 
With  daisies  a-blow, 


HEY !  NOW  THE  DAY  DAWNS 


Quhair  lilies  lyk  lou  is, 

Als  rid  as  the  rone. 
The  turtill  that  true  is, 
With  nots  that  reneuis, 
Hir  pairtie  perseuis  ; 

The  nicht  is  neir  gone. 

"  Nou  Hairtis  with  Hyndis, 
Conforme  to  thair  kyndis, 
Hie  tursis  thair  tyndis, 

On  grund  whair  they  grone. 
Nou  Hurchonis,  with  Hairis, 
Ay  passis  in  pairis  ; 
Quhilk  deuly  declaris 

The  nicht  is  neir  gone  .  .  ." 


And  lilies  like  fire  shine, 
And  red  is  the  rowan. 
The  wood-dove  that  true  is 
Her  crooling  reneweth, 
And    her    sweet    mate    pur- 
sueth  ; 
The  night  is  near  gone. 

Now  Harts  with  their  Hinds 
Conform  to  their  kinds, 
They  vaunt  their  branched 
antlers, 

They  bell  and  they  groan. 
Now  Urchins  J  and  Hares 
Keep  apassing  in  pairs  ; 
Which  duly  declares 

The  night  is  near  gone.  .  .  . 
Alexander  Montgomerie 


4 


THE  SLUGGARD 


'Tis  the  voice  of  a  sluggard  ;    I  heard  him  complain — 

"  You  have  waked  me  too  soon  ;    I  must  slumber  again  ;  " 

As  the  door  on  its  hinges,  so  he  on  his  bed, 

Turns  his  sides,  and  his  shoulders,  and  his  heavy  head. 

"  A  little  more  sleep,  and  a  little  more  slumber  " — 

Thus  he  wastes  half  his  days,  and  his  hours  without  number  ; 

And  when  he  gets  up,  he  sits  folding  his  hands, 

Or  walks  about  saunt'ring,  or  trifling  he  stands. 

I  passed  by  his  garden,  and  saw  the  wild  brier 
The  thorn  and  the  thistle  grow  broader  and  higher  ; 
The  clothes  that  hang  on  him  are  turning  to  rags  ; 
And  his  money  still  wastes  till  he  starves  or  he  begs. 

I  made  him  a  visit,  still  hoping  to  find 

That  he  took  better  care  for  improving  his  mind  ; 


Hedgehogs 


MORNING  AND  MAY 

He  told  me  his  dreams,  talked  oi  eating  and  drinking, 
But  he  reads  his  Bible,  and  never  loves  thinking. 

S.iitl  I  then  to  my  hearl  :     'Hi  re's  a  lesson  for  me  ; 
That  in. m's  but  .1  picture  of  what  I  might  be  ; 
But  tli. inks  to  my  friends  for  their  care  in  my  breeding, 
Who  taught  me  betimes  to  love  working  and  reading." 

Isaac  Watts 


HARK,  HARK,  THE  LARK 

Hearke,  hearke,  the  Larke  at  Heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  aris 
Hi-  Steeds  to  water  at  those  Springs 

On  chaliced  Flowres  that  lyes  : 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  Golden  eyes  : 
With  every  thing  that  pretty  is, 

My  Lady  sweet,  arise  : 

Arise,  arise  .  William  Shakespeare 


THE  LARK  NOW  LEAVES  HIS  WATERY 

NEST 

The  lark  now  leaves  his  watery  nest, 
And  climbing  shakes  his  dewy  wings  ; 

He  takes  your  window  for  the  East, 
And  to  implore  your  light,  he  sings  : 

Awake,  awake  !   the  morn  will  never  rise 

Till  she  can  dress  her  beauty  at  your  eyes. 

The  merchant  bows  unto  the  seaman's  star, 

The  ploughman  from  the  sun  his  season  takes  ; 
But  still  the  lover  wonders  what  they  are 

Who  look  for  day  before  his  mistress  wakes  : 
Awake,  awake  !   break  through  your  veils  of  lawn  ; 
Then  draw  your  curtains,  and  begin  the  dawn  ! 

Sir  William  Davenant 
6 


EARLY  MORN 


EARLY  MORN 

When  I  did  wake  this  morn  from  sleep, 

It  seemed  I  heard  birds  in  a  dream  ; 
Then  I  arose  to  take  the  air — 

The  lovely  air  that  made  birds  scream  ; 
Just  as  a  green  hill  launched  the  ship 
Of  gold,  to  take  its  first  clear  dip. 

And  it  began  its  journey  then, 

As  I  came  forth  to  take  the  air  ; 
The  timid  Stars  had  vanished  quite, 

The  Moon  was  dying  with  a  stare  ; 
Horses,  and  kine,  and  sheep  were  seen 
As  still  as  pictures,  in  fields  green. 

It  seemed  as  though  I  had  surprised 

And  trespassed  in  a  golden  world 
That  should  have  passed  while  men  still  slept  ! 

The  joyful  birds,  the  ship  of  gold, 
The  horses,  kine  and  sheep  did  seem 
As  they  would  vanish  for  a  dream. 

William  H.  Davies 


8  GOOD-MORROW 

Pack,  clouds,  away,  and  welcome  day  ! 

With  night  we  banish  sorrow. 
Sweet  air,  blow  soft,  mount,  lark,  aloft 

To  give  my  Love  good  morrow. 
Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind, 

Notes  from  the  lark  I'll  borrow  : 
Bird,  prune  thy  wing,  nightingale,  sing, 

To  give  my  Love  good  morrow  ! 
To  give  my  Love  good  morrow 
Notes  from  them  all  I'll  borrow. 

Wake  from  thy  nest,  robin  redbreast  ! 
Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow, 


MORNING  AND  MAY 

Ami  from  c.uli  bill  let  music  shrill 

Give  my  t.ur  Love  good  morrow  ! 
Blackbird  and  thrush  in  every  hush, 

St. ire,1  linnet,  and  cock-sparrow, 

You  pretty  elves,  amongst  yourselves 

Sing  my  fair  Love  good  morrow  ! 

To  give  my  Love  good  morrow 

Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow  ! 

Thomas  Haywood 

THE  QUESTION 

I  DREAMED  th.it,  as  I  wandered  by  the  way, 
Bare  Winter  suddenly  was  changed  to  Spring, 

And  gentle  odours  led  my  steps  astray, 
Mixed  with  a  sound  of  waters  murmuring 

Along  a  shelving  bank  of  turf,  which  lay 
Under  a  copse,  and  hardly  dared  to  fling 

Its  green  arms  round  the  bosom  of  the  stream, 

But  kissed  it  and  then  fled,  as  thou  mightest  in  dream. 

There  grew  pied  wind-flowers  and  violets, 
Daisies,  those  pearled  Arcturi  of  the  earth, 

The  constellated  flower  that  never  sets  ; 

Faint  oxlips  ;    tender  blue-bells,  at  whose  birth 

The  sod  scarce  heaved  ;   and  that  tall  flower  that  wets- 
Like  a  child,  half  in  tenderness  and  mirth — 

Its  mother's  face  with  heaven's  collected  tears, 

When  the  low  wind,  its  playmate's  voice,  it  hears. 

And  in  the  warm  hedge  grew  lush  eglantine, 

Green  cowbind  and  the  moonlight-coloured  May 

And  cherry-blossoms,  and  white  cups,  whose  wine 
Was  the  bright  dew,  yet  drained  not  by  the  day  ; 

And  wild  roses,  and  ivy  serpentine 

With  its  dark  buds  and  leaves,  wandering  astray  ; 

And  flowers  azure,  black,  and  streaked  with  gold, 

Fairer  than  any  wakened  eyes  behold. 

1  Starling 

8 


THE  QUESTION 

And  nearer  to  the  river's  trembling  edge 

There    grew     broad     flag-flowers,     purple     prankt     with 
white, 
And  starry  river-buds  among  the  sedge, 

And  floating  water-lilies,  broad  and  bright, 
Which  lit  the  oak  that  overhung  the  hedge 

With  moonlight  beams  of  their  own  watery  light ; 
And  bulrushes,  and  reeds  of  such  deep  green 
As  soothed  the  dazzled  eye  with  sober  sheen. 

Methought  that  of  these  visionary  flowers 

I  made  a  nosegay,  bound  in  such  a  way 
That  the  same  hues,  which  in  their  natural  bowers 

Were  mingled  or  opposed,  the  like  array 
Kept  these  imprisoned  children  of  the  Hours 

Within  my  hand, — and  then,  elate  and  gay, 
I  hastened  to  the  spot  whence  I  had  come, 
That  I  might  there  present  it— oh  !   to  Whom  ? 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


io  THE  FRESH  AIR 

The  fresh  air  moves  like  water  round  a  boat. 

The  white  clouds  wander.     Let  us  wander  too. 
The  whining,  wavering  plover  flap  and  float. 

That  crow  is  flying  after  that  cuckoo. 
Look  !    Look  !  .  .  .   They're  gone.    What  are  the  great  trees 
calling  ? 
Just  come  a  little  farther,  by  that  edge 
Of  green,  to  where  the  stormy  ploughland,  falling 

Wave  upon  wave,  is  lapping  to  the  hedge. 
Oh,  what  a  lovely  bank  !     Give  me  your  hand. 

Lie  down  and  press  your  heart  against  the  ground. 
Let  us  both  listen  till  we  understand, 

Each  through  the  other,  every  natural  sound  .  .  . 
I  can't  hear  anything  to-day,  can  you, 
But,  far  and  near  :   "  Cuckoo  !   Cuckoo  !   Cuckoo  !  "  ? 

Harold  Monro 


MORNING  AND  MAY 


11  WE  \  I  HERS 

Tins  ia  the  weather  the  cuckoo  liki 

\:id  so  do  I  ; 
When  showers  bet  limbic  the  client  nut  spikes, 

And  nestlings  lly  : 
And  the  little  brown  nightingale  bills  his  best, 
And  they  sit  outside  at  "The  Travellers'  Rest," 
And  maids  come  forth  sprig-muslin  drcst, 
And  citizens  dream  of  the  south  and  west, 

And  so  do  I. 

This  is  the  weather  the  shepherd  shuns, 

And  so  do  I  ; 
When  beeches  drip  in  browns  and  duns, 

And  thresh,  and  ply  ; 
And  hill-hid  tides  throb,  throe  on  throe, 
And  meadow  rivulets  overflow, 
And  drops  on  gate-bars  hang  in  a  row, 
And  rooks  in  families  homeward  go, 

And  so  do  I.  Thomas  Hardy 


12  GREEN  RAIN 

Into  the  scented  woods  we'll  go, 

And  see  the  blackthorn  swim  in  snow. 

High  above,  in  the  budding  leaves, 

A  brooding  dove  awakes  and  grieves  ; 

The  glades  with  mingled  music  stir, 

And  wildly  laughs  the  woodpecker. 

When  blackthorn  petals  pearl  the  breeze, 

There  are  the  twisted  hawthorn  trees 

Thick-set  with  buds,  as  clear  and  pale 

As  golden  water  or  green  hail — 

As  if  a  storm  of  rain  had  stood 

Enchanted  in  the  thorny  wood, 

And,  hearing  fairy  voices  call, 

Hung  poised,  forgetting  how  to  fall.      Mary  Webb 

1 0 


SONG  ON  MAY  MORNING 

13  SONG  ON  MAY  MORNING 

Now  the  bright  morning  Star,  Dayes  harbinger, 
Comes  dancing  from  the  East,  and  leads  with  her 
The  Flowry  May,  who  from  her  green  lap  throws 
The  yellow  Cowslip  and  the  pale  Primrose. 
Hail,  bounteous  May,  that  dost  inspire 
Mirth  and  youth  and  young  desire, 
Woods  and  Groves,  are  of  thy  dressing, 
Hill  and  Dale  doth  boast  thy  blessing. 
Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  Song, 
And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long. 

John  Milton 


14  SISTER,  AWAKE! 

Sister,  awake  !   close  not  your  eyes. 

The  day  her  light  discloses, 
And  the  bright  morning  doth  arise 

Out  of  her  bed  of  roses. 

See  the  clear  sun,  the  world's  bright  eye, 
In  at  our  window  peeping  : 

Lo,  how  he  blusheth  to  espy 
Us  idle  wenches  sleeping  ! 

Therefore  awake  !   make  haste,  I  say, 
And  let  us,  without  staying, 

All  in  our  gowns  of  green  so  gay 
Into  the  park  a-maying. 


15  HERE  WE  COME  A-PIPING 

Here  we  come  a-piping, 
In  Springtime  and  in  May  ; 
Green  fruit  a-ripening, 
And  Winter  fled  away. 
11 


MORNING  AM)  MAY 

The  Queen  she  sits  upon  the  strand, 
Fair  .is  lily,  white  .is  wand  ; 

n  billows  <>u  the  sea, 
1  lorscs  riding  fasl  and  free, 
.Ami  bells  beyond  the  Band. 


16  AS  WE  DANCE  ROUND 

As  we  dance  round  a-ring-a-ring, 
A  maiden  goes  a-maying  ; 
And  here  a  flower,  and  there  a  flower, 
Through  mead  and  meadow  straying  : 
0  gentle  one,  why  dost  thou  weep  ? — 
Silver  to  spend  with  ;    gold  to  keep  ; 
Till  spin  the  green  round  World  asleep, 
And  Heaven  its  dews  be  staying. 


17  OLD  MAY  SONG 

All  in  this  pleasant  evening,  together  come  are  we, 
For  the  summer  springs  so  fresh,  green,  and  gay  ; 

We  tell  you  of  a  blossoming  and  buds  on  every  tree, 
Drawing  near  unto  the  merry  month  of  May. 

Rise  up,  the  master  of  this  house,  put  on  your  charm  of  gold, 
For  the  summer  springs  so  fresh,  green,  and  gay  ; 

Be  not  in  pride  offended  with  your  name  we  make  so  bold, 
Drawing  near  unto  the  merry  month  of  May. 

Rise  up,  the  mistress  of  this  house,  with  gold  along  your 
breast  ; 

For  the  summer  springs  so  fresh,  green  and  gay  ; 
And  if  your  body  be  asleep,  we  hope  your  soul's  at  rest, 

Drawing  near  unto  the  merry  month  of  May. 

Rise  up,  the  children  of  this  house,  all  in  your  rich  attire, 
For  the  summer  springs  so  fresh,  green,  and  gay  ; 

And  every  hair  upon  your  heads  shines  like  the  silver  wire  : 
Draiving  near  unto  the  merry  month  of  May. 

12 


OLD  MAY  SONG 

God  bless  this  house  and  arbour,  your  riches  and  your  store, 
For  the  summer  springs  so  fresh,  green,  and  gay  ; 

We  hope  the  Lord  will  prosper  you,  both  now  and  evermore, 
Drawing  near  unto  the  merry  month  of  May. 

And  now  comes  we  must  leave  you,  in  peace  and  plenty  here, 
For  the  summer  springs  so  fresh,  green,  and  gay  ; 

We  shall  not  sing  you  May  again  until  another  year, 
To  draw  you  these  cold  winters  away. 

18  SONG  OF  THE  MAYERS 

Remember  us  poor  Mayers  all, 

And  thus  do  we  begin, 
To  lead  our  lives  in  righteousness, 

Or  else  we  die  in  sin. 

We  have  been  rambling  all  the  night, 

And  almost  all  the  day, 
And  now  returning  back  again, 

We  have  brought  you  a  bunch  of  May. 

A  bunch  of  May  we  have  brought  you, 

And  at  your  door  it  stands, 
It  is  but  a  sprout,  but  it's  well  budded  out 

By  the  work  of  our  Lord's  hands. 

The  hedges  and  trees  they  are  so  green, 

As  green  as  any  leek, 
Our  Heavenly  Father,  He  watered  them 

With  his  heavenly  dew  so  sweet. 

The  heavenly  gates  are  open  wide, 

Our  paths  are  beaten  plain, 
And  if  a  man  be  not  too  far  gone, 

He  may  return  again. 

The  life  of  man  is  but  a  span, 

It  flourishes  like  a  flower  ; 
We  are  here  to-day,  and  gone  to-morrow, 

And  are  dead  in  an  hour. 

13 


MORNING  AND  MAY 

The  moon  shines  bright,  and  the  stars  give  a  light, 
A  little  before  it  is  day, 

God  bless  you  all,  both  great  and  small, 
And  send  you  a  joyful  May. 


19  AND  AS  FOR  ME 

.  .  .  And  as  for  mc,  thogh  that  I  can  but  lyte,1 

On  bokes  for  to  rede  I  me  delyte, 

And  to  hem  yeve  2  I  fcyth  and  ful  credence, 

And  in  myn  herte  have  hem  in  reverence 

So  hertely,  that  there  is  game  noon 

That  fro  my  bokes  maketh  me  to  goon, 

But  hit  be  seldom  on  the  holyday, 

Save,  certeynly,  whan  that  the  month  of  May 

Is  comen,  and  that  I  here  the  foules  3  singe 

And  that  the  floures  ginnen  for  to  springe, — 

Farewel  my  boke,  and  my  devocioun  ! 

Now  have  I  than  swich  4  a  condicinun, 
That,  of  alle  the  floures  in  the  mede, 
Than  love  I  most  these  floures  whyte  and  rede, 
Swiche  as  men  callen  daysies  in  our  toun. 
To  hem  have  I  so  greet  affeccioun, 
As  I  seyde  erst,  whan  comen  is  the  May, 
That  in  my  bed  ther  daweth  me  no  day, 
That  I  nam  up,  and  walking  in  the  mede, 
To  seen  this  flour  agein  the  sonne  sprede, 
When  hit  uprysith  erly  by  the  morwe  ; 
That  blisful  sightc*  softneth  all  my  sorwe  5.  .  .  . 

And  whan  that  hit  is  eve,  I  renne  blyve,* 
As  soon  as  evere  the  sonne  ginneth  weste, 
To  seen  this  flour,  how  it  wol  go  to  reste, 
For  fere  of  nyght,  so  hateth  she  derknesse  !  .  .  . 

Geoffrey  Chaucer 

1  Know  but  little        2Give        3  Birds 

*  Such      5  Sorrow       6  Run  quickly,  hasten  away 

14 


THE  SPRING 

20  THE  SPRING 

What  bird  so  sings,  yet  so  does  wail  ? 
0,  'tis  the  ravished  nightingale  ! 
"  Jug,  jug,  jug,  jug,  tereu,"  she  cries, 
And  still  her  woes  at  midnight  rise. 
Brave  prick-song  !  who  is't  now  we  hear  ? 
None  but  the  lark  so  shrill  and  clear  ; 
Now  at  heaven's  gates  she  claps  her  wings, 
The  morn  not  waking  till  she  sings. 
Hark,  hark,  with  what  a  pretty  throat 
Poor  robin-redbreast  tunes  his  note  ; 
Hark,  how  the  jolly  cuckoos  sing 
Cuckoo — to  welcome  in  the  spring  ! 
Cuckoo — to  welcome  in  the  spring  ! 

John  Lyly 

21  SPRING,  THE  SWEET  SPRING 

Spring,  the  sweet  Spring,  is  the  year's  pleasant  king  ; 
Then  blooms  each  thing,  then  maids  dance  in  a  ring, 
Cold  doth  not  sting,  the  pretty  birds  do  sing  : 
Cuckoo,  jug,  jug,  pu  we,  to  witta  woo  ! 

The  Palm  and  May  make  country  houses  gay, 
Lambs  frisk  and  play,  the  shepherds  pipe  all  day, 
And  we  hear  aye  birds  tune  this  merry  lay  : 
Cuckoo,  jug,  jug,  pu  we,  to  witta  woo  ! 

The  fields  breathe  sweet,  the  daisies  kiss  our  feet, 
Young  lovers  meet,  old  wives  a-sunning  sit, 
In  every  street  these  tunes  our  ears  do  greet : 
Cuckoo,  jug,  jug,  pu  we,  to  witta  woo  ! 
Spring,  the  sweet  Spring  ! 

Thomas  Nash 


15 


MOHNINi;    WD   M  \V 


A   MAY   DAY 


.  .  .  And  now  all  nature  seemed  in  love ; 

The  lusty  sap  began  to  move  ; 

New  juice  did  stir  the  embracing  vines, 

And  birds  had  drawn  their  valentines. 

The  jealous  trout  that  now  did  lie, 

Rose  at  a  well-dissembled  tly  : 

There  stood  my  friend  with  patient  skill, 

Attending  of  his  trembling  quill.1 

Already  were  the  eaves  possessed 

With  the  swift  pilgrim's  daubed  nest : 

The  groves  already  did  rejoice 

In  Philomel's  triumphing  voice. 

The  showers  were  short,  the  weather  mild, 

The  morning  fresh,  the  evening  smiled. 

Joan  takes  her  neat-rubbed  pail  and  now 

She  trips  to  milk  the  sand-red  cow  ; 

Where,  for  some  sturdy  football  swain, 

Joan  strokes2  a  sillabub  or  twain. 

The  field  and  gardens  were  beset 

With  tulip,  crocus,  violet ; 

And  now,  though  late,  the  modest  rose 

Did  more  than  half  a  blush  disclose. 

Thus  all  looked  gay,  all  full  of  cheer, 

To  welcome  the  new-liveried  year. 

Sir  Henry  Wotton 


23  EASTER 

I  got  me  flowers  to  straw  thy  way, 

I  got  me  boughs  off  many  a  tree  : 

But  thou  wast  up  by  break  of  day, 

And  brought'st  thy  sweets  along  with  thee. 

The  Sun  arising  in  the  East, 

Though  he  give  light,  and  the  East  perfume,3 

1  Float        *  Whips,  mills,  or  beats       3  Refresh  ;  make  sweet 

16 


EASTER 

If  they  should  offer  to  contest 
With  thy  arising,  they  presume. 

Can  there  be  any  day  but  this, 
Though  many  sunnes  to  shine  endeavour  ? 
We  count  three  hundred,  but  we  misse  : 
There  is  but  one,  and  that  one  ever. 

George  Herbert 


24  PLEASURE  IT  IS 

Pleasure  it  is 

To  hear,  iwis,1 

The  birdes  sing. 
The  deer  in  the  dale, 
The  sheep  in  the  vale, 

The  corn  springing  ; 
God's  purveyance 
For  sustenance 

It  is  for  man. 
Then  we  always 
To  Him  give  praise, 

And  thank  Him  than, 

And  thank  Him  than. 

William  Cornish 

1  Truly,  in  sooth 


17 


Ki 

^fir^E 

Pl^p^^l^' 

'KfiS?^ 

§^fe" 

^^Sa^^^Klra 

MjJS^&^l 

-r^^oS^^S 

«n 

^kyfejElSp^^^B 

^» 

gwlBJSBm 

IjL^^.  EMU  »■;,■■ 

IliHHiSiii 

MOTHER,  HOME     ® 
AND  SWEETHEART 


25  I  SING  OF  A  MAIDEN 

I  sing  of  a  maiden 

'That  is  makeless,1 
King  of  all  Kings 
To  her  son  she  ches.2 

He  came  all  so  still 
Where  his  mother  was, 

As  dew  in  April 

That  falleth  on  the  grass. 

He  came  all  so  still 
To  his  mother's  bower, 

As  dew  in  April 

That  falleth  on  the  flower. 

He  came  all  so  still 
Where  his  mother  lay, 

As  dew  in  April 

That  falleth  on  the  spray. 

Mother  and  maiden 

Was  never  none  but  she  ; 

Well  may  such  a  lady 
God's  mother  be. 

1  Mateless  and  matchless  2  Chose 


21 


MOTHER.   IIOMK  AM)  SWEETHEART 


26  LULLABY 

Upon  my  lap  my  sovereign  sits 

\iul  sucks  upon  my  breasi  ; 
Meantime  Ins  love  maintains  my  life 
Ami  gives  my  sense  her  rest. 

Sing  lullaby,  my  Utllt'  boy, 
Sing  lullaby,  mine  only  joy  ! 

When  thou  hast  taken  thy  repast, 
Repose,  my  babe,  on  me  ; 
So  may  thy  mother  and  thy  nurse 
Thy  cradle  also  be. 

Sing  lullaby,  my  little  boy, 

Sing  lullaby,  mine  only  joy  ! 

I  grieve  that  duty  doth  not  work 
All  that  my  wishing  would, 
Because  I  would  not  be  to  thee 
But  in  the  best  I  should. 

Sing  lullaby,  my  little  boy, 

Sing  lullaby,  mine  only  joy  ! 

Yet  as  I  am,  and  as  I  may, 
I  must  and  will  be  thine, 
Though  all  too  little  for  thy  self 
Vouchsafing  to  be  mine. 

Sing  lullaby,  my  little  boy, 

Sing  lullaby,  mine  only  joy  ! 

Richard  Rowlands 


27  THE  LITTLE  BLACK  BOY 

My  mother  bore  me  in  the  southern  wild, 
And  I  am  black,  but  0  !  my  soul  is  white 
White  as  an  angel  is  the  English  child, 
But  I  am  black,  as  if  bereaved  of  light. 

My  mother  taught  me  underneath  a  tree, 
And,  sitting  down  before  the  heat  of  day, 
22 


THE  LITTLE   BLACK  BOY 

She  took  me  on  her  lap  and  kissed  me, 
And,  pointing  to  the  east,  began  to  say  : 

"  Look  on  the  rising  sun  ;    there  God  does  live, 
And  gives  his  light,  and  gives  his  heat  away  ; 
And  flowers  and  trees  and  beasts  and  men  receive 
Comfort  in  morning,  joy  in  the  noonday. 

"  And  we  are  put  on  earth  a  little  space, 
That  we  may  learn  to  bear  the  beams  of  love  ; 
And  these  black  bodies  and  this  sunburnt  face 
Is  but  a  cloud,  and  like  a  shady  grove. 

"  For  when  our  souls  have  learned  the  heat  to  bear, 
The  cloud  will  vanish  ;   we  shall  hear  his  voice, 
Saying  :    '  Come  out  from  the  grove,  my  love  and  care, 
And  round  my  golden  tent  like  lambs  rejoice.'  " 

Thus  did  my  mother  say,  and  kissed  me  ; 
And  thus  I  say  to  little  English  boy. 
When  I  from  black  and  he  from  white  cloud  free, 
And  round  the  tent  of  God  like  lambs  we  joy, 

I'll  shade  him  from  the  heat,  till  he  can  bear 
To  lean  in  joy  upon  our  Father's  knee  ; 
And  then  I'll  stand  and  stroke  his  silver  hair, 
And  be  like  him,  and  he  will  then  love  me. 

William  Blake 


28  THE  ECHOING  GREEN 

The  Sun  does  arise, 
And  make  happy  the  skies  ; 
The  merry  bells  ring 
To  welcome  the  Spring  ; 
The  skylark  and  thrush, 
The  birds  of  the  bush, 
Sing  louder  around 
To  the  bells'  cheerful  sound, 
23 


MOTHER,  HOME  AND  SWEETHEART 

While  our  Bports  shall  be  seen 
On  the  Echoing  ( rreen. 

Old  John,  with  white  hair, 

1  iocs  laugh  away  care, 
Sitting  under  the  oak, 
Among  the  <>U1  folk, 
I  hey  laugh  at  our  play, 
And  soon  they  all  say  : 
"  Such,  such  were  the  joys 
Winn  we  all,  girls  and  boys, 
In  our  youth  time  were  seen 
On  the  Echoing  Green." 

Till  the  little  ones,  weary, 

No  more  can  be  merry  ; 

The  sun  does  descend, 

And  our  sports  have  an  end. 

Round  the  laps  of  their  mothers 

Many  sisters  and  brothers, 

Like  birds  in  their  nest, 

Are  ready  for  rest, 

And  sport  no  more  seen 


On  the  darkening  Green. 


William  Blake 


29  IF  I  HAD  BUT  TWO  LITTLE  WINGS 

If  I  had  but  two  little  wings 
And  were  a  little  feathery  bird, 
To  you  I'd  fly,  my  dear  ! 
But  thoughts  like  these  are  idle  things, 
And' I  stay  here. 

But  in  my  sleep  to  you  I  fly  : 

I'm  always  with  you  in  my  sleep  ! 
The  world  is  all  one's  own. 
But  then  one  wakes,  and  where  am  I  ? 
All,  all  alone. 
24 


IF  I  HAD  BUT  TWO  LITTLE  WINGS 

Sleep  stays  not,  though  a  monarch  bids  : 
So  I  love  to  wake  ere  break  of  day  : 
For  though  my  sleep  be  gone, 
Yet  while  'tis  dark,  one  shuts  one's  lids, 
And  still  dreams  on. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 

30  I  REMEMBER 

I  remember,  I  remember, 
The  house  where  I  was  born, 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 
Came  peeping  in  at  morn  ; 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon, 
Nor  brought  too  long  a  day  ; 
But  now,  I  often  wish  the  night 
Had  borne  my  breath  away. 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

The  roses,  red  and  white, 

The  violets,  and  the  lily-cups  ! — 

Those  flowers  made  of  light  ! 

The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 

And  where  my  brother  set 

The  laburnum  on  his  birth-day, — 

The  tree  is  living  yet  ! 

I  remember,  I  remember, 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing, 

And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 

To  swallows  on  the  wing  ; 

My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then, 

That  is  so  heavy  now, 

And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  my  brow  ! 

I  remember,  I  remember, 
The  fir  trees  dark  and  high  ; 
I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 
Were  close  against  the  sky  : 
25 


MOTHER,  HOME  AM)  SWEETHEART 

It  w  .1-  .1  i  hildish  ignorance, 

But  now  'tis  little  joy 

To  know  I'm  farther  ofl  from  Heaven 

l'h. m  when  1  was  a  boy. 

I  iniMAS  Hood 


,;i  MIDNIGHT  ON  THE  GREAT  WESTERN 

In  the  third-class  seat  sat  the  journeying  boy, 

And  the  toof-lamp's  oily  flame 
Played  down  on  his  listless  form  and  face, 
Bewrapt  past  knowing  to  what  he  was  going, 
Or  whence  he  came. 

In  the  band  of  his  hat  the  journeying  boy 

1  lad  a  ticket  stuck  ;   and  a  string 
Around  his  neck  bore  the  key  of  his  box, 
That  twinkled  gleams  of  the  lamp's  sad  beams 
Like  a  living  thing. 

What  past  can  be  yours,  0  journeying  boy 

Towards  a  world  unknown, 
Who  calmly,  as  if  incurious  quite 
On  all  at  stake,  can  undertake 
This  plunge  alone  ? 

Knows  your  soul  a  sphere,  0  journeying  boy, 

Our  rude  realms  far  above, 
Whence  with  spacious  vision  you  mark  and  mete 
This  region  of  sin  that  you  find  you  in, 
But  are  not  of  ? 

Thomas  Hardy 

32  THE  RUNAWAY 

Once  when  the  sun  of  the  year  was  beginning  to  fall 
We  stopped  by  a  mountain  pasture  to  say,  "  Whose  colt  ? 
A  little  Morgan  had  one  forefoot  on  the  wall, 
The  other  curled  at  his  heart.     He  dipped  his  head 
And  snorted  to  us  ;   and  then  he  had  to  bolt. 

26 


THE  RUNAWAY 

We  heard  the  muffled  thunder  when  he  fled 
And  we  saw  him  or  thought  we  saw  him  dim  and  grey 
Like  a  shadow  against  the  curtain  of  falling  flakes. 
We  said,  "  The  little  fellow's  afraid  of  the  snow. 
He  isn't  winter  broken."     "  It  isn't  play 
With  the  little  fellow  at  all.     He's  running  away. 
I  doubt  if  even  his  mother  could  tell  him,  '  Sakes, 
It's  only  weather.'     He'd  think  she  didn't  know. 
Where  is  his  mother  ?     He  can't  be  out  alone." 
And  now  he  comes  again  with  a  clatter  of  stone 
And  mounts  the  wall  again  with  whited  eyes 
And  all  his  tail  that  isn't  hair  up  straight. 
He  shudders  his  coat  as  if  to  throw  off  flies. 
Whoever  it  is  that  leaves  him  out  so  late 
When  everything  else  has  gone  to  stall  and  bin 
Ought  to  be  told  to  go  and  bring  him  in. 

Robert  Frost 


33  ON  EASTNOR  KNOLL 

Silent  are  the  woods,  and  the  dim  green  boughs  are 
Hushed  in  the  twilight :   yonder,  in  the  path  through 
The  apple  orchard,  is  a  tired  plough-boy 
Calling  the  cows  home. 

A  bright  white  star  blinks,  the  pale  moon  rounds,  but 
Still  the  red,  lurid  wreckage  of  the  sunset 
Smoulders  in  smoky  fire,  and  burns  on 
The  misty  hill-tops. 

Ghostly  it  grows,  and  darker,  the  burning 
Fades  into  smoke,  and  now  the  gusty  oaks  are 
A  silent  army  of  phantoms  thronging 
A  land  of  shadows. 

John  Masefield 


27 


MOTHER,  HOME  AM)  SWEETHEART 

v|     ••  HOME  NO  MORE  HOME  TO  ME" 

Horn  ii"  more  home  to  me,  whither  musl  1  wander  ? 
Hunger  my  driver,  I  go  where  I  must. 

Cold  blows  the  winter  wind  over  hill  and  he.it  her  ; 

Chick  drives  the  rain,  and  my  roof  is  in  the  dust. 

I  OVed  ol  wise  men  was  the  shade  of  my  roof-tree. 

1  he  true  word  of  welcome  was  spoken  in  the  door — 
1  '•  ir  days  of  old,  with  the  faces  in  the  firelight, 

Kind  folks  of  old,  you  come  again  no  more. 

Home  was  home  then,  my  dear,  full  of  kindly  faces, 

Home  was  home  then,  my  dear,  happy  for  the  child, 
Fire  and  the  windows  bright  glittered  on  the  moorland  ; 

Song,  tuneful  song,  built  a  palace  in  the  wild. 
Now,  when  day  dawns  on  the  brow  of  the  moorland, 

Lone  stands  the  house,  and  the  chimney-stone  is  cold. 
Lone  let  it  stand,  now  the  friends  are  all  departed, 

The  kind  hearts,   the   true   hearts,   that   loved   the   place 
of  old. 

Spring  shall  come,  come  again,  calling  up  the  moor-fowl, 

Spring  shall  bring  the  sun  and  rain,  bring  the  bees  and 
flowers  ; 
Red  shall  the  heather  bloom  over  hill  and  valley, 

Soft  flow  the  stream  through  the  even-flowing  hours  ; 
Fair  the  day  shine  as  it  shone  on  my  childhood — 

Fair  shine  the  day  on  the  house  with  open  door  ; 
Birds  come  and  cry  there  and  twitter  in  the  chimney — 

But  I  go  for  ever  and  come  again  no  more. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


35  DALYAUNCE 

Mundns.  Welcome,  fayre  chylde,  what  is  thy  name  ? 

Infans.     I  wote  not,  syr,  withouten  blame. 

But  ofte  tyme  my  moder  in  her  game 
Called  me  dalyaunce. 

28 


DALYAUNCE 

Mundus.  Dalyaunce,  my  swete  chylde, 

It  is  a  name  that  is  ryght  wylde, 

For  whan  thou  waxest  olde. 

It  is  a  name  of  no  substaunce 

But,  my  fayre  chylde,  what  woldest  thou  have  ? 

Infans.    Syr  of  some  comforte  I  you  crave — 
Mete  and  clothe  my  lyfe  to  save  : 
And  I  your  true  servaunt  shall  be. 

Mundus.  Fayre  chylde,  I  graunte  thee  thyne  askynge. 
I  wyll  thee  fynde  1  whyle  thou  art  yinge2 
So  thou  wylte  be  obedyent  to  my  byddynge. 
These  garments  gaye  I  gyve  to  thee. 
And  also  I  gyve  to  thee  a  name, 
And  clepe  3  thee  Wanton,  in  every  game  ; 
Tyll  XIII  yere  be  come  and  gone, 
And  than  come  agayne  to  me. 

[Infans  is  now  called  Wanton.} 

Wanton.  Gramercy,  Worlde,  for  myne  araye, 
For  now  I  purpose  me  to  playe. 

Mundus.  Fare  well,  fayre  chylde,  and  have  good  daye. 
All  rychelesnesse  4  is  kynde  5  for  thee. 

[Mundus  goes  out  leaving  Wanton  alone.] 

Wanton.  Aha,  Wanton  is  my  name  ! 
I  can  many  a  quaynte  game. 
Lo,  my  toppe  I  dryve  in  same, 
Se,  it  torneth  rounde  ! 
I  can  with  my  scorge-stycke 
My  felowe  upon  the  heed  hytte, 
And  wyghtly  6  from  hym  make  a  skyppe 
And  blere  7  on  hym  my  tonge. 
If  brother  or  syster  do  me  chyde 
I  wyll  scratche  and  also  byte. 
I  can  crye,  and  also  kyke, 
And  mocke  them  all  berewe. 

1  Keep  2  Young  3  Call        *  Heedlessness        5  Natural 

6  Nimbly        7  Stick  out 

29 


MOTHER,  HOME  AND  SWEETHEART 

If  fader  or  mother  wyll  me  smyte, 
I  wyll  wrynge  '  with  my  lyppe ; 
.And  lyghtly  from  hym  make  .1  skyppe; 
And  call  my  dame  shrewe. 

Aha,  a  oewe  game  have  1  foundc  : 
Se  this  gynnc '-  it  rennel  h  rounde; 
And  here  another  have  I  foundc, 
And  ye1  mo3  can  I  fynde. 

I  can  mowc  i  on  a  man  ; 

And  make  a  lesynge  5  well  I  can, 

And  mayntayne  it  ryght  well  than. 

This  connynge6  came  me  of  kynde. 

Ye,  syrs,7  I  can  well  geldc  a  snayle  ; 

And  catche  a  cowc  by  the  tayle  ; 

This  is  a  fayre  connynge  ! 

I  can  daunce,  and  also  skyppe  ; 

I  can  playe  at  the  chery  pyttc  ; 

And  I  can  wystell  you  a  fytte,8 

Syres,  in  a  whylowe  ryne.9 

Ye,  syrs,  and  every  daye 

Whan  I  to  scole  shall  take  the  waye 

Some  good  mannes  gardyn  I  wyll  assaye, 

Perys  10  and  plommes  to  plucke. 

I  can  spye  a  sparowes  nest. 

I  wyll  not  go  to  scole  but  whan  me  lest, 

For  there  begynneth  a  sory  fest11 

Whan  the  mayster  sholde  lyfte  my  docke.12 

But,  syrs,  whan  I  was  seven  yere  of  age, 

I  was  sent  to  the  Worlde  to  take  wage. 

And  this  seven  yere  I  have  ben  his  page 

And  kept  his  commaundement  .  .  . 

1  Squiggle  2  Toy  or  trap      3  More  *  Make  grimaces 

5  Falsehood         6  Learning  7  Yea,  sirs  8  Air,  tune,  stave 

•  Willow  rind    10  Pears  n  Feast  or  fast     12  Gown  or  coat-tail 


30 


CHRISTMAS  AT  SEA 

36  CHRISTMAS  AT  SEA 

The  sheets  were  frozen  hard,  and  they  cut  the  naked  hand  ; 
The  decks  were  like  a  slide,  where  a  seaman  scarce  could 

stand  ; 
The  wind  was  a  nor'wester,  blowing  squally  off  the  sea  ; 
And  cliffs  and  spouting  breakers  were  the  only  things  a-lee. 

They  heard  the  surf  a-roaring  before  the  break  of  day  ; 
But  'twas  only  with  the  peep  of  light  we  saw  how  ill  we  lay. 
We  tumbled  every  hand  on  deck  instanter,  with  a  shout, 
And  we  gave  her  the  maintops'l,  and  stood  by  to  go  about. 

All  day  we  tacked  and  tacked  between  the  South  Head  and 

the  North  ; 
All  day  we  hauled  the  frozen  sheets,  and  got  no  further  forth  ; 
All  day  as  cold  as  charity,  in  bitter  pain  and  dread, 
For  very  life  and  nature  we  tacked  from  head  to  head. 

We  gave  the  South  a  wider  berth,  for  there  the  tide-race 

roared  ; 
But  every  tack  we  made  we  brought  the  North  Head  close 

aboard  : 
So's  we  saw  the  cliffs  and  houses,  and  the  breakers  running 

high, 
And  the  coastguard  in  his  garden,  with  his  glass  against 

his  eye. 

The  frost  was  on  the  village  roofs  as  white  as  ocean  foam  ; 
The  good  red  fires  were  burning  bright  in  every  'longshore 

home ; 
The  windows  sparkled  clear,  and  the  chimneys  volleyed  out ; 
And  I  vow  we  sniffed  the  victuals  as  the  vessel  went  about. 

The  bells  upon  the  church  were  rung  with  a  mighty  jovial 

cheer 
For  it's  just  that  I  should  tell  you  how  (of  all  days  in  the  year) 
This  day  of  our  adversity  was  blessed  Christmas  morn, 
And  the  house  above  the  coastguard's  was  the  house  where 

I  was  born. 

31 


MOTHER,  HOME  AM)  SWEETHEART 

0  well  I  saw  the  pleasant  room,  the  pleasanl  Faces  there, 

My  mother's  silver  spectacles,  my  father's  silver  hair  ; 
And  well  1  saw  the  firelight,  like  a  flight  of  homely  elves, 
Go  dancing   round   the  china-plates   that  stand  upon   the 
shelves. 

And  well  I  knew  the  talk  they  had,  the  talk  that  was  of  mc, 
Of  the  shadow   on   the   household  and   the  son   that  went 

to  sea  ; 
And  O  the  wicked  fool  I  seemed,  in  every  kind  of  way, 
To  be  here  and  hauling  frozen  ropes  on  blessed  Christmas 

Day. 

They  lit  the  high  seadight,  and  the  dark  began  to  fall. 

"  All  hands  to  loose  topgallant  sails,"  I  heard  the  captain  call, 

"  By  the  Lord,  she'll  never  stand  it,"  our  first  mate,  Jackson, 

cried. 
..."  It's  the  one  way  or  the  other,  Mr.  Jackson,"  he  replied. 

She  staggered  to  her  bearings,  but  the  sails  were  new  and 

good. 
And   the  ship   smelt  up   to  windward  just   as   though  she 

understood. 
As  the  winter's  day  was  ending,  in  the  entry  of  the  night, 
We  cleared  the  weary  headland,  and  passed  below  the  light. 

And  they  heaved  a  mighty  breath,  every  soul  on  board  but 

me, 
As  they  sawT  her  nose  again  pointing  handsome  out  to  sea  ; 
But  all  that  I  could  think  of,  in  the  darkness  and  the  cold, 
Was  just  that  I  was  leaving  home  and  my  folks  were  growing 

old. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


37  TWILIGHT 

The  twilight  is  sad  and  cloudy, 
The  wind  blows  wild  and  free, 

And  like  the  wings  of  sea-birds 
Flash  the  white  caps  of  the  sea. 
32 


TWILIGHT 

But  in  the  fisherman's  cottage 

There  shines  a  ruddier  light, 
And  a  little  face  at  the  window 

Peers  out  into  the  night. 

Close,  close  it  is  pressed  to  the  window, 

As  if  those  childish  eyes 
Were  looking  into  the  darkness, 

To  see  some  form  arise. 

And  a  woman's  waving  shadow 

Is  passing  to  and  fro, 
Now  rising  to  the  ceiling, 

Now  bowing  and  bending  low. 

What  tale  do  the  roaring  ocean, 

And  the  night-wind,  bleak  and  wild, 

As  they  beat  at  the  crazy  casement, 
Tell  to  that  little  child  ? 

And  why  do  the  roaring  ocean, 

And  the  night-wind,  wild  and  bleak, 

As  they  beat  at  the  heart  of  the  mother, 
Drive  the  colour  from  her  cheek  ? 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 


38  "  HOW'S  MY  BOY  ?" 

"  Ho,  sailor  of  the  sea  ! 

How's  my  boy — my  boy  ?" 

"  What's  your  boy's  name,  good  wife, 

And  in  what  good  ship  sailed  he  ?" 

"  My  boy  John — 

He  that  went  to  sea — 

What  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor  ? 

My  boy's  my  boy  to  me. 

•  You  come  back  from  sea 
And  not  know  my  John  ! 

33 


MOTHER,  HOME  AM)  SWEETHEART 

I  might  as  well  have  .iskcd  some  landsman 
Yonder  down  in  the  town. 
There's  not  an  ass  in  .ill  the  parish 
But  he  knows  my  John. 

"  How's  my  boy — my  boy  ? 

And  unless  you  let  me  know, 

I'll  swear  you  are  no  sailor, 

Blue  jacket  or  no, 

Brass  button  or  no,  sailor, 

Anchor  and  crown  or  no  ! 

Sure  his  ship  was  the  Jolly  Briton." — 

"  Speak  low,  woman,  speak  low  !  " 

"  And  why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor, 

About  my  own  boy  John  ? 

If  I  was  loud  as  I  am  proud 

I'd  sing  him  o'er  the  town  ! 

Why  should  I  speak  low,  sailor  ?" 

"  That  good  ship  went  down." 

"  How's  my  boy — my  boy  ? 

What  care  I  for  the  ship,  sailor, 

I  never  was  aboard  her. 

Be  she  afloat,  or  be  she  aground, 

Sinking  or  swimming,  I'll  be  bound, 

Her  owners  can  afford  her  ! 

I  say,  how's  my  John  ?" 

"  Every  man  on  board  went  down, 

Every  man  aboard  her." 

"  How's  my  boy — my  boy  ? 
What  care  I  for  the  men,  sailor  ? 
I'm  not  their  mother — 
How's  my  boy — my  boy  ? 
Tell  me  of  him  and  no  other  ! 
How's  my  boy — my  boy  ?" 

Sydney  Dobell 


34 


CAM'  YE  BY  ? 


39  CAM'  YE  BY? 

Cam'  ye  by  the  salmon  fishers  ? 
Cam'  ye  by  the  roperee  ? 
Saw  ye  a  sailor  laddie 
Waiting  on  the  coast  for  me  ? 

I  ken  fahr x  I'm  gyain,2 
I  ken  fahs  3  gyain  wi'  me  ; 
I  ha'e  a  lad  o'  my  ain, 
Ye  daurna  tack  'im  fae 4  me. 

Stockings  of  blue  silk, 
Shoes  of  patent  leather, 
Kid  to  tie  them  up, 
And  gold  rings  on  his  finger. 

Oh  for  six  o'clock  ! 
Oh  for  seven  I  weary  ! 
Oh  for  eight  o'clock  ! 
And  then  I'll  see  my  dearie. 


40  MY  BOY  TAMMY 

"  Whar  hae  ye  been  a'  day,  my  boy  Tammy  ? 

Whar  hae  ye  been  a'  day,  my  boy  Tammy  ?  ' 

"  I've  been  by  burn  and  flow'ry  brae, 

Meadow  green  and  mountain  grey, 
Courtin'  o'  this  young  thing  just  come  frae  her  Mammy." 


"  And  whar  gat  ye  that  young  thing,  my  boy  Tammy  ?" 

"  I  gat  her  down  in  yonder  howe,5 

Smiling  on  a  broomy  knowe,6 
Herding  ae  wee  Lamb  and  Ewe  for  her  poor  Mammy." 

1  Where  2  Going  3  Who's  4  From 

5  Dale  or  hollow         6  Knoll  or  hillock 

35 


MOTHER,  HOME  AND  SWEETHEART 

\\  li.it  said  ye  to  the  bonny  bairn,  my  boy  Tammy  ?" 
"  I  hae  a  house,  it  cost  mc  dear, 
1'w  walth  o'  plenishen  and  gear,1 
V  ese  get  it  a',  war't  ten  times  mair,  gin  -  ye  will  leave  your 
Mammy. 

"  The  smile  gacd  aft'  her  bonny  face — '  I  mauna  leave  my 
Mammy  ! 
She's  gi'en  me  meat,  she's  gi'en  me  claes,3 
She's  been  my  comfort  a'  my  days, 
My  Father's  death  brought  mony  waes — I  canna  leave  my 
Mammy.'  " 

'  We'll  tak  her  hame  and  mak  her  fain,  my  ain  kind-hearted 
Lammy, 
We'll  gie  her  meat,  we'll  gi'e  her  claes, 
We'll  be  her  comfort  a'  her  days  :  " 
The  wee  thing  gi'es  her  hand,  and  says,  "There,  gang  and 
ask  my  Mammy." 

'  Has  she  been  to  kirk  wi'  thee,  my  boy  Tammy  ?" 
"  She  has  been  to  kirk  wi'  me, 
And  the  tear  was  in  her  ee, 
But  Oh  !  she's  but  a  young  thing  just  come  frae  her  Mammy." 

Hector  Macneill 


41  ROSY  APPLE,  LEMON,  OR  PEAR 

Rosy  apple,  lemon,  or  pear, 
Bunch  of  roses  she  shall  wear  ; 
Gold  and  silver  by  her  side, 
I  know  who  will  be  the  bride. 
Take  her  by  her  lily-white  hand, 

Lead  her  to  the  altar  ; 
Give  her  kisses, — one,  two,  three, — 

Mother's  runaway  daughter. 

1  Goods  and  chattels  2  If  3  Clothes 

36 


IN  PRAISE  OF  ISABEL  PENNELL 

42  IN  PRAISE  OF  ISABEL  PENNELL 

By  Saint  Mary,  my  lady, 
Your  mammy  and  your  daddy 
Brought  forth  a  goodly  baby  ! 

My  maiden  Isabell, — 
Reflaring  *  rosabell, 
The  flagrant  camamell, 

The  ruddy  rosary, 

The  sovereign  rosemary, 

The  pretty  strawberry, 

The  columbine,  the  nepte,2 
The  ieloffer 3  well  set, 
The  proper  violet, 

Ennewed,  your  colour 
Is  like  the  daisy  flower 
After  the  April  shower  ! 

Star  of  the  morrow  gray, 
The  blossom  on  the  spray, 
The  freshest  flower  of  May  ; 

Maidenly  demure, 

Of  womanhood  the  lure, 

Wherefore  I  make  you  sure  : 

It  were  an  heavenly  health, 
It  were  an  endless  wealth, 
A  life  for  God  himself, 

To  hear  this  nightingale, 
Among  the  birdes  smale, 
Warbling  in  the  vale  : — 

Dug,  dug, 

lug,  iug, 

Good  year  and  good  luck, 

With  chuk,  chuk,  chuk,  chuk  ! 

John  Skelton 

1  Sweet-smelling  2  Cat-mint  3  Gillyflower 

37 


MOTHER,  HOME  AND  SWEETHEART 

I ;  MY  SWEET  SWEETING 

She  is  so  proper  and  so  pure, 
Full  stcdt.ist.  stabill  and  demure, 
There  is  none  such,  ye  may  be  sure, 
As  my  swete  sweting. 

In  all  tins  world,  as  thynketh  me, 
Is  none  so  plesaunt  to  my  e'e, 
That  I  am  glad  soo  ofte  to  sec, 

As  my  swete  swetyng. 

When  I  behold  my  swetyng  swete, 
Her  face,  her  hands,  her  minion  fete, 
They  seme  to  me  there  is  none  so  mete, 
As  my  swete  swetyng. 

Above  all  other  prayse  must  I, 
And  love  my  pretty  pygsnye, 
For  none  I  fynd  so  womanly 

As  my  swete  swetyng. 

44  SWEET  STAY-AT-HOME 

Sweet  Stay-at-Home,  sweet  Well-content, 
Thou  knowest  of  no  strange  continent : 
Thou  hast  not  felt  thy  bosom  keep 
A  gentle  motion  with  the  deep  ; 
Thou  hast  not  sailed  in  Indian  seas, 
Where  scent  comes  forth  in  every  breeze. 
Thou  hast  not  seen  the  rich  grape  grow 
For  miles,  as  far  as  eyes  can  go  ; 
Thou  hast  not  seen  a  summer's  night 
When  maids  could  sew  by  a  worm's  light ; 
Nor  the  North  Sea  in  spring  send  out 
Bright  hues  that  like  birds  flit  about 
In  solid  cages  of  white- ice — 
Sweet  Stay-at-Home,  sweet  Love-one-place. 
Thou  hast  not  seen  black  fingers  pick 
White  cotton  when  the  bloom  is  thick, 

38 


SWEET  STAY-AT-HOME 

Nor  heard  black  throats  in  harmony  ; 
Nor  hast  thou  sat  on  stones  that  lie 
Flat  on  the  earth,  that  once  did  rise 
To  hide  proud  kings  from  common  eyes. 
Thou  hast  not  seen  plains  full  of  bloom 
Where  green  things  had  such  little  room 
They  pleased  the  eye  like  fairer  flowers — 
Sweet  Stay-at-Home,  all  these  long  hours. 
Sweet  Well-content,  sweet  Love-one-place, 
Sweet,  simple  maid,  bless  thy  dear  face  ; 
For  thou  hast  made  more  homely  stuff 
Nurture  thy  gentle  self  enough  ; 
I  love  thee  for  a  heart  that's  kind — 
Not  for  the  knowledge  in  thy  mind. 

William  H.  Davies 

45  WAITING 

Rich  in  the  waning  light  she  sat 

While  the  fierce  rain  on  the  window  spat. 

The  yellow  lamp-glow  lit  her  face, 

Shadows  cloaked  the  narrow  place 

She  sat  adream  in.     Then  she'd  look 

Idly  upon  an  idle  book  ; 

Anon  would  rise  and. musing  peer 

Out  at  the  misty  street  and  drear  ; 

Or  with  her  loosened  dark  hair  play, 

Hiding  her  fingers'  snow  away  ; 

And,  singing  softly,  would  sing  on 

When  the  desire  of  song  had  gone. 

"  0  lingering  day  !  "  her  bosom  sighed, 

"  0  laggard  Time  !  "  each  motion  cried. 

Last  she  took  the  lamp  and  stood 

Rich  in  its  flood, 

And  looked  and  looked  again  at  what 

Her  longing  fingers'  zeal  had  wrought ; 

And  turning  then  did  nothing  say, 

Hiding  her  thoughts  away.         _  ^ 

John  Freeman 

39 


MOTHER,  HOME  AND  SWEETHEART 

46  THE  SICK  CHILD 

ild.      0  Mother,  lay  your  hand  on  my  brow  ! 

0  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, 

1  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. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


47  STILLNESS 

When  the  words  rustle  no  more, 

And  the  last  work's  done, 
When  the  bolt  lies  deep  in  the  door, 

And  Fire,  our  Sun, 
Falls  on  the  dark-laned  meadows  of  the  floor  ; 

When  from  the  clock's  last  chime  to  the  next  chime 

Silence  beats  his  drum, 
And  Space  with  gaunt  grey  eyes  and  her  brother  Time 

Wheeling  and  whispering  come, 
She  with  the  mould  of  form  and  he  with  the  loom  of  rhyme 

40 


STILLNESS 

Then  twittering  out  in  the  night  my  thought-birds  flee, 

I  am  emptied  of  all  my  dreams  : 
I  only  hear  Earth  turning,  only  see 

Ether's  long  bankless  streams, 
And  only  know  I  should  drown  if  you  laid  not  your  hand 
on  me. 

James  Elroy  Flecker 


48  LINES  ON  RECEIVING  HIS  MOTHER'S 

PICTURE 

0  that  those  lips  had  language  !     Life  has  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine — thy  own  sweet  smiles  I  see, 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me  ; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 

"  Grieve  not,  my  child — chase  all  thy  fears  away  !" 
My  Mother  !  when  I  learnt  that  thou  wast  dead, 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed  ? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son, 
Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun  ? 
Perhaps  thou  gav'st  me,  though  unseen,  a  kiss, 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile  !   it  answers — Yes. 

1  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day, 

I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu  ! 
But  was  it  such  ? — It  was.     Where  thou  art  gone 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 
The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more  ! 
Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern, 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 
What  ardently  I  wished,  I  long  believed, 
And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived, 
By  expectation  every  day  beguiled, 
Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 

41 


MOTHER,  HOME  AM)  SWEETHEART 

I  hus  many  .1  sad  to-morrow  came  and  wont, 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 
I  learnt  at  last  submission  to  my  lot. 
But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more, 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor  ; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way, 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapped 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet-capped, 
'Tis  now  become  a  history  little  known, 
That  once  we  called  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 
Short-lived  possession  !   but  the  record  fair 
That  memory  keeps,  of  all  thy  kindness  there, 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm,  that  has  effaced 
A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced. 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 
That  thou  mightst  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid  ; 
Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home, 
The  biscuit,  or  confectionery  plum  ; 
The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheek  bestowed 
By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glowed  ; 
All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all, 
Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall.  .  .  . 

William  Cowper 


49  THE  CHIMNEY  SWEEPER 

When  my  mother  died  I  was  very  young, 

And  my  father  sold  me  while  yet  my  tongue 

Could  scarcely  cry  "  'weep  !   'weep  !   'weep  !   'weep  !  " 

So  your  chimneys  I  sweep,  and  in  soot  I  sleep. 

There's  little  Tom  Dacre,  who  cried  when  his  head, 
That  curled  like  a  lamb's  back,  was  shaved  :   so  I  said 
"  Hush,  Tom  !   never  mind  it,  for  when  your  head's  bare 
You  know  that  the  soot  cannot  spoil  your  white  hair." 

42 


THE  CHIMNEY  SWEEPER 

And  so  he  was  quiet,  and  that  very  night, 

As  Tom  was  a-sleeping,  he  had  such  a  sight ! 

That  thousands  of  sweepers,  Dick,  Joe,  Ned,  and  Jack, 

Were  all  of  them  locked  up  in  coffins  of  black. 

And  by  came  an  Angel  who  had  a  bright  key, 
And  he  opened  the  coffins  and  set  them  all  free  ; 
Then  down  a  green  plain  leaping,  laughing,  they  run, 
And  wash  in  a  river,  and  shine  in  the  Sun. 

Then  naked  and  white,  all  their  bags  left  behind, 
They  rise  upon  clouds  and  sport  in  the  wind  ; 
And  the  Angel  told  Tom,  if  he'd  be  a  good  boy, 
He'd  have  God  for  his  father,  and  never  want  joy. 

And  so  Tom  awoke  ;   and  we  rose  in  the  dark, 
And  got  with  our  bags  and  our  brushes  to  work. 
Tho'  the  morning  was  cold,  Tom  was  happy  and  warm  ; 
So  if  all  do  their  duty  they  need  not  fear  harm. 

William  Blake 


50        BONNIE  GEORGE  CAMPBELL 

Hie  upon  Hielands, 
and  laigh  upon  Tay, 

Bonnie  George  Campbell 
rode  out  on  a  day. 

Saddled  and  briddled 
and  booted  rade  he  ; 

Toom  *  hame  cam'  the  saddle, 
but  never  cam'  he. 

Down  cam'  his  auld  mither, 

greetin'  2  fu'  sair, 
And  down  cam'  his  bonny  wife, 

wringin'  her  hair  : — 

1  Empty  2  Weeping 

43 


MOTHER,  SOME  AND  SWEETHEART 

■  \l\  meadow  lies  green, 

and  my  corn  is  unshorn, 
My  barn  is  to  build 

and  m  .•  babe  is  unborn." 

Saddled  and  briddled 

.  nd  booted  rade  he  ; 
Toom  hame  cam'  the  saddle 

but  never  cam'  he. 


51  THE  ORPHAN'S  SONG 

1  had  a  little  bird, 
I  took  it  from  the  nest ; 
I  prest  it,  and  blest  it, 
And  nurst  it  in  my  breast. 

I  set  it  on  the  ground, 

I  danced  round  and  round, 

And  sang  about  it  so  cheerly, 

With  "  Hey  my  little  bird,  and  ho  my  little  bird, 

And  ho  but  I  love  thee  dearly  !  " 

I  make  a  little  feast 
Of  food  soft  and  sweet, 
I  hold  it  in  my  breast, 
And  coax  it  to  eat ; 

I  pit,  and  I  pat, 

I  call  it  this  and  that, 

And  sing  about  it  so  cheerly, 

With  "  Hey  my  little  bird,  and  ho  my  little  bird, 

And  ho  but  I  love  thee  dearly  !  " 

I  may  kiss,  I  may  sing, 
But  I  can't  make  it  feed, 
It  taketh  no  heed 
Of  any  pleasant  thing. 

44 


THE  ORPHAN'S  SONG 

I  scolded  and  I  socked, 
But  it  minded  not  a  whit, 
Its  little  mouth  was  locked, 
And  I  could  not  open  it. 

Tho'  with  pit,  and  with  pat, 

And  with  this,  and  with  that, 

I  sang  about  it  so  cheerly, 

With  "  Hey  my  little  bird,  and  ho  my  little  bird, 

And  ho  but  I  love  thee  dearly  !  " 

But  when  the  day  was  done, 
And  the  room  was  at  rest, 
And  I  sat  all  alone 
With  my  birdie  in  my  breast, 

And  the  light  had  fled, 
And  not  a  sound  was  heard, 
Then  my  little  bird 
Lifted  up  its  head, 

And  the  little  mouth 

Loosed  its  sullen  pride, 

And  it  opened,  it  opened, 

With  a  yearning  strong  and  wide. 

Swifter  than  I  speak 
I  brought  it  food  once  more, 
But  the  poor  little  beak 
Was  locked  as  before. 

I  sat  down  again, 
And  not  a  creature  stirred  ; 
I  laid  the  little  bird 
Again  where  it  had  laid  ; 

And  again  when  nothing  stirred, 
And  not  a  word  I  said, 
Then  my  little  bird 
Lifted  up  its  head, 

45 


MOTHER,  HOME  AND  SWEETHEART 
And  the  Little  beak 

Loosed  its  stubborn  pride, 

And  it  opened,  it  opened, 

With  a  yearning  strong  and  wide. 

It  lay  in  my  breast, 

It  uttered  no  cry, 

'Tw.is  famished,  'twas  famished, 

And  I  couldn't  tell  why. 

1  couldn't  tell  why, 

But  I  saw  that  it  would  die, 

For  all  that  I  kept  dancing  round  and  round, 

And  singing  about  it  so  cheerly, 

With  "  Hey  my  little  bird,  and  ho  my  little  bird, 

And  ho  but  I  love  thee  dearly  !  " 

I  never  look  sad, 
I  hear  what  people  say, 
I  laugh  when  they  are  gay 
And  they  think  I  am  glad. 

My  tears  never  start, 
I  never  say  a  word, 
But  I  think  that  my  heart 
Is  like  that  little  bird. 

Every  day  I  read, 
And  I  sing,  and  I  play, 
But  thro'  the  long  day 
It  taketh  no  heed. 

It  taketh  no  heed 
Of  any  pleasant  thing, 
I  know  it  doth  not  read, 
I  know  it  doth  not  sing. 

With  my  mouth  I  read, 
With  my  hands  I  play, 
My  shut  heart  is  shut, 
Coax  it  how  you  may. 

46 


THE  ORPHAN'S  SONG 

You  may  coax  it  how  you  may 
While  the  day  is  broad  and  bright, 
But  in  the  dead  night 
When  the  guests  are  gone  away, 

And  no  more  the  music  sweet 
Up  the  house  doth  pass, 
Nor  the  dancing  feet 
Shake  the  nursery  glass  ; 

And  I've  heard  my  aunt 
Along  the  corridor, 
And  my  uncle  gaunt 
Lock  his  chamber  door  ; 

And  upon  the  stair 
All  is  hushed  and  still, 
And  the  last  wheel 
Is  silent  in  the  square  ; 

And  the  nurses  snore, 
And  the  dim  sheets  rise  and  fall, 
And  the  lamplight's  on  the  wall, 
And  the  mouse  is  on  the  floor  ; 

And  the  curtains  of  my  bed 
Are  like  a  heavy  cloud, 
And  the  clock  ticks  loud, 
And  sounds  are  in  my  head  ; 

And  little  Lizzie  sleeps 

Softly  at  my  side, 

It  opens,  it  opens, 

With  a  yearning  strong  and  wide  ! 

It  yearns  in  my  breast, 
It  utters  no  cry, 
Tis  famished,  'tis  famished, 
And  I  feel  that  I  shall  die, 
I  feel  that  I  shall  die, 
And  none  will  know  why. 
47 


MOT1IKH,  HOME  AM)  SWEETHEART 

Tho'  the  pleasant  life  is  dancing  round  and  round, 
And  Binging  about  me  so  cheerly, 
With  "  Hey  my  little  bird,  and  ho  my  little  bird, 
And  ho  but  1  love  thee  dearly  !  " 

Sydney  Don km. 


52  THE  FIRST  GRIEF 

"  Oh  !   call  my  brother  back  to  me, 

I  cannot  play  alone  ; 
The  summer  comes  with  flower  and  bee — 

Where  is  my  brother  gone  ? 

"  The  butterfly  is  glancing  bright 

Across  the  sunbeam's  track  ; 
I  care  not  now  to  chase  its  flight — 

Oh  !   call  my  brother  back. 

"  The  flowers  run  wild — the  flowers  we  sowed 

Around  our  garden  tree  ; 
Our  vine  is  drooping  with  its  load — 

Oh  !   call  him  back  to  me." 

"'  He  would  not  hear  my  voice,  fair  child  ! 

He  may  not  come  to  thee  ; 
The  face  that  once  like  spring-time  smiled 

On  earth  no  more  thou'lt  see. 

"  A  rose's  brief,  bright  life  of  joy, 

Such  unto  him  was  given  ; 
Go — thou  must  play  alone,  my  boy — 

Thy  brother  is  in  heaven  !  " 

"  And  has  he  left  the  birds  and  flowers, 

And  must  I  call  in  vain  ; 
And  through  the  long,  long  summer  hours, 

Will  he  not  come  again  ? 
48 


THE  FIRST  GRIEF 

"  And  by  the  brook,  and  in  the  glade, 

Are  all  our  wanderings  o'er  ? 
Oh  !   while  my  brother  with  me  played, 

Would  I  had  loved  him  more  !  " 

Felicia  Hemans 


53  THE  POPLAR  FIELD 

The  poplars  are  felled  ;   farewell  to  the  shade 
And  the  whispering  sound  of  the  cool  colonnade  ; 
The  winds  play  no  longer  and  sing  in  the  leaves, 
Nor  Ouse  on  his  bosom  their  image  receives. 

Twelve  years  have  elapsed  since  I  first  took  a  view 
Of  my  favourite  field,  and  the  bank  where  they  grew  ; 
And  now  in  the  grass  behold  they  are  laid, 
And  the  tree  is  my  seat  that  once  lent  me  a  shade. 

The  blackbird  has  fled  to  another  retreat 
Where  the  hazels  afford  him  a  screen  from  the  heat, 
And  the  scene  where  his  melody  charmed  me  before 
Resounds  with  his  sweet-flowing  ditty  no  more. 

My  fugitive  years  are  all  hasting  away, 

And  I  must  ere  long  lie  as  lowly  as  they 

With  a  turf  on  my  breast,  and  a  stone  at  my  head, 

Ere  another  such  grove  shall  arise  in  its  stead. 

'Tis  a  sight  to  engage  me,  if  anything  can, 
To  muse  on  the  perishing  pleasures  of  man  ; 
Though  his  life  be  a  dream,  his  enjoyments,  I  see, 
Have  a  being  less  durable  even  than  he. 

William  Cowper 

54  FAREWELL 

Not  soon  shall  I  forget — a  sheet 
Of  golden  water,  cold  and  sweet, 
The  young  moon  with  her  head  in  veils 
Of  silver,  and  the  nightingales. 

49  d 


MOTHER,  HOME  AND  SWEETHEART 

A  wain  of  hay  came  up  the  lane — 
( >  iii-lils  I  shall  not  walk  again, 

And  trees  1  shall  not  see,  SO  still 
Against  a  sky  of  daffodil  ! 

Fields  where  my  happy  hearl  had  rest, 
And  where  my  heart  was  heaviest, 

I  shall  remember  thrm  at  peace 

J  Irenched  in  moon-silver  like  a  fleece. 

The  golden  water  sweet  and  cold, 
The  moon  of  silver  and  of  gold, 
The  dew  upon  the  gray  grass-spears, 
1  shall  remember  them  with  tears. 

Katharine  Tynan 


55  "  YE  BANKS  AND  BRAES  0"  BONNIE  DOON  " 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fair  ? 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 

And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care  ? 

Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird 

That  sings  upon  the  bough  ; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days 

When  my  fause  Luve  was  true. 

Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird 

That  sings  beside  thy  mate  ; 
For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 

And  wist  na  o'  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  I  roved  by  bonnie  Doon 

To  see  the  woodbine  twine, 
And  ilka1  bird  sang  o'  its  love  ; 

And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

1  Every. 

50 


YE  BANKS  AND  BRAES  O'  BONNIE  DOON  " 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree  ; 
And  my  fause  luver  staw 1  the  rose, 

But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 

Robert  Burns 


56  TO  A  RIVER  IN  THE  SOUTH 

Call  me  no  more,  0  gentle  stream, 
To  wander  through  thy  sunny  dream, 
No  more  to  lean  at  twilight  cool 
Above  thy  weir  and  glimmering  pool. 

Surely  I  know  thy  hoary  dawns, 
The  silver  crisp  on  all  thy  lawns, 
The  softly  swirling  undersong 
That  rocks  thy  reeds  the  winter  long. 

Surely  I  know  the  joys  that  ring 
Through  the  green  deeps  of  leafy  spring  ; 
I  know  the  elfin  cups  and  domes 
That  are  their  small  and  secret  homes. 

Yet  is  the  light  for  ever  lost 

That  daily  once  thy  meadows  crossed, 

The  voice  no  more  by  thee  is  heard 

That  matched  the  song  of  stream  and  bird. 

Call  me  no  more  ! — thy  waters  roll 

Here,  in  the  world  that  is  my  soul, 

And  here,  though  Earth  be  drowned  in  night, 

Old  love  shall  dwell  with  old  delight. 

Henry  Newbolt 


1  Stole 

51 


MOTHER,  HOME  AM)  SWEETHEART 

THK  DESERTED  HOUSE 

There's  no  smoke  in  the  chimney, 
And  the  rain  beats  on  the  floor ; 

1  here's  no  glass  in  the  window, 

There's  no  wood  in  the  door  ; 
The  heather  grows  behind  the  house, 

And  the  sand  lies  before. 

No  hand  hath  trained  the  ivy, 

The  walls  are  gray  and  bare  ; 
The  boats  upon  the  sea  sail  by, 

Nor  ever  tarry  there. 
No  beast  of  the  field  comes  nigh, 

Nor  any  bird  of  the  air. 

Mary  Coleridge 


58  AN  OLD  WOMAN  OF  THE  ROADS 

0,  to  have  a  little  house  ! 

To  own  the  hearth  and  stool  and  all  ! 
The  heaped-up  sods  upon  the  fire, 

The  pile  of  turf  against  the  wall  ! 

To  have  a  clock  with  weights  and  chains 
And  pendulum  swinging  up  and  down  ! 

A  dresser  filled  with  shining  delph, 

Speckled  and  white  and  blue  and  brown  ! 

I  could  be  busy  all  the  day 

Clearing  and  sweeping  hearth  and  floor, 
And  fixing  on  their  shelf  again 

Mv  white  and  blue  and  speckled  store  ! 

I  could  be  quiet  there  at  night 
Beside  the  fire  and  by  myself, 

Sure  of  a  bed,  and  loth  to  leave 

The  ticking  clock  and  the  shining  delph  ! 
52 


AN  OLD  WOMAN  OF  THE  ROADS 

Och  !   but  I'm  weary  of  mist  and  dark, 

And  roads  where  there's  never  a  house  or  bush, 

And  tired  I  am  of  bog  and  road 

And  the  crying  wind  and  the  lonesome  hush  ! 

And  I  am  praying  to  God  on  high, 

And  I  am  praying  Him  night  and  day, 

For  a  little  house — a  house  of  my  own — 
Out  of  the  wind's  and  the  rain's  way. 

Padraic  Colum 


59  A  DESERTED  HOME 

Here  where  the  fields  lie  lonely  and  untended, 
Once  stood  the  old  house  grey  among  the  trees, 

Once  to  the  hills  rolled  the  waves  of  the  cornland — 
Long  waves  and  golden,  softer  than  the  sea's. 

Long,  long  ago  has  the  ploughshare  rusted, 
Long  has  the  barn  stood  roofless  and  forlorn ; 

But  oh  !  far  away  are  some  who  still  remember 
The  songs  of  the  young  girls  binding  up  the  corn. 

Here  where  the  windows  shone  across  the  darkness, 
Here  where  the  stars  once  watched  above  the  fold, 

Still  watch  the  stars,  but  the  sheepfold  is  empty  ; 
Falls  now  the  rain  where  the  hearth  glowed  of  old. 

Here  where  the  leagues  of  melancholy  lough-sedge 
Moan  in  the  wind  round  the  grey  forsaken  shore, 

Once  waved  the  corn  in  the  mid-month  of  autumn, 
Once  sped  the  dance  when  the  corn  was  on  the  floor. 

Sidney  Royse  Lysaght 


60  UNDER  THE  WOODS 

When  these  old  woods  were  young 
The  thrushes'  ancestors 
As  sweetly  sung 
In  the  old  years. 

53 


MOTHER,  HOME  AND  SWEETHEART 

There  was  no  garden  here, 
Apples  nor  mistletoi 
No  children  dear 
Ran  to  and  fro. 

New  then  was  this  thatched  cot, 
But  the  keeper  was  old, 
And  he  had  not 
Much  lead  or  gold. 

Most  silent  beech  and  yew  : 
As  he  went  round  about 
The  woods  to  view 
Seldom  he  shot. 

But  now  that  he  is  gone 
Out  of  most  memories, 
Still  lingers  on, 
A  stoat  of  his, 

But  one,  shrivelled  and  green, 

And  with  no  scent  at  all, 

And  barely  seen 

On  this  shed  wall.  Edward  Thomas 


61  "  BLOWS  THE  WIND  TO-DAY  " 

Blows  the  wind  to-day,  and  the  sun  and  the  rain  are  flying, 
Blows  the  wind  on  the  moors  to-day  and  now, 

Where  about  the  graves  of  the  martyrs  the  whaups  are  crying, 
My  heart  remembers  how  ! 

Grey  recumbent  tombs  of  the  dead  in  desert  places, 
Standing  stones  on  the  vacant  wine-red  moor, 

Hills  of  sheep,  and  the  howes  of  the  silent  vanished  races, 
And  winds,  austere  and  pure  : 

Be  it  granted  me  to  behold  you  again  in  dying, 

Hills  of  home  !   and  to  hear  again  the  call  ; 

Hear  about  the  graves  of  the  martyrs  the  peewees  crying, 

And  hear  no  more  at  all.  _  T  „ 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

54 


THE  TWA  BROTHERS 

62  THE  TWA  BROTHERS 

There  were  twa  brethren  in  the  north, 
They  went !  to  the  school  thegither  ; 

The  one  unto  the  other  said, 

"  Will  you  try  a  warsle  2  afore  ?" 

They  warsled  up,  they  warsled  down, 

Till  Sir  John  fell  to  the  ground, 
And  there  was  a  knife  in  Sir  Willie's  pouch, 

Gied  him  a  deadlie  wound. 

"  0  brither  dear,  take  me  on  your  back, 

Carry  me  to  yon  burn  clear, 
And  wash  the  blood  from  off  my  wound, 

And  it  will  bleed  nae  mair." 

He  took  him  up  upon  his  back, 

Carried  him  to  yon  burn  clear, 
And  washd  the  blood  from  off  his  wound, 

And  aye  it  bled  the  mair. 

"  0  brither  dear,  take  me  on  your  back, 

Carry  me  to  yon  kirk-yard, 
And  dig  a  grave  baith  wide  and  deep, 

And  lay  my  body  there." 

He's  taen  him  up  upon  his  back, 

Carried  him  to  yon  kirk-yard, 
And  dug  a  grave  baith  deep  and  wide, 

And  laid  his  body  there. 

"  But  what  will  I  say  to  my  father  dear, 

Gin3  he  chance  to  say,  Willie,  whar's  John  ?" 

"  Oh  say  that  he's  to  England  gone, 
To  buy  him  a  cask  of  wine." 

"  And  what  will  I  say  to  my  mother  dear, 
Gin  she  chance  to  say,  Willie,  whar's  John  ?' 

1  Had  been  2  Wrestle  3  If 

55 


MOTHER,  SOME  AM)  SWEETHEART 

"Oh  say  thai  he's  to  England  gone, 
To  l>uy  her  a  new  silk  gown." 

"And  what  will  I  say  to  my  sister  dear, 
Gin  she  chance  to  say,  Willie,  whar's  John  ?" 

"  Oh  say  that  he's  to  Filmland  gone, 
To  buy  her  a  wedding  ring." 

'  But  what  will  I  say  to  her  you  lo'e  dear, 
Gin  she  cry,  Why  tarries  my  John  ?  " 

"  Oh  tell  her  I  lie  in  Kirk-land  fair, 
And  home  shall  never  come." 


63  THE  DEAD  KNIGHT 

The  cleanly  rush  of  the  mountain  air, 

And  the  mumbling,  grumbling  humble-bees, 

Are  the  only  things  that  wander  there, 

The  pitiful  bones  are  laid  at  ease, 

The  grass  has  grown  in  his  tangled  hair, 

And  a  rambling  bramble  binds  his  knees. 

To  shrieve  his  soul  from  the  pangs  of  hell, 
The  only  requiem-bells  that  rang 
Were  the  hare-bell  and  the  heather-bell. 
Hushed  he  is  with  the  holy  spell 
In  the  gentle  hymn  the  wind  sang, 
And  he  lies  quiet,  and  sleeps  well. 

He  is  bleached  and  blanched  with  the  summer  sun 
The  misty  rain  and  the  cold  dew 
Have  altered  him  from  the  kingly  one 
(That  his  lady  loved,  and  his  men  knew) 
And  dwindled  him  to  a  skeleton. 

The  vetches  have  twined  about  his  bones, 
The  straggling  ivy  twists  and  creeps 
In  his  eye-sockets  ;    the  nettle  keeps 
Vigil  about  him  while  he  sleeps. 

56 


THE  DEAD  KNIGHT 

Over  his  body  the  wind  moans 

With  a  dreary  tune  throughout  the  day, 

In  a  chorus  wistful,  eerie,  thin 

As  the  gull's  cry — as  the  cry  in  the  bay, 

The  mournful  word  the  seas  say 

When  tides  are  wandering  out  or  in. 

John  Masefield 


64  SHEATH  AND  KNIFE 

One  king's  daughter  said  to  anither, 
Brume  blumes  bonnie  and  grows  sae  fair, 

il  We'll  gae  ride  like  sister  and  brither," 
And  we'll  neer  gae  down  to  the  brume  nae  mair. 

"  We'll  ride  doun  into  yonder  valley, 
Brume  blumes  bonnie  and  grows  sae  fair, 

Whare  the  greene  green  trees  are  budding  sae  gaily. 
And  we'll  neer  gae  down  to  the  brume  nae  mair. 

"  Wi  hawke  and  hounde  we  will  hunt  sae  rarely, 
Brume  blumes  bonnie  and  grows  sae  fair, 

And  we'll  come  back  in  the  morning  early." 
And  we'll  neer  gae  down  to  the  brume  nae  mair. 

They  rade  on  like  sister  and  brither, 
Brume  blumes  bonnie  and  grows  sae  fair, 

And  they  hunted  and  hawket  in  the  valley  thegether. 
And  we'll  neer  gae  down  to  the  brume  nae  mair. 

"  Now,  lady,  hauld  my  horse  and  my  hawk, 
Brume  blumes  bonnie  and  grows  sae  fair, 

For  I  maun  na  1  ride,  and  I  daur  na  2  walk, 
And  we'll  neer  gae  down  to  the  brume  nae  mair." 

"  But  set  me  doun  be  the  rute  o'  this  tree, 
Brume  blumes  bonnie  and  grows  sae  fair, 

For  there  ha'e  I  dreamt  that  my  bed  sail  be." 
And  we'll  neer  gae  down  to  the  brume  nae  mair. 

1  Must  not  2  Dare  not 

57 


MOTHER,  HOME  AM)  SWEETHEART 

The  .11'  king's  daughter  did  hit  doun  the  iiher, 
Ihumc  blumes  bonnie  and  grows  sac  fair, 

She  w.is  liclit  in  her  armis  like  ony  [ether. 
.  hid  we'll  neer  gae  dawn  to  the  brume  nae  mair. 

Bonnie  Lady  Ann  s.it  doun  be  the  tr<  e, 

Brume  blumes  bonnie  and  grows  sae  fair. 
And  .1  wide  grave  was  houkit  '  whare  nanc  suld  be. 
And  we'll  neer  gae  down  to  the  brume  nae  mair. 

The  hawk  had  nae  hire,  and  the  horse  had  nae  master, 
Brume  blumes  bonnie  and  grows  sae  fair, 

And  the  faithless  hounds  thro'  the  woods  ran  faster. 
And  we'll  neer  gae  down  to  the  brume  nae  mair. 

The  one  king's  daughter  has  ridden  awa', 
Brume  blumes  bonnie  and  grows  sae  fair, 

But  bonnie  Lady  Ann  lay  in  the  deed-thraw.2 
And  we'll  neer  gae  dozen  to  the  brume  nae  mair. 


65  I  HAVE  A  YOUNG  SISTER 

I  have  a  yong  suster  I  have  a  young  sister 
fer  beyondyn  the  se  ;  Far  beyond  the  sea  ; 

Many  be  the  drowryis  Many  are  the  keepsakes 
that  che  sente  me.  That  she's  sent  me. 

Che  sente  me  the  cherye,  She  sent  me  a  cherry — 

withoutyn  ony  ston,  It  hadn't  any  stone  ; 

And  so  che  dede  (the)  dowe,  And  so  she  did  a  wood  dove 

withoutyn  ony  bon.  Withouten  any  bone. 

Sche  sente  me  the  brere,  She  sent  me  a  briar 

withoutyn  ony  rynde,  Withouten  any  rind  ; 

Sche  bad   me  love  my  lem-      She  bade  me  love  my  sweet- 
man  heart 
withoute  longgyng.                        Without    longing    in    my 

mind. 

1  Dug.  delved  2  Her  death-throes 

58 


I  HAVE  A  YOUNG  SISTER 


How  shuld  ony  cherye 
be  withoute  ston  ? 

And  how  shuld  ony  dowe 
ben  withoute  bon  ? 


How  shuld  any  brere 
ben  withoute  rynde  ? 

How  shuld  I  love  my  lemman 
without  longyng  ? 

Quan  the  cherye  was  a  flour, 
than  hadde  it  non  ston  ; 

Quan  the  dowe  was  an  ey, 
than  hadde  it  non  bon. 


Quan  the  brere  was  onbred, 
than  hadde  it  non  rynd  ; 

Quan  the  mayden  hayt  that 
che  lovit, 
che  is  without  longing. 


How  should  any  cherry 
Be  without  a  stone  ? 

And  how  should  any   wood 
dove 
Be  without  a  bone  ? 

How  should  any  briar, 

Be  without  rind  ? 
And  how  love  a  sweetheart 

Without    longing    in    my 
mind  ? 

When  the  cherry  was  a  flower 

Then  it  had  no  stone  ; 
When  the  wood-dove  was  an 

perry 

Then  it  had  no  bone. 

When  the  briar  was  unbred 
Then  it  had  no  rind  ; 

And  when  a  maid  hath  that 
she  loves, 
She  longs  not  in  her  mind. 


66  ANNABEL  LEE 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee  ; 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 

Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

I  was  a  child  and  she  was  a  child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea  ; 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love — 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee  ; 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

59 


MOTHER,  HOME  AM)  SWEETHEART 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  ; 
So  that  her  highborn  kinsman  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  her  up  m  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

The  angels,  not  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me — 
Yes  ! — that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by  night, 

Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we, 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we ; 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 

For  the  moon  never  beams  without  bringing  me  dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  ; 
And  the  stars  never  rise  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee  ; 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling — my  darling — my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  the  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea, 
In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 

Edgar  Allan  Poe 


60 


THE  SHELL 

67  THE  SHELL 

And  then  I  pressed  the  shell 

Close  to  my  ear 
And  listened  well, 
And  straightway  like  a  bell 

Came  low  and  clear 
The  slow,  sad  murmur  of  far  distant  seas, 
Whipped  by  an  icy  breeze 

Upon  a  shore 
Wind-swept  and  desolate. 

It  was  a  sunless  strand  that  never  bore 
The  footprint  of  a  man, 

Nor  felt  the  weight 
Since  time  began 
Of  any  human  quality  or  stir 
Save  what  the  dreary  winds  and  waves  incur. 
And  in  the  hush  of  waters  was  the  sound 
Of  pebbles  rolling  round, 
For  ever  rolling  with  a  hollow  sound. 
And  bubbling  sea-weeds  as  the  waters  go 
Swish  to  and  fro 

Their  long,  cold  tentacles  of  slimy  grey. 
There  was  no  day, 
Nor  ever  came  a  night 
Setting  the  stars  alight 
To  wonder  at  the  moon  : 
Was  twilight  only  and  the  frightened  croon, 
Smitten  to  whimpers,  of  the  dreary  wind 
.   And  waves  that  journeyed  blind — 
.  And  then  I  loosed  my  ear — oh,  it  was  sweet 
To  hear  a  cart  go  jolting  down  the  street  ! 

James  Stephens 


61 


FEASTS  :  FAIRS  :  ©  ® 
BEGGARS:  GIPSIES: 


68  LONDON  BRIDGE 

London  Bridge  is  broken  down, 
Dance  o'er  my  Lady  Lee, 

London  Bridge  is  broken  down, 
With  a  gay  lady. 

How  shall  we  build  it  up  again  ? 

Dance  o'er  my  Lady  Lee, 
How  shall  we  build  it  up  again  ? 

With  a  gay  lady. 

Silver  and  gold  will  be  stole  away, 
Dance  o'er  my  Lady  Lee, 

Silver  and  gold  will  be  stole  away, 
With  a  gay  lady. 

Build  it  up  with  iron  and  steel, 
Dance  o'er  my  Lady  Lee, 

Build  it  up  with  iron  and  steel, 
With  a  gay  lady. 


Iron  and  steel  will  bend  and  bow, 

Dance  o'er  my  Lady  Lee, 
Iron  and  steel  will  bend  and  bow, 

With  a  gay  lady. 

Build  it  up  with  wood  and  clay, 

Dance  o'er  my  Lady  Lee, 
Build  it  up  with  wood  and  clay, 

With  a  gay  lady. 

65  e 


FEASTS:   FAIRS:   BEGGARS:  GIPSIES 

Wood  and  day  will  wash  away, 

Dance  o'er  my  Lady  Lee, 
WCod  and  clay  will  wash  away, 

II 'ith  a  gay  lady. 

Build  it  up  with  stone  so  strong, 

Dance  o'er  my  Lady  Lee, 
Huzza  !   'twill  last  for  ages  long, 

With  a  gay  lady. 


69  HOLY  THURSDAY 

'Twas  on  a  Holy  Thursday,  their  innocent  faces  clean, 
Came  children  walking  two  and  two,  in  red  and  blue  and 

green, 
Grey-headed  beadles  walked  before,   with  wands  as  white 

as  snow, 
Till  into  the  high  dome  of  Paul's  they  like  Thames'  waters 

flow. 

0  what  a  multitude  they  seemed,  these  flowers  of  London 

town  ! 
Seated  in  companies  they  sit  with  radiance  all  their  own. 
The  hum  of  multitudes  was  there,  but  multitudes  of  lambs, 
Thousands  of  little  boys  and  girls  raising  their  innocent  hands. 

Now,  like  a  mighty  wind  they  raise  to  Heaven  the  voice  of 

song, 
Or  like  harmonious  thunderings  the  seats  of  Heaven  among. 
Beneath  them  sit  the  aged  men,  wise  guardians  of  the  poor  ; 
Then  cherish  pity,  lest  you  drive  an  angel  from  your  door. 

William  Blake 


70  THE  MAYORS 

This  city  and  this  country  has  brought  forth  many  mayors 
To  sit  in  state,  and  give  forth  laws  out  of  their  old  oak  chairs, 
With  face  as  brown  as  any  nut  with  drinking  of  strong  ale — 
Good  English  hospitality,  0  then  it  did  not  fail  ! 

66 


THE  MAYORS 

With  scarlet  gowns  and  broad  gold  lace,  would  make  a  yeoman 

sweat ; 
With  stockings  rolled  above  their  knees  and  shoes  as  black 

as  jet ; 
With  eating  beef  and  drinking  beer,  0  they  were  stout  and 

hale — 
Good  English  hospitality,  0  then  it  did  not  fail ! 

Thus  sitting  at  the  table  wide  the  Mayor  and  Aldermen 
Were  fit  to  give  law  to  the  city  ;   each  ate  as  much  as  ten  : 
The   hungry   poor  entered   the   hall  to  eat  good  beef  and 

ale — 
Good  English  hospitality,  0  then  it  did  not  fail  ! 

William  Blake 


71         THE  FINE  OLD  ENGLISH  GENTLEMAN 

I'll  sing  you  a  good  old  song, 

Made  by  a  good  old  pate, 
Of  a  fine  old  English  gentleman 

Who  had  an  old  estate, 
And  who  kept  up  his  old  mansion 

At  a  bountiful  old  rate  ; 
With  a  good  old  porter  to  relieve 

The  old  poor  at  his  gate, 
Like  a  fine  old  English  gentleman 

All  of  the  olden  time. 

His  hall  so  old  was  hung  around 

With  pikes  and  guns  and  bows, 
And  swords,  and  good  old  bucklers, 

That  had  stood  some  tough  old  blows  ; 
'Twas  there  his  worship  held  his  state 

In  doublet  and  trunk  hose, 
And  quaffed  his  cup  of  good  old  sack, 

To  warm  his  good  old  nose, 
Like  a  fine  old  English  gentleman 

All  of  the  olden  time. 
67 


MASTS:   FAIRS:   BEGGARS:  GIPSIES 

When  winter's  cold  brought  frost  and  snow, 

1  [e  opened  house  to  all ; 
Ami  though  threescore  and  ten  his  years, 

He  featly  led  the  ball ; 
Nor  was  the  houseless  wanderer 

E'er  driven  from  his  hall ; 
1  mt  while  he  feasted  .ill  the  great, 

1  !<•  ne'er  forgot  the  small  ; 
Like  a  fine  old  English  gentleman 

All  of  the  olden  time. 

But  time,  though  old,  is  strong  in  flight, 

And  years  rolled  swiftly  by  ; 
And  Autumn's  falling  leaves  proclaimed 

This  good  old  man  must  die  ! 
He  laid  him  down  right  tranquilly, 

Gave  up  life's  latest  sigh  ; 
And  mournful  stillness  reigned  around, 

And  tears  bedewed  each  eye, 
For  this  fine  old  English  gentleman 

All  of  the  olden  time. 

Now  surely  this  is  better  far 

Than  all  the  new  parade 
Of  theatres  and  fancy  balls, 

"  At  home  "  and  masquerade  : 
And  much  more  economical, 

For  all  his  bills  were  paid. 
Then  leave  your  new  vagaries  quite, 

And  take  up  the  old  trade 
Of  a  fine  old  English  gentleman, 

All  of  the  olden  time. 


68 


BRING  US  IN  GOOD  ALE 


72  BRING  US  IN  GOOD  ALE 

Bring  us  in  good  ale,  and  bring  us  in  good  ale  ; 
For  our  blessed  Lady  sake  bring  us  in  good  ale  ! 

Bring  us  in  no  browne  bred,  for  that  is  made  of  brane,1 
Nor  bring  us  in  no  white  bred,  for  therein  is  no  gane, 
But  bring  us  in  good  ale  ! 

Bring  us  in  no  befe,  for  there  is  many  bones, 
But  bring  us  in  good  ale,  for  that  goth  downe  at  ones, 
And  bring  us  in  good  ale  ! 

Bring  us  in  no  bacon,  for  that  is  passing  fat, 
But  bring  us  in  good  ale,  and  gife  us  enought  of  that  ; 
And  bring  us  in  good  ale  I 

Bring  us  in  no  mutton,  for  that  is  often  lene, 
Nor  bring  us  in  no  tripes,  for  they  be  seldom  clene, 
But  bring  us  in  good  ale  ! 

Bring  us  in  no  egges,  for  there  are  many  schelles, 
But  bring  us  in  good  ale,  and  gife  us  nothing  elles  ; 
And  bring  us  in  good  ale  ! 

Bring  us  in  no  butter,  for  therein  are  many  hores,2 
Nor  bring  us   in   no   pigges  flesch,   for  that  will  make  us 
bores, 

But  bring  us  in  good  ale  ! 

Bring  us  in  no  podinges,  for  therein  is  all  Godes  good,3 
Nor  bring  us  in  no  venesen,  for  that  is  not  for  our  blod  ; 
But  bring  us  in  good  ale  ! 

Bring  us  in  no  capons  flesch,  for  that  is  ofte  dere, 
Nor  bring  us   in  no  dokes i  flesch,   for  they  slober  in   the 
mere, 

But  bring  us  in  good  ale  ! 

1  Bran  2  Hairs  3  Yeast  *  Duck's 

69 


FEASTS:   FAIRS:   BEGGARS:  GIPSIES 

-;  THE  VISION  OF  MAC  CONGLINNE 

A  vision  th.it  appeared  to  me, 
An  apparition  \\  onderful 

I  toll  to  all  : 
There  was  a  cora<  le  .ill  of  lard 
Within  a  Port  of  New-Milk  Lake 

Upon  the  world's  smooth  sea. 

We  went  into  that  man-of-war, 
'Twas  warrior-like  to  take  the  road 

O'er  ocean's  heaving  waves. 
Our  oar-strokes  then  we  pulled 
Across  the  level  of  the  main, 
Throwing  the  sea's  harvest  up 

Like  honey,  the  sea-soil. 

The  fort  we  reached  was  beautiful, 
Writh  works  of  custards  thick, 

Beyond  the  lake. 
Fresh  butter  was  the  bridge  in  front, 
The  rubble  dyke  was  fair  white  wheat, 

Bacon  the  palisade. 

Stately,  pleasantly  it  sat, 
A  compact  house  and  strong. 

Then  I  went  in  : 
The  door  of  it  was  hung  beef, 
The  threshold  was  dry  bread, 

Cheese-curds  the  walls.  .  .  . 

Behind  it  was  a  well  of  wine, 
Beer  and  bragget  in  streams, 

Each  full  pool  to  the  taste. 
Malt  in  smooth  wavy  sea 
Over  a  lard-spring's  brink 

Flowed  through  the  floor.  .  .  . 

A  row  of  fragrant  apple-trees, 
An  orchard  in  its  pink-tipped  bloom, 
Between  it  and  the  hill. 
70 


THE  VISION  OF  MAC  CONGLINNE 

A  forest  tall  of  real  leeks, 
Of  onions  and  of  carrots,  stood 
Behind  the  house. 

Within,  a  household  generous, 
A  welcome  of  red,  firm-fed  men, 

Around  the  fire  : 
Seven  bead-strings  and  necklets  seven 
Of  cheeses  and  of  bits  of  tripe 

Round  each  man's  neck. 

The  Chief  in  cloak  of  beefy  fat 
Beside  his  noble  wife  and  fair 

I  then  beheld. 
Below  the  lofty  cauldron's  spit 
Then  the  Dispenser  I  beheld, 

His  fleshfork  on  his  back. 


74  STOOL-BALL 

.  .  .  Now  milkmaids'  pails  are  deckt  with  flowers, 

And  men  begin  to  drink  in  bowers, 

The  mackarels  come  up  in  shoals, 

To  fill  the  mouths  of  hungry  souls  ; 

Sweet  sillabubs,  and  lip-loved  tansey, 

For  William  is  prepared  by  Nancy. 

Much  time  is  wasted  now  away, 

At  pigeon-holes,  and  nine-pin  play, 

Whilst  hob-nail  Dick,  and  simp'ring  Frances, 

Trip  it  away  in  country  dances  ; 

At  stool-ball  and  at  barley-break, 

Wherewith  they  harmless  pastime  make.  .  .  . 

75  MILKING  PAILS 

Mary's  gone  a-milking, 

A  rea,  a  ria,  a  roses, 
Mary's  gone  a-milking, 

Gentle  sweet  mother  o'  mine. 
71 


FEASTS:   FAIRS:    BEGGARS:   GIPSIES 

rake  your  pails  and  go  after  her, 

.  I  >(•<*,  (i  ria,  (i  roses, 
Take  your  pails  and  go  after  her, 

Gentle  sweet  daughter  </  mine. 

Buy  me  a  pair  of  new  milking  nails, 

A  tea,  a  ria,  <i  roses, 
Buy  me  a  pair  oi  new  milking  pails, 

Gentle  sweet  mother  o'  mine. 

Where's  the  money  to  come  from, 

A  rea,  a  ria,  a  roses, 
Where's  the  money  to  come  from, 

Gentle  sweet  daughter  0'  mine  ? 

Sell  my  father's  feather  bed, 

A  rea,  a  ria,  a  roses, 
Sell  my  father's  feather  bed, 

Gentle  sweet  mother  0'  mine. 

What's  your  father  to  sleep  on, 

A  rea,  a  ria,  a  roses, 
What's  your  father  to  sleep  on, 

Gentle  sweet  daughter  0'  mine  ? 

Put  him  in  the  truckle  bed, 

A  rea,  a  ria,  a  roses, 
Put  him  in  the  truckle  bed, 

Gentle  sweet  mother  0'  mine. 

What  are  the  children  to  sleep  on, 

A  rea,  a  ria,  a  roses, 
What  are  the  children  to  sleep  on, 

Gentle  sweet  daughter  0'  mine  ? 

Put  them  in  the  pig-sty, 

A  rea,  a  ria,  a  roses, 
Put  them  in  the  pig-sty, 

Gentle  sweet  mother  0'  mine. 

What  are  the  pigs  to  lie  in, 
A  rea,  a  ria,  a  roses, 
72 


MILKING  PAILS 

What  are  the  pigs  to  lie  in, 
Gentle  sweet  daughter  o1  mine  ? 

Put  them  in  the  washing-tubs, 

A  rea,  a  ria,  a  roses, 
Put  them  in  the  washing-tubs, 

Gentle  sweet  mother  0'  mine. 

What  am  I  to  wash  in, 

A  rea,  a  ria,  a  roses, 
What  am  I  to  wash  in, 

Gentle  sweet  daughter  o'  mine  ? 

Wash  in  the  thimble, 

A  rea,  a  ria,  a  roses, 
Wash  in  the  thimble, 

Gentle  sweet  mother  0'  mine. 

Thimble  won't  hold  your  father's  shirt, 

A  rea,  a  ria,  a  roses, 
Thimble  won't  hold  your  father's  shirt, 

Gentle  sweet  daughter  0'  mine. 

Wash  in  the  river, 

A  rea,  a  ria,  a  roses, 
Wash  in  the  river, 

Gentle  sweet  mother  0'  mine. 

Suppose  the  clothes  should  blow  away, 

A  rea,  a  ria,  a  roses, 
Suppose  the  clothes  should  blow  away, 

Gentle  sweet  daughter  0'  mine  ? 

Set  a  man  to  watch  them, 

A  rea,  a  ria,  a  roses, 
Set  a  man  to  watch  them, 

Gentle  sweet  mother  0'  mine. 

Suppose  the  man  should  go  to  sleep, 

A  rea,  a  ria,  a  roses, 
Suppose  the  man  should  go  to  sleep, 

Gentle  sweet  daughter  0'  mine  ? 
73 


FEASTS:   FAIRS:    BEGGARS:   GIPSIES 

Take  a  boat  and  go  after  thi  m, 

.1  rea,  >i  ria,  a  ><>ses, 
Take  a  boat  and  go  alter  them, 

Gentle  sweet  mother  o'  mine. 

Suppose  the  boat  should  be  upset, 

A  ><•<»,  (i  ria,  a  roses, 
Suppose  the  boat  should  be  upset, 

Gentle  sweet  daughter  o'  mine  ? 

Then  that  would  be  an  end  of  you, 

A  rea,  a  ria,  a  roses, 
Then  that  would  be  an  end  of  you, 

Gentle  sweet  mother  o'  mine  I 


76  THE  PEDLAR'S  SONG 

Lawne  as  white  as  driven  Snow, 

Cypresse  blacke  as  ere  was  Crow, 

Cloves  as  sweete  as  Damaske  Roses, 

Maskes  for  faces,  and  for  noses, 

Bugle-bracelet,  Necke-lace  Amber, 

Perfume  for  a  Ladies  Chamber  : 

Golden  Quoifes,  and  Stomachers 

For  my  Lads,  to  give  their  deers  : 

Pins,  and  peaking-stickes  of  Steele  : 

What  Maids  lacke  from  head  to  heele  : 

Come  buy  of  me,  come  :   come  buy,  come  buy, 
Buy  Lads,  or  else  your  Lasses  cry  :   Come  buy. 

William  Shakespeare 

77  FINE  KNACKS  FOR  LADIES 

Fine  knacks  for  ladies  !   cheap,  choice,  brave,  and  new, 

Good  pennyworths — but  money  cannot  move  : 
I  keep  a  fair  but  for  the  Fair  to  view — 

A  beggar  may  be  liberal  of  love. 
Though  all  my  wares  be  trash,  the  heart  is  true, 

The  heart  is  true. 
74 


FINE  KNACKS  FOR  LADIES 

Great  gifts  are  guiles  and  look  for  gifts  again  ; 

My  trifles  come  as  treasures  from  my  mind  : 
It  is  a  priceless  jewel  to  be  plain  ; 

Sometimes  in  shell  the  orient'st  pearls  we  find  : — 
Of  others  take  a  sheaf,  of  me  a  grain  ! 

Of  me  a  grain  !  .  .  . 

78  OH  !   DEAR  ! 

Oh  !  dear  !  what  can  the  matter  be  ? 
Dear  !  dear  !  what  can  the  matter  be  ? 
Oh  !  dear  !  what  can  the  matter  be  ? 
Johnny's  so  long  at  the  fair. 

He  promised  he'd  buy  me  a  fairing  should  please  me, 
And  then  for  a  kiss,  oh  !   he  vowed  he  would  tease  me, 
He  promised  he'd  bring  me  a  bunch  of  blue  ribbons 
To  tie  up  my  bonny  brown  hair. 

And  it's  oh  !   dear  !  what  can  the  matter  be  ? 
Dear  !   dear  !  what  can  the  matter  be  ? 
Oh  !   dear  !  what  can  the  matter  be  ? 
Johnny's  so  long  at  the  fair. 

He  promised  he'd  bring  me  a  basket  of  posies, 
*  A  garland  of  lilies,  a  garland  of  roses, 
A  little  straw  hat,  to  set  off  the  blue  ribbons 
That  tie  up  my  bonny  brown  hair. 

And  it's  oh  !   dear  !  what  can  the  matter  be  ? 
Dear  !   dear  !  what  can  the  matter  be  ? 
Oh  !   dear  !   what  can  the  matter  be  ? 
Johnny's  so  long  at  the  fair. 

79  SLEDBURN  FAIR 

I'd  oft  heard  tell  of  this  Sledburn  fair, 

And  fain  I  would  gan  thither, 
'Twere  in  the  prime  of  summer-time, 

In  fine  and  pleasant  weather  ; 
75 


FEASTS:   FAIRS:   BEGGARS:  GIPSIES 

My  I  >ad  and  Mam  they  did  agr<  e 

Thai  Nell  .mil  I  should  g< it- 
See  for  to  view  tins  Sledburn  i.iir, 

And  ride  oil  I  'ohlun,  oh  .  .  . 

So  Nell  gat  on  .ind  I  gal  on, 

And  we  both  rode  "it  together, 
And  of  everybody  we  did  meet 

Enquired  how  far  'twas  thither? 
Until  we  came  to  t'other  field  end, 

'Twas  about  steeple  high, 
"  See  yonder,  Nell,  see  yonder,  Nell, 

There's  Sledburn  town,"  cried  f. 

And  when  we  reached  this  famous  town 

We  enquired  for  an  alehouse, 
We  looked  up  and  saw  a  sign 

As  high  as  any  gallows  ; 
We  called  for  Harry,  the  ostler, 

To  give  our  horse  some  hay, 
For  we  had  come  to  Sledburn  Fair 

And  meant  to  stop  all  day. 

The  landlord  then  himself  came  out 

And  led  us  up  an  entry  ; 
He  took  us  in  the  finest  room 

As  if  we'd  been  quite  gentry. 
And  puddings  and  sauce  they  did  so  smell, 

Pies  and  roast  beef  so  rare, 
"  Oh,  Zooks  !  "  says  Nell,  "  we've  acted  well 

In  coming  to  Sledburn  Fair." 


80  WIDDECOMBE  FAIR 

"  Tom  Pearse,  Tom  Pearse,  lend  me  your  gray  mare," 

All  along,  down  along,  out  along,  lee. 
"  For  I  want  for  to  go  to  Widdecombe  Fair, 

Wi'  Bill  Brewer,  Jan  Stewer,  Peter  Gurney,  Peter  Davy, 
Dan'l  Whiddon,  Harry  Hawk, 

76 


WIDDECOMBE  FAIR 

Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobley  and  all." 

Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobley  and  all. 

"  And  when  shall  I  see  again  my  gray  mare  ?" 

All  along,  down  along,  out  along,  lee. 
"  By  Friday  soon,  or  Saturday  noon, 

Wi'  Bill  Brewer,  Jan  Stewer,  Peter  Gurney,  Peter  Davy, 

Dan'l  Whiddon,  Harry  Hawk, 
Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobley  and  all." 

Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobley  and  all. 

Then  Friday  came  and  Saturday  noon, 
All  along,  down  along,  out  along,  lee. 
But  Tom  Pearse's  old  mare  hath  not  trotted  home, 

Wi'  Bill  Brewer,  Jan  Stewer,  Peter  Gurney,  Peter  Davy, 

Dan'l  Whiddon,  Harry  Hawk, 
Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobley  and  all. 

Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobley  and  all. 

So  Tom  Pearse  he  got  up  to  the  top  o'  the  hill, 

All  along,  down  along,  out  along,  lee. 
And  he  seed  his  old  mare  down  a-making  her  will, 

Wi'  Bill  Brewer,  Jan  Stewer,  Peter  Gurney,  Peter  Davy, 

Dan'l  Whiddon,  Harry  Hawk, 
Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobley  and  all. 

Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobley  and  all. 

So  Tom  Pearse's  old  mare  her  took  sick  and  her  died, 

All  along,  down  along,  out  along,  lee. 
And  Tom  he  sat  down  on  a  stone,  and  he  cried 

Wi'  Bill  Brewer,  Jan  Stewer,  Peter  Gurney,  Peter  Davy, 

Dan'l  Whiddon,  Harry  Hawk, 
Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobley  and  all. 

Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobley  and  all. 

But  this  isn't  the  end  o'  this  shocking  affair, 

All  along,  down  along,  out  along,  lee. 
Nor,  though  they  be  dead,  of  the  horrid  career 

Of  Bill  Brewer,  Jan  Stewer,  Peter  Gurney,  Peter  Davy, 
Dan'l  Whiddon,  Harry  Hawk, 

77 


FEASTS:   FAIRS:   BEGGARS:  GIPSIES 

I  >ld  Uncle  Tom  Cobley  and  all. 

(V</  UncU  Tom  Cobley  and  all. 

When  the  wind  whistles  cold  on  the  moor  of  a  night, 

All  along,  down  along,  out  along,  lee. 
Tom  Pearse's  old  marc  doth  appear,  gashly  white, 

Wi1  Bill  Brewer,  Jan  Stewer,  Peter  Gurney,  Peter  Davy, 

Dan'l  Whiildon,  Ilarrv  Hawk, 
Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobley  and  all. 

Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobley  and  all. 

And  all  the  long  night  be  heard  skirling  and  groans, 

All  along,  down  along,  out  along,  lee. 
From  Tom  Pearse's  old  mare  in  her  rattling  bones, 

And  from  Bill  Brewer,  Jan  Stewer,  Peter  Gurney,  Peter 

Davy,  Dan'l  Whiddon,  Harry  Hawk, 
Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobley  and  all. 

Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobley  and  all. 


81  GIPSIES 

The  snow  falls  deep  ;   the  forest  lies  alone  ; 
The  boy  goes  hasty  for  his  load  of  brakes,1 
Then  thinks  upon  the  fire  and  hurries  back  ; 
The  gipsy  knocks  his  hands  and  tucks  them  up, 
And  seeks  his  squalid  camp,  half  hid  in  snow, 
Beneath  the  oak  which  breaks  away  the  wind, 
And  bushes  close  in  snow-like  hovel  warm  ; 
There  tainted  mutton  wastes  upon  the  coals, 
And  the  half-wasted  dog  squats  close  and  rubs, 
Then  feels  the  heat  too  strong,  and  goes  aloof ; 
He  watches  well,  but  none  a  bit  can  spare, 
And  vainly  waits  the  morsel  thrown  away. 
Tis  thus  they  live — a  picture  to  the  place, 
A  quiet,  pilfering,  unprotected  race. 

John  Clare 

1  Bracken 

78 


THE  IDLERS 

82  THE  IDLERS 

The  gipsies  lit  their  fires  by  the  chalk-pit  gate  anew, 
And  the  hoppled  horses  supped  in  the  further  dusk  and  dew; 
The  gnats  nocked  round  the  smoke  like  idlers  as  they  were 
And  through  the  goss  and  bushes  the  owls  began  to  churr. 

An  ell  above  the  woods  the  last  of  sunset  glowed 

With  a  dusky  gold  that  filled  the  pond  beside  the  road  ; 

The  cricketers  had  done,  the  leas  all  silent  lay, 

And  the  carrier's  clattering  wheels  went  past  and  died  away. 

The  gipsies  lolled  and  gossiped,  and  ate  their  stolen  swedes, 
Made  merry  with  mouth-organs,  worked  toys  with  piths  of 

reeds  : 
The  old  wives  puffed  their  pipes,  nigh  as  black  as  their  hair, 
And  not  one  of  them  all  seemed  to  know  the  name  of  care. 

Edmund  Blunden 


83  THE  WRAGGLE  TAGGLE  GIPSIES 

There  were  three  gipsies  a-come  to  my  door, 

And  down-stairs  ran  this  a-lady,  O  ! 

One  sang  high,  and  another  sang  low, 

And  the  other  sang,  Bonny,  bonny  Biscay,  0  ! 

Then  she  pulled  off  her  silk-finished  gown 
And  put  on  hose  of  leather,  0  ! 
The  ragged,  ragged  rags  about  our  door — 
She's  gone  with  the  wraggle  taggle  gipsies,  0  ! 

It  was  late  last  night,  when  my  lord  came  home, 

Enquiring  for  his  a-lady,  0  ! 

The  servants  said,  on  every  hand  : 

"  She's  gone  with  the  wraggle  taggle  gipsies,  0  !  " 

"  0  saddle  to  me  my  milk-white  steed. 
Go  and  fetch  me  my  pony,  0  ! 
That  I  may  ride  and  seek  my  bride, 
Who  is  gone  with  the  wraggle  taggle  gipsies,  0  !  " 

79 


FEASTS:    PAIRS:   BEGGARS:   GIPSIES 

O  he  rode  high  and  he  rode  low, 
He  rode  through  woods  and  copses  too, 
Until  he  came  to  an  open  field, 
And  there  he  espied  his  a-lady,  0  ! 

"  What  makes  you  leave  your  house  and  land  ? 
What  m. ikes  you  leave  your  money,  0  ? 

What  makes  you  leave  your  new-wedded  lord  ; 
To  go  with  the  wraggle  tagglc  gipsies,  O  ?  " 

"  What  care  I  for  my  house  and  my  land  ? 
What  care  I  for  my  money,  0  ? 
What  care  I  for  my  new  -wedded  lord  ? 
I'm  off  with  the  wraggle  tagglc  gipsies,  0  !  " 

"  Last  night  you  slept  on  a  goose-feather  bed, 
With  the  sheet  turned  down  so  bravely,  0  ! 
And  to-night  you'll  sleep  in  a  cold  open  field, 
Along  with  the  wraggle  taggle  gipsies,  0  !  " 

"  What  care  I  for  a  goose-feather  bed, 
With  the  sheet  turned  down  so  bravely,  O  ? 
For  to-night  I  shall  sleep  in  a  cold  open  field, 
Along  with  the  wraggle  taggle  gipsies,  O  !  " 


84  WHERE  DO  THE  GIPSIES  COME  FROM  ? 

Where  do  the  gipsies  come  from  ? 
The  gipsies  come  from  Egypt. 
The  fiery  sun  begot  them, 

Their  dam  was  the  desert  dry. 
She  lay  there  stripped  and  basking, 
And  gave  them  suck  for  the  asking, 
And  an  Emperor's  bone  to  play  with, 

W'henever  she  heard  them  cry. 

What  did  the  gipsies  do  there  ? 
They  built  a  tomb  for  Pharaoh, 
They  built  a  tomb  for  Pharaoh, 
So  tall  it  touched  the  sky. 
80 


WHERE  DO  THE  GIPSIES  COME  FROM  ? 

They  buried  him  deep  inside  it, 
Then  let  what  would  betide  it, 
They  saddled  their  lean-ribbed  ponies 
And  left  him  there  to  die. 

What  do  the  gipsies  do  now  ? 
They  follow  the  Sun,  their  father, 
They  follow  the  Sun,  their  father, 

They  know  not  whither  nor  why. 
Whatever  they  find  they  take  it, 
And  if  it's  a  law  they  break  it. 
So  never  you  talk  to  a  gipsy, 

Or  look  in  a  gipsy's  eye. 

H.  H.  Bashford 

85  BEGGARS 

What  noise  of  viols  is  so  sweet 

As  v/hen  our  merry  clappers  ring  ? 
What  mirth  doth  want  when  beggars  meet  ? 

A  beggar's  life  is  for  a  king. 
Eat,  drink,  and  play,  sleep  when  we  list, 
Go  where  we  will — so  stocks  be  missed. 

Bright  shines  the  sun  ;   play,  beggars,  play  ! 

Here's  scraps  enough  to  serve  to-day. 

The  world  is  ours,  and  ours  alone  ; 

For  we  alone  have  world  at  will. 
We  purchase  not — all  is  our  own  ; 

Both  fields  and  street  we  beggars  fill. 

Bright  shines  the  sun  ;   play,  beggars,  play  ! 

Here's  scraps  enough  to  serve  to-day. 

Frank  Davidson 


86  "WEEP,  WEEP,  YE  WOODMEN!" 

Weep,  weep,  ye  woodmen  !  wail ; 

Your  hands  with  sorrow  wring  ! 
Your  master  Robin  Hood  lies  dead, 

Therefore  sigh  as  you  sing. 
81 


FEASTS:    PAIRS:    BEGGARS     GIPSIES 

1  [ere  lie  his  primer  and  his  beads, 
His  bent  bow  and  bis  arrows  keen, 

His  good  sword  and  his  holy  cross  : 
Now  cast  on  flowers  fresh  and  green. 

And,  as  they  fall,  shed  tens  ,md  say 
Well,  well-a-day  !  well,  well-a-day  ! 

Thus  cast  ye  flowers  fresh,  and  sing, 
And  on  to  Wakefield  take  your  way. 

Anthony  Munday 


MY  HANDSOME  GILDEROY 

Gilderoy  was  a  bonnie  boy, 

Had  roses  tull '  his  shoone, 
His  stockings  were  of  silken  soy, 

Wi'  garters  hanging  doune  : 
It  was,  I  weene,  a  comelie  sight, 

To  see  sae  trim  a  boy  ; 
He  was  my  joy  and  heart's  delight,. 

My  handsome  Gilderoy. 

Oh  !   sike  twe  2  charming  een  he  had, 

A  breath  as  sweet  as  rose  ; 
He  never  ware  a  Highland  plaid, 

But  costly  silken  clothes. 
He  gained  the  luve  of  ladies  gay, 

Nane  eir  tull  him  was  coy, 
Ah  !   wae  is  mee  !    I  mourn  the  day, 

For  my  dear  Gilderoy. 

My  Gilderoy  and  I  were  born 
Baith  in  one  toun  together  ; 

We  scant 3  were  seven  years  beforn 
We  gan  to  luve  each  other  ; 

1  To  2  Such  two  3  Scarce 

82 


MY  HANDSOME  GILDEROY 

Our  daddies  and  our  mammies  thay 

Were  fill'd  wi'  mickle  joy, 
To  think  upon  the  bridal  day 

'Twixt  me  and  Gilderoy. 

For  Gilderoy,  that  luve  of  mine, 

Gude  faith  !  I  freely  bought 
A  wedding  sark  of  Holland  fine 

Wi'  silken  flowers  wrought : 
And  he  gied  me  a  wedding  ring, 

Which  I  received  with  joy, 
Nae  lad  nor  lassie  eir  could  sing 

Like  me  and  Gilderoy. 

Wi'  mickle  joy  we  spent  our  prime, 

Till  we  were  baith  sixteen, 
And  aft  we  past  the  langsome  time 

Among  the  leaves  sae  green  : 
Aft  on  the  banks  we'd  sit  us  thair, 

And  sweetly  kiss  and  toy  ; 
Wi'  garlands  gay  wad  deck  my  hair 

My  handsome  Gilderoy. 

Oh  !   that  he  still  had  been  content 

Wi'  me  to  lead  his  life  ; 
But,  ah  !   his  manfu'  heart  was  bent 

To  stir  in  feats  of  strife. 
And  he  in  many  a  venturous  deed 

His  courage  bauld  wad  try  ; 
And  now  this  gars  x  mine  heart  to  bleed 

For  my  dear  Gilderoy. 

And  when  of  me  his  leave  he  tuik, 

The  tears  they  wet  mine  ee  ; 
I  gave  tull  him  a  parting  luik, 

"  My  benison  gang  wi'  thee  ! 
God  speed  thee  weil,  mine  ain  dear  heart, 

For  gane  is  all  my  joy  ; 


1  Makes 


83 


FEASTS:   FAIRS:   BEGGARS:   GIPSIES 

My  lu-.irt  is  rent,  sitli  we  maun  part, 
My  handsome  Gilderoy  !  " 

My  Gilderoy,  baith  far  and  near, 

\\  as  feared  in  cv'ry  toun, 
And  bauldly  bare  away  the  gear 

Of  many  a  lawland  loun  : 
Nane  cir  durst  meet  him  man  to  man, 

He  was  sae  brave  a  boy  ; 
At  length  wi'  numbers  he  was  tane, 

My  winsome  Gilderoy. 

Wae  worth  the  loun  that  made  the  laws, 

To  hang  a  man  for  gear, 
To  'reave  of  life  for  ox  or  ass, 

For  sheep,  or  horse,  or  mare  : 
Had  not  their  laws  been  made  sae  strick, 

I  neir  had  lost  my  joy  ; 
Wi'  sorrow  neir  had  wat  my  cheek 

For  my  dear  Gilderoy. 

Giff 1  Gilderoy  had  done  amisse, 

He  mought  hae  banisht  been, 
Ah,  what  fair  cruelty  is  this, 

To  hang  sike  handsome  men  ! 
To  hang  the  flower  o'  Scottish  land, 

Sae  sweet  and  fair  a  boy  ; 
Nae  lady  had  so  white  a  hand 

As  thee,  my  Gilderoy. 

Of  Gilderoy  sae  fraid  they  were, 

They  bound  him  mickle  strong, 
Tull  Edenburrow  they  led  him  thair, 

And  on  a  gallows  hung  : 
They  hung  him  high  aboon  the  rest, 

He  was  so  trim  a  boy  : 
Thair  dyed  the  youth  whom  I  lued  best, 

My  handsome  Gilderoy. 


*  If 


84 


MY  HANDSOME  GILDEROY 

Thus  having  yielded  up  his  breath, 

I  bare  his  corpse  away  ; 
Wi'  tears,  that  trickled  for  his  death, 

I  washt  his  comely  clay  ; 
And  siker  x  in  a  grave  sae  deep 

I  laid  the  dear-lued  boy, 
And  now  for  evir  maun  I  weep 

My  winsome  Gilderoy. 


Safely 

85 


BEASTS  OF  THE  FIELD 
FOWLS  OF  THE  AIR.  ® 


88  BINGO 

The  miller's  mill-dog  lay  at  the  mill-door, 

And  his  name  was  Little  Bingo. 

B  with  an  I,  I  with  an  N,  N  with  a  G,  G  with  an  0, 

And  his  name  was  Little  Bingo. 

The  miller  he  bought  a  cask  of  ale, 

And  he  called  it  right  good  Stingo. 

S  with  a  T,  T  with  an  I,  I  with  an  N,  N  with  a  G,  G  with  an  0, 

And  he  called  it  right  good  Stingo. 

The  miller  he  went  to  town  one  day, 

And  he  bought  a  wedding  Ring-o  ! 

R  with  an  I,  I  with  an  N,  N  with  a  G,  G  with  an  0, 

And  he  bought  a  wedding  Ring-o  ! 


89  THE  IRISH  HARPER  AND  HIS  DOG 

On  the  green  banks  of  Shannon,  when  Sheelah  was  nigh, 

No  blithe  Irish  lad  was  so  happy  as  I  ; 

No  harp  like  my  own  could  so  cheerily  play, 

And  wherever  I  went  was  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

When  at  last  I  was  forced  from  my  Sheelah  to  part, 
She  said — while  the  sorrow  was  big  at  her  heart — 
"  Oh  !   remember  your  Sheelah,  when  far,  far  away, 
And  be  kind,  my  dear  Pat,  to  our  poor  dog  Tray." 

Poor  dog  !   he  was  faithful  and  kind,  to  be  sure, 
And  he  constantly  loved  me,  although  I  was  poor  ; 

89 


BEASTS  OF  THE  FIELD:    FOWLS  OF  THE  All? 

When  the  sour-looking  folks  Sent  me  heartless  away, 
I  had  always  a  friend  in  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

When  the  road  was  so  dark",  and  the  night  was  SO  cold, 
And  Pal  and  his  dog  were  grown  weary  and  old, 

How  snugly  we  slept  in  my  old  coat  of  grey, 

I  he  licked  me  for  kindness     my  poor  dog  Tray. 

Though  my  wallet  was  scant,  1  remembered  his  case, 
Nor  refused  my  last  crust  to  his  pitiful  face  ; 
But  he  died  at  my  feet  on  a  cold  winter  day, 
And  I  played  a  lament  for  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

Where  now  shall  I  go,  poor,  forsaken,  and  blind  ? 
Can  I  find  one  to  guide  me,  so  faithful  and  kind  ? 
To  my  sweet  native  village,  so  far,  far  away, 
I  can  never  return  with  my  poor  dog  Tray. 

Thomas  Campbell 


90  POOR  OLD  HORSE 

My  clothing  was  once  of  the  linsey  woolsey  fine, 
My  tail  it  grew  at  length,  my  coat  did  likewise  shine  ; 
But  now  I'm  growing  old  ;   my  beauty  does  decay, 
My  master  frowns  upon  me  ;    one  day  I  heard  him  say, 

Poor  old  horse  :  poor  old  horse. 

Once  I  was  kept  in  the  stable  snug  and  warm, 
To  keep  my  tender  limbs  from  any  cold  or  harm  ; 
But  now,  in  open  fields,  I  am  forced  for  to  go, 
In  all  sorts  of  weather,  let  it  be  hail,  rain,  freeze,  or  snow. 

Poor  old  horse  :  poor  old  horse. 

Once  I  was  fed  on  the  very  best  corn  and  hay 
That  ever  grew  in  yon  fields,  or  in  yon  meadows  gay  ; 
But  now  there's  no  such  doing  can  I  find  at  all, 
I'm  glad  to  pick  the  green  sprouts  that  grow  behind  yon  wall. 

Poor  old  horse  :  poor  old  horse. 
90 


POOR  OLD  HORSE 

"  You  are  old,  you  are  cold,  you  are  deaf,  dull,  dumb  and 

slow, 
You  are  not  fit  for  anything,  or  in  my  team  to  draw. 
You  have  eaten  all  my  hay,  you  have  spoiled  all  my  straw, 
So  hang  him,  whip,  stick  him,  to  the  huntsman  let  him  go." 

Poor  old  horse  :  poor  old  horse. 

My  hide  unto  the  tanners  then  I  would  freely  give, 

My  body  to  the  hound  dogs,  I  would  rather  die  than  live, 

Likewise  my  poor  old  bones  that  have  carried  you  many 

a  mile, 
Over  hedges,    ditches,   brooks,   bridges,   likewise   gates   and 

stiles. 

Poor  old  horse  :  poor  old  horse. 

91  AY  ME,  ALAS,  HEIGH  HO  ! 

Ay  me,  alas,  heigh  ho,  heigh  ho  ! 

Thus  doth  Messalina  go 

Up  and  down  the  house  a-crying, 

For  her  monkey  lies  a-dying. 

Death,  thou  art  too  cruel 

To  bereave  her  of  her  jewel, 

Or  to  make  a  seizure 

Of  her  only  treasure. 

If  her  monkey  die, 

She  will  sit  and  cry, 

Fie  fie  fie  fie  fie  ! 

92  THE  FLY 

Once  musing  as  I  sat, 
And  candle  burning  by, 
When  all  were  hushed,  I  might  discern 
A  simple,  sely  fly  ; 
That  flew  before  mine  eyes, 
With  free  rejoicing  heart, 
And  here  and  there  with  wings  did  play, 
As  void  of  pain  and  smart. 

91 


BEASTS  OF  THE  FIELD:    FOWLS  OF  THE  AIR 

Sometime  by  me  she  s.it 
When  she  had  played  her  fill ; 

And  ever  when  she  rested  had 
About  she  fluttered  still. 
When  I  perceived  her  well 
Rejoicing  in  her  place, 

"  ( >  happy  fly  !  "  (quoth  I),  and  eke 

I )  worm  in  happy  case  ! 

Which  of  us  two  is  best  ? 

I  that  have  reason  ?     No  : 

But  thou  that  reason  art  without, 

And  therefore  void  of  woe. 

I  live,  and  so  dost  thou  : 

But  I  live  all  in  pain, 

And  subject  am  to  one,  alas  ! 

That  makes  my  grief  her  gain. 

Thou  livest,  but  feeFst  no  grief ; 

No  love  doth  thee  torment. 

A  happy  thing  for  me  it  were 

(If  God  were  so  content) 

That  thou  with  pen  were  placed  here, 

And  I  sat  in  thy  place  : 

Then  I  should  joy  as  thou  dost  now, 

And  thou  should'st  wail  thy  case. 

Barnabe  Googe 


93  BETE  HUMAINE 

Riding  through  Ruwu  swamp,  about  sunrise, 
I  saw  the  world  awake  ;   and  as  the  ray 
Touched  the  tall  grasses  where  they  sleeping  lay, 
Lo,  the  bright  air  alive  with  dragonflies  : 
With  brittle  wings  aquiver,  and  great  eyes 
Piloting  crimson  bodies,  slender  and  gay. 
I  aimed  at  one,  and  struck  it,  and  it  lay 
Broken  and  lifeless,  with  fast-fading  dyes  .  .  . 

92 


BETE  HUMAINE 

Then  my  soul  sickened  with  a  sudden  pain 
And  horror,  at  my  own  careless  cruelty, 
That  in  an  idle  moment  I  had  slain 
A  creature  whose  sweet  life  it  is  to  fly  : 
Like  beasts  that  prey  with  tooth  and  claw  .  .  . 

Nay,  they 
Must  slay  to  live,  but  what  excuse  had  I  ? 

Francis  Brett  Young 


94  THE  LAMB 

Little  Lamb,  who  made  thee  ? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee  ? 
Gave  thee  life,  and  bid  thee  feed, 
By  the  stream,  and  o'er  the  mead  ; 
Gave  thee  clothing  of  delight, 
Softest  clothing,  woolly,  bright ; 
Gave  thee  such  a  tender  voice, 
Making  all  the  vales  rejoice  ? 

Little  Lamb,  who  made  thee  ? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee  ? 

Little  Lamb,  I'll  tell  thee, 

Little  Lamb,  I'll  tell  thee  : 
He  is  called  by  thy  name, 
For  He  calls  Himself  a  Lamb. 
He  is  meek,  and  He  is  mild  ; 
He  became  a  little  child. 
I  a  child,  and  thou  a  lamb, 
We  are  called  by  His  name. 

Little  Lamb,  God  bless  thee  ! 

Little  Lamb,  God  bless  thee  ! 

William  Blake 


93 


BEASTS  OF  THE  FIELD:   FOWLS  OF  THE  AIR 

95  THE  SALE  OE  THE  PET  LAMB 

Oh  !    poverty  is  a  weary  thing,  'tis  full  of  grief  and  pain  ; 
It  boweth  down  the  heart  of  man,   and  dulls  his  cunning 

brain  ; 
It  niaketh  even  the  little  child  with  heavy  sighs  complain.  .  .  . 

A  thousand  flocks  were  on  the  hills,  a  thousand  flocks  and 

more, 
Feeding  in  sunshine  pleasantly  ;    they  were  the  rich  man's 

store  : 
There  was  the  while  one  little  lamb  beside  a  cottage  door  ; 

A  little  lamb  that  rested  with  the  children  'neath  the  tree, 
That  ate,  meek  creature,  from  their  hands,  and  nestled  to 

their  knee  ; 
That  had  a  place  within  their  hearts,  one  of  the  family. 

But  want,  even  as  an  armed  man,  came  down  upon  their  shed, 
The  father  laboured  all  day  long  that  his  children  might 

be  fed, 
And,  one  by  one,  their  household  things  were  sold  to  buy 

them  bread. 

That  father,  with  a  downcast  eye,  upon  his  threshold  stood, 
Gaunt   poverty    each    pleasant    thought   had    in    his   heart 

subdued. 
"  What  is  the  creature's  life  to  us?  "  said  he  :    "  'twill  buy 

us  food. 

"  Ay,  though  the  children  weep  all  day,  and  with  down- 
drooping  head 

Each  does  his  small  task  mournfully,  the  hungry  must  be  fed  ; 

And  that  which  has  a  price  to  bring  must  go  to  buy  us 
bread." 

It  went.     Oh  !  parting  has  a  pang  the  hardest  heart  to  wring, 
But  the  tender  soul  of  a  little  child  with  fervent  love  doth 

cling, 
With  love  that  hath  no  feignings  false,  unto  each  gentle  thing. 

94 


THE  SALE  OF  THE  PET  LAMB 

Therefore  most  sorrowful  it  was  those  children  small  to  see, 
Most  sorrowful  to  hear  them  plead  for  the  lamb  so  piteously  : 
"  Oh  !    mother  dear,  it  loveth  us  ;    and  what  beside  have 
we?" 

"  Let's  take  him  to  the  broad  green  hill !  "  in  his  impotent 

despair 
Said  one  strong  boy  :    "  let's  take  him  off,  the  hills  are  wide 

and  fair  ; 
I  know  a  little  hiding-place,  and  we  will  keep  him  there." 

Oh   vain  !      They    took    the    little    lamb,    and    straightway 

tied  him  down, 
With  a  strong  cord  they  tied  him  fast ;   and  o'er  the  common 

brown, 
And  o'er  the  hot  and  flinty  roads,  they  took  him   to  the 

town. 

The  little  children  through  that  day,  and  throughout  all  the 

morrow, 
From  every  thing  about  the  house  a  mournful  thought  did 

borrow  ; 
The  very  bread  they  had  to  eat  was  food  unto  their  sorrow. 

Oh  !  poverty  is  a  weary  thing,  'tis  full  of  grief  and  pain  ; 
It  keepeth  down  the  soul  of  man,  as  with  an  iron  chain  ; 
It  maketh  even  the  little  child  with  heavy  sighs  complain. 

Mary  Howitt 


96  A  CHILD'S  PET 

When  I  sailed  out  of  Baltimore 

With  twice  a  thousand  head  of  sheep, 

They  would  not  eat,  they  would  not  drink, 
But  bleated  o'er  the  deep. 

Inside  the  pens  we  crawled  each  day, 
To  sort  the  living  from  the  dead  ; 

And  when  we  reached  the  Mersey's  mouth, 
Had  lost  five  hundred  head. 
95 


BEASTS  OF  THE  FIELD:   FOWLS  OF  THE  AIR 

Yrt  every  night  and  day  one  sheep, 

'l'h. it  had  no  fear  of  man  or  sea, 
Stuck  through  the  bars  its  pleading  face, 

And  it  was  stroked  by  me. 

And  to  the  sheep-men  standing  near, 

"  You  sec,"  1  said,  "  this  one  tame  sheep  : 

It  seems  a  child  has  lost  her  pet, 
And  cried  herself  to  sleep." 

So  every  time  \vc  passed  it  by, 

Sailing  to  England's  slaughter-house, 

Eight  ragged  sheep-men — tramps  and  thieves — 
Would  stroke  that  sheep's  black  nose. 

William  H.  Davies 


97  THE  SNARE 

I  hear  a  sudden  cry  of  pain  ! 

There  is  a  rabbit  in  a  snare  : 
Now  I  hear  the  cry  again, 

But  I  cannot  tell  from  where. 

But  I  cannot  tell  from  where 

He  is  calling  out  for  aid  ; 
Crying  on  the  frightened  air, 

Making  everything  afraid. 

Making  everything  afraid, 

Wrinkling  up  his  little  face, 
As  he  cries  again  for  aid  ; 

And  I  cannot  find  the  place  ! 

And  I  cannot  find  the  place 
Where  his  paw  is  in  the  snare  : 

Little  one  !     Oh,  little  one  ! 
I  am  searching  everywhere. 

James  Stephens 

96 


THE  MONK  AND  HIS  PET  CAT 


98  THE  MONK  AND  HIS  PET  CAT 

I  and  my  white  Pangur 
Have  each  his  special  art  : 
His  mind  is  set  on  hunting  mice, 
Mine  is  upon  my  special  craft. 

I  love  to  rest — better  than  any  fame  ! — 
With  close  study  at  my  little  book  ; 
White  Pangur  does  not  envy  me  : 
He  loves  his  childish  play. 

When  in  our  house  we  two  are  all  alone- 
A  tale  without  tedium  ! 
We  have — sport  never-ending  ! 
Something:  to  exercise  our  wit. 


*s> 


At  times  by  feats  of  derring-do 

A  mouse  sticks  in  his  net, 

While  into  my  net  there  drops 

A  difficult  problem  of  hard  meaning. 

He  points  his  full  shining  eye 
Against  the  fence  of  the  wall : 
I  point  my  clear  though  feeble  eye 
Against  the  keenness  of  science. 

He  rejoices  with  quick  leaps 
When  in  his  sharp  claw  sticks  a  mouse  : 
I  too  rejoice  when  I  have  grasped 
A  problem  difficult  and  dearly  loved. 

Though  we  are  thus  at  all  times, 
Neither  hinders  the  other, 
Each  of  us  pleased  with  his  own  art 
Amuses  himself  alone. 

He  is  a  master  of  the  work 
Which  every  day  he  does  : 
While  I  am  at  my  own  work 
To  bring  difficulty  to  clearness. 

97  o 


BEASTS  OF  THE  FIELD:   FOWLS  OF  THE  AIR 

99  THE  TYGER 

Tyger  !  Tygcr  !  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry  ? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burnt  the  fire  of  thine  eyes  ? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire  ? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire  ? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art, 
Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart  ? 
And  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 
What  dread  hand  ?   and  what  dread  feet  ? 

What  the  hammer  ?   what  the  chain  ? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain  ? 
What  the  anvil  ?  what  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp  ? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  he  smile  his  work  to  see  ? 
Did  He  who  made  the  Lamb  make  thee  ? 

Tyger  !  Tyger  !  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye, 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry  ? 

William  Blake 


ioo        THE  NYMPH  COMPLAINING  FOR  THE 
DEATH  OF  HER  FAWN 

The  wanton  Troopers  riding  by 
Have  shot  my  Fawn,  and  it  will  dye. 
Ungentlemen  !  they  cannot  thrive 
Who  killed  thee.     Thou  ne'er  didst  alive 
98 


DEATH  OF  A  FAWN 

Them  any  Harm  :   alas  !   nor  cou'd 
Thy  Death  yet  do  them  any  Good  .  .  . 
For  it  was  full  of  sport,  and  light 
Of  foot  and  heart,  and  did  invite 
Me  to  its  game  ;   it  seemed  to  bless 
Itself  in  me  ;   how  could  I  less 
Than  love  it  ?     0,  I  cannot  be 
Unkind  to  a  beast  that  loveth  me  .  .  . 

With  sweetest  Milk,  and  Sugar,  first 
I  it  at  mine  own  Fingers  nurst ; 
And  as  it  grew,  so  every  Day 
It  waxed  more  white  and  sweet  than  they. 
It  had  so  sweet  a  Breath  !     And  oft 
I  blushed  to  see  its  Foot  more  soft, 
And  white  (shall  I  say  than  my  Hand  ?  ) 
Nay,  any  Ladie's  of  the  Land. 

It  is  a  wond'rous  Thing  how  fleet 
'Twas  on  those  little  Silver  Feet ; 
With  what  a  pretty  skipping  Grace, 
It  oft  would  challenge  me  the  Race  ; 
And  when  't  had  left  me  far  away, 
'Twould  stay,  and  run  again,  and  stay ; 
For  it  was  nimbler  much  than  Hindes, 
And  trod  as  if  on  the  Four  Winds. 

I  have  a  Garden  of  my  own, 
But  so  with  Roses  over-grown, 
And  Lillies,  that  you  would  it  guess 
To  be  a  little  Wilderness  ; 
And  all  the  Spring  Time  of  the  Year 
It  only  loved  to  be  there. 
Among  the  Beds  of  Lillies  I 
Have  sought  it  oft,  where  it  should  lye  ; 
Yet  could  not,  till  it  self  would  rise, 
Find  it,  although  before  mine  Eyes  : 
For,  in  the  flaxen  Lillies'  Shade, 
It  like  a  Bank  of  Lillies  laid. 
Upon  the  Roses  it  would  feed, 
Until  its  Lips  ev'n  seemed  to  bleed  ; 
99 


BEASTS  OF  THE  FIELD:   FOWLS  OF  THE  AIR 

And  then  to  me  'twould  boldly  trip, 
And  punt  those  Roses  on  my  Lip. 
But  all  its  chief  Delight  was  still 

On  Roses  thus  itself  to  fill, 
And  its  pun-  Virgin  Limbs  to  fold 
In  whitest  sheets  of  Lillics  cold  : 
Had  it  lived  long,  it  would  have  been 
Lillics  without,  Roses  within.  .  .  . 

Andrew  Marvell 


ioi  OF  ALL  THE  BIRDS 

Of  all  the  birds  that  I  do  know, 

Philip  my  sparrow  hath  no  peer  ; 
For  sit  she  high,  or  sit  she  low, 
Be  she  far  off,  or  be  she  near, 
There  is  no  bird  so  fair,  so  fine, 
Nor  yet  so  fresh  as  this  of  mine  ; 
For  when  she  once  hath  felt  a  fit, 
Philip  will  cry  still  :    Yet,  yet,  yet. 

Come  in  a  morning  merrily 

When  Philip  hath  been  lately  fed  ; 
Or  in  an  evening  soberly 

When  Philip  list  to  go  to  bed  ; 
It  is  a  heaven  to  hear  my  Phipp, 
How  she  can  chirp  with  merry  lip, 
For  when  she  once  hath  felt  a  fit, 
Philip  will  cry  still  :    Yet,  yet,  yet. 

She  never  wanders  far  abroad, 

But  is  at  home  when  I  do  call. 
If  I  command  she  lays  on  load  1 

With  lips,  with  teeth,  with  tongue  and  all. 
She  chants,  she  chirps,  she  makes  such  cheer, 
That  I  believe  she  hath  no  peer. 
For  when  she  once  hath  felt  the  fit, 
Philip  will  cry  still  :    Yet,  yet,  yet. 

1  Lustily 

100 


OF  ALL  THE  BIRDS 

And  yet  besides  all  this  good  sport 
My  Philip  can  both  sing  and  dance, 

With  new  found  toys  of  sundry  sort 
My  Philip  can  both  prick  and  prance. 

And  if  you  say  but :    Fend  cut,1  Phipp  ! 

Lord,  how  the  peat 2  will  turn  and  skip  ! 

For  when  she  once  hath  felt  the  fit, 

Philip  will  cry  still :    Yet,  yet,  yet. 

• 

And  to  tell  truth  he  were  to  blame — 

Having  so  fine  a  bird  as  she, 
To  make  him  all  this  goodly  game 

Without  suspect  or  jealousy — - 
He  were  a  churl  and  knew  no  good, 
Would  see  her  faint  for  lack  of  food, 
For  when  she  once  hath  felt  the  fit, 
Philip  will  cry  still :    Yet,  yet,  yet. 


102  THE  DEAD  SPARROW 

Tell  me  not  of  joy  :    there's  none, 
Now  my  little  Sparrow's  gone  : 
He,  just  as  you, 
Would  try  and  woo, 
He  would  chirp  and  flatter  me  ; 
He  would  hang  the  wing  awhile — 
Till  at  length  he  saw  me  smile 
Lord,  how  sullen  he  would  be  ! 

He  would  catch  a  crumb,  and  then 

Sporting,  let  it  go  agen  ; 
He  from  my  lip 
Would  moisture  sip  ; 

He  would  from  my  trencher  feed  ; 

Then  would  hop,  and  then  would  run, 

And  cry  Philip  when  he'd  done. 

0  !  whose  heart  can  choose  but  bleed  ? 

1  Cave  !  2  Pretty  dear 

101 


BEASTS  OF  THE  FIELD:   FOWLS  OF  THE  A  III 

O  how  eager  would  he  right, 

And  ne'er  hurt,  though  he  did  bite. 

No  morn  did  pa 

But  on  my  glass 
He  would  sit,  and  mark  and  do 
What   1  did — now  ruffle  all 
His  feathers  o'er,  now  let  'cm  fall ; 
And  then  straightway  sleek  them  too. 

• 

Whence  will  Cupid  get  his  darts 
Feathered  now  to  pierce  our  hearts  ? 
A  wound  he  may 
Not,  Love,  convey, 
Now  this  faithful  bird  is  gone  ; 
O  let  mournful  turtles  join 
With  loving  red-breasts,  and  combine 
To  sing  dirges  o'er  his  stone  ! 

William  Cartvvright 


103  ON  A  LITTLE  BIRD 

Here  lies  a  little  bird. 

Once  all  day  long 
In  Martha's  house  was  heard 

His  rippling  song. 

Tread  lightly  where  he  lies 

Beneath  this  stone 
With  nerveless  wings,  closed  eyes, 

And  sweet  voice  gone. 

Martin  Armstrong 

104  ADLESTROP 

Yes.     I  remember  Adlestrop — 
The  name,  because  one  afternoon 
Of  heat  the  express-train  drew  up  there 
Unwontedly.     It  was  late  June. 
102 


ADLESTROP 

The  steam  hissed.     Someone  cleared  his  throat. 

No  one  left  and  no  one  came 

On  the  bare  platform.     What  I  saw 

Was  Adlestrop — only  the  name 

And  willows,  willow-herb,  and  grass, 
And  meadowsweet,  and  haycocks  dry, 
No  whit  less  still  and  lonely  fair 
Than  the  high  cloudlets  in  the  sky. 

And  for  that  minute  a  blackbird  sang 
Close  by,  and  round  him,  mistier, 
Farther  and  farther,  all  the  birds 
Of  Oxfordshire  and  Gloucestershire. 

Edward  Thomas 


105  THE  REVERIE  OF  POOR  SUSAN 

At  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  when  daylight  appears, 
Hangs  a  Thrush  that  sings  loud,  it  has  sung  for  three  years 
Poor  Susan  has  passed  by  the  spot,  and  has  heard 
In  the  silence  of  morning  the  song  of  the  bird. 

'Tis  a  note  of  enchantment ;   what  ails  her  ?     She  sees 
A  mountain  ascending,  a  vision  of  trees  ; 
Bright  volumes  of  vapour  through  Lothbury  glide, 
And  a  river  flows  on  through  the  vale  of  Cheapside. 

Green  pastures  she  views  in  the  midst  of  the  dale 
Down  which  she  so  often  has  tripped  with  her  pail ; 
And  a  single  small  cottage,  a  nest  like  a  dove's, 
The  one  only  dwelling  on  earth  that  she  loves. 

She  looks,  and  her  heart  is  in  heaven  :   but  they  fade, 
The  mist  and  the  river,  the  hill  and  the  shade  ; 
The  stream  will  not  flow,  and  the  hill  will  not  rise, 
And  the  colours  have  all  passed  away  from  her  eyes  ! 

William  Wordsworth 


103 


BEASTS  OF  THE  FIELD:   FOWLS  OF  THE  AIR 

106  THE  THRUSH'S  SONG 

1  M  ak,  dear,  dear, 

Is  the  rocky  glen. 
Far  away,  far  away,  far  away 

The  haunts  of  men. 

Here  shall  we  dwell  in  love 
With  the  lark  and  the  dove, 
Cuckoo  and  cornrail  ; 
Feast  on  the  banded  snail, 

Worm  and  gilded  fly  ; 
Drink  of  the  crystal  rill 
Winding  adown  the  hill, 

Never  to  dry. 

With  glee,  with  glee,  with  glee, 

Cheer  up,  cheer  up,  cheer  up,  here 
Nothing  to  harm  us,  then  sing  merrily, 

Sing  to  the  loved  ones  whose  nest  is  near — 

Qui,  qui,  qui,  kweeu  quip, 

Tiurru,  tiurru,  chipiwi, 

Too-tee,  too-tee,  chiu  choo, 

Chirri,  chirri,  chooee, 

Quiu,  qui,  qui. 

W.  Macgillivray 


107  SWEET  SUFFOLK  OWL 

Sweet  Suffolk  Owl,  so  trimly  dight 
With  feathers,  like  a  lady  bright, 
Thou  sing'st  alone,  sitting  by  night, 

Te  whit  !    Te  ivhoo  !    Te  whit  !    To  whit  ! 

Thy  note  that  forth  so  freely  rolls 

WTith  shrill  command  the  mouse  controls  ; 

And  sings  a  dirge  for  dying  souls — 

Te  whit  !    Te  whoo  !    Te  whit  !    To  whit  ! 

Thomas  Vautor 
104 


WHO?   WHO? 

108  WHO?   WHO? 

"  Who— Who— the  bride  will  be  ?" 
"  The  owl  she  the  bride  shall  be." 

The  owl  quoth, 

Again  to  them  both, 
"  I  am  sure  a  grim  ladye  ; 

Not  I  the  bride  can  be, 

I  not  the  bride  can  be  !" 

109  WHEN  CATS  RUN  HOME 

When  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come, 

And  dew  is  cold  upon  the  ground, 
And  the  far-off  stream  is  dumb, 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round, 
And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round  ; 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 

When  merry  milkmaids  click  the  latch, 
And  rarely  smells  the  new-mown  hay, 
And  the  cock  hath  sung  beneath  the  thatch 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay, 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay  ; 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 
The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson 

no  ONCE 

Once  I  was  a  monarch's  daughter, 

And  sat  on  a  lady's  knee  ; 
But  am  now  a  nightly  rover, 

Banished  to  the  ivy  tree. 

Crying  hoo,  hoo,  hoo,  hoo,  hoo,  hoo, 
Hoo,  hoo,  hoo,  my  feet  are  cold. 

Pity  me,  for  here  you  see  me 
Persecuted,  poor,  and  old. 
105 


BEASTS  OF  THE  FIELD  :   FOWLS  OF  THE  AIR 

1 1 1  THE  WATER-OUSEL 

Where  on  the  wrinkled  stream  the  willows  lean, 

And  fling  a  very  ecstasy  of  green 

Down  the  dim  crystal  ;   and  the  chestnut  tree 

Admires  her  large-leaved  shadow,  swift  and  free, 

A  water-ousel  came,  with  such  a  flight 

As  archangels  might  envy.     Soft  and  bright 

Upon  a  water-kissing  bough  she  lit, 

And  washed  and  preened  her  silver  breast,  though  it 

Was  dazzling  fair  before.     Then  twittering 

She  sang,  and  made  obeisance  to  the  Spring. 

And  in  the  wavering  amber  at  her  feet 

Her  silent  shadow,  with  obedience  meet, 

Made  her  quick,  imitative  curtsies,  too. 

Maybe  she  dreamed  a  nest,  so  safe  and  dear, 

Where  the  keen  spray  leaps  whitely  to  the  weir  ; 

And  smooth,  warm  eggs  that  hold  a  mystery  ; 

And  stirrings  of  life  and  twitterings,  that  she 

Is  passionately  glad  of ;    and  a  breast 

As  silver-white  as  hers,  which  without  rest 

Or  languor,  borne  by  spread  wings  swift  and  strong, 

Shall  fly  upon  her  service  all  day  long. 

She  hears  a  presage  in  the  ancient  thunder 

Of  the  silken  fall,  and  her  small  soul  in  wonder 

Makes  preparation  as  she  deems  most  right, 

Repurifying  what  before  was  white 

Against  the  day  when,  like  a  beautiful  dream, 

Two  little  ousels  shall  fly  with  her  down  stream, 

And  even  the  poor,  dumb  shadow-bird  shall  flit 

With  two  small  shadows  following  after  it. 

Mary  Webb 

112  L'OISEAU  BLEU 

The  lake  lay  blue  below  the  hill. 

O'er  it,  as  I  looked,  there  flew 
Across  the  waters,  cold  and  still, 

A  bird  whose  wings  were  palest  blue. 
106 


L'OISEAU  BLEU 

The  sky  above  was  blue  at  last, 
The  sky  beneath  me  blue  in  blue. 

A  moment,  ere  the  bird  had  passed, 
It  caught  his  image  as  he  flew. 

Mary  Coleridge 

113  I  HAD  A  DOVE 

I  had  a  dove  and  the  sweet  dove  died  ; 

And  I  have  thought  it  died  of  grieving  : 
0,  what  could  it  grieve  for  ?      Its  feet  were  tied, 

With  a  silken  thread  of  my  own  hand's  weaving ; 

Sweet  little  red  feet  !  why  should  you  die — 
Why  should  you  leave  me,  sweet  bird  !     Why  ? 
You  lived  alone  in  the  forest-tree, 
Why,  pretty  thing  !    would  you  not  live  with  me  ? 
I  kissed  you  oft  and  gave  you  white  peas  ; 
Why  not  live  sweetly,  as  in  the  green  trees  ? 

John  Keats 

114  PHILOMEL 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day 
In  the  merry  month  of  May, 
Sitting  in  a  pleasant  shade 
Which  a  grove  of  myrtles  made, 
Beasts  did  leap  and  birds  did  sing, 
Trees  did  grow  and  plants  did  spring  ; 
Everything  did  banish  moan 
Save  the  Nightingale  alone  : 
She,  poor  bird,  as  all  forlorn 
Leaned  her  breast  up-till  a  thorn, 
And  there  sung  the  doleful'st  ditty. 
That  to  hear  it  was  great  pity. 

Fie,  fie,  fie  !  now  would  she  ciy  ; 
Tereu,  tereu  !  by  and  by  ; 
That  to  hear  her  so  complain 
Scarce  I  could  from  tears  refrain  ; 
107 


BEASTS  OF  THE  FIELD:    FOWLS  OF  THE  AIR 

For  her  griefs  so  lively  shown 

Made  me  think  upon  mine  own. 

Ah  !    thought  I,  thou  mourn'st  in  vain, 

None  takes  pity  on  thy  pain  : 

Senseless  trees  they  cannot  hear  thee, 

Ruthless  beasts  they  will  not  cheer  thee  : 

King  Pandion  he  is  dead, 

All  thy  friends  are  lapped  in  lead  ; 

All  thy  fellow  birds  do  sing 

Careless  of  thy  sorrowing  : 

Even  so,  poor  bird,  like  thee, 

None  alive  will  pity  me. 

Richard  Barnfield 


115  A  SPARROW-HAWK 

A  sparhawk  proud  did  hold  in  wicked  jail 
Music's  sweet  chorister,  the  Nightingale  ; 
To  whom  with  sighs  she  said  :    "  0  set  me  free, 
And  in  my  song  I'll  praise  no  bird  but  thee." 
The  Hawk  replied  :    "  I  will  not  lose  my  diet 
To  let  a  thousand  such  enjoy  their  quiet." 


116  THE  EAGLE 

He  clasps  the  crag  with  crooked  hands  ; 
Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands, 
Ringed  with  the  azure  world,  he  stands. 

The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls  ; 
He  watches  from  his  mountain  walls, 
And  like  a  thunderbolt  he  falls. 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson 


108 


THE  TWA  CORBIES 

117  THE  TWA  CORBIES 

As  I  was  walking  all  alane, 

I  heard  twa  corbies  making  a  mane, 

And  tane  unto  the  tither  say  : — 

"  Where  sail  we  gang  and  dine  to-day  ?" 

"  — In  behint  yon  auld  fail  dyke,1 
I  wat  there  lies  a  new-slain  Knight  ; 
And  naebody  kens  that  he  lies  there 
But  his  hawk,  his  hound,  and  lady  fair. 

"  His  hound  is  to  the  hunting  gane, 
His  hawk  to  fetch  the  wild-fowl  hame, 
His  lady's  ta'en  another  mate, 
So  we  may  mak  our  dinner  sweet. 

"  Ye'll  sit  on  his  white  hause-bane, 
And  I'll  pick  out  his  bonnie  blue  een. 
Wi'  ae  lock  o'  his  gowden  hair 
We'll  theek  2  our  nest  when  it  grows  bare. 

"  Mony  a  one  for  him  maks  mane, 
But  nane  sail  ken  where  he  is  gane. 
O'er  his  white  banes,  where  they  are  bare, 
The  wind  sail  blaw  for  evermair." 


118  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

Christ  of  His  gentleness 
Thirsting  and  hungering 
Walked  in  the  wilderness  ; 
Soft  words  of  grace  He  spoke 
Unto  lost  desert-folk 
That  listened  wondering. 
He  heard  the  bitterns  call 
From  ruined  palace-wall, 
Answered  them  brotherly. 

1  Green-walled  ditch  2  Thatch  :  mend 

109 


BEASTS  OF  THE  FIELD:   FOWLS  OF  THE  AIK 

He  held  communion 
With  the  she-pelican 

Of  lonely  piety. 
Basilisk,  cockatrice, 
Mocked  to  I  lis  homilies, 
With  mail  of  dread  device, 
With  monstrous  barbed  stings, 
With  eager  dragon-eyes  ; 
Great  rats  on  leather  wings 
And  poor  blind  broken  things, 
Foul  in  their  miseries. 
And  ever  with  Him  went, 
Of  all  His  wanderings 
Comrade,  with  ragged  coat, 
Gaunt  ribs — poor  innocent — 
Bleeding  foot,  burning  throat, 
The  guileless  old  scape-goat ; 
For  forty  nights  and  days 
Followed  in  Jesus'  ways, 
Sure  guard  behind  Him  kept, 
Tears  like  a  lover  wept. 

Robert  Graves 

19  STUPIDITY  STREET 

I  saw  with  open  eyes 
Singing  birds  sweet 
Sold  in  the  shops 
For  the  people  to  eat, 
Sold  in  the  shops  of 
Stupidity  Street. 

I  saw  in  vision 
The  worm  in  the  wheat, 
And  in  the  shops  nothing 
For  people  to  eat ; 
Nothing  for  sale  in 
Stupidity  Street. 

Ralph  Hodgson 
110 


COME  WARY  ONE 

120  COME  WARY  ONE 

"  '  Come  wary  one,  come  slender  feet, 
Come  pretty  bird  and  sing  to  me, 
I  have  a  cage  of  wizard  wood 
With  perch  of  ebony  ; 
Come  pretty  bird,  there's  dainty  food, 
There's  cherry,  plum,  and  strawberry, 
In  my  red  cage,  my  wizard  cage, 
The  cage  I  made  for  thee.' 

"  The  bird  flew  down,  the  bird  flew  in, 
The  cherries  they  were  dried  and  dead, 
She  tied  him  with  a  silken  skein 
To  a  perch  of  molten  lead  ; 
And  first  most  dire  he  did  complain, 
And  next  he  sulky  sad  did  fall, 
Chained  to  his  perch,  his  burning  perch, 
He  would  not  sing  at  all. 

"  There  came  an  elf,  a  silent  elf, 
A  silver  wand  hung  by  his  side, 
And  when  that  wand  lay  on  the  door, 
The  door  did  open  wide. 
The  pretty  bird  with  beak  he  tore 
That  silken  skein,  then  out  flew  he, 
From  that  red  cage,  that  greedy  cage, 
That  cage  of  wizardry." 

Ruth  Manning-Sanders 


]2i        UPON  THE  LARK  AND  THE  FOWLER 

Thou  simple  Bird  what  mak'st  thou  here  to  play  ? 
Look,  there's  the  Fowler,  prethee  come  away. 
Dost  not  behold  the  Net  ?     Look  there  'tis  spread, 
Venture  a  little  further  thou  art  dead. 

Is  there  not  room  enough  in  all  the  Field 
For  thee  to  play  in,  but  thou  needs  must  yield 

111 


BEASTS  OF  THE  FIELD:   FOWLS  OF  THE  All? 

To  the  deceit tul  glitt'ring  of  a  Glass, 

PI  iced  betwixt  Nets  to  bring  thy  death  to  pass  ? 

Bird,  if  thou  art  so  much  for  dazling  light, 
Look,  there's  the  Sun  above  thee,  dart  upright. 
Thy  nature  is  to  soar  up  to  the  Sky, 
Why  wilt  thou  come  down  to  the  nets,  and  dye  ? 

Take  no  heed  to  the  Fowler's  tempting  Call  ; 
This  whistle  he  enchantcth  Birds  withal. 
Or  if  thou  seest  a  live  Bird  in  his  net, 
Believe  she's  there  'cause  thence  she  cannot  get. 
Look  how  he  tempteth  thee  with  his  Decoy, 
That  he  may  rob  thee  of  thy  Life,  thy  Joy  : 
Come,  prethee  Bird,  I  prethee  come  away, 
Why  should  this  net  thee  take,  when  'scape  thou  may  ? 

Hadst  thou  not  Wings,  or  were  thy  feathers  pulled, 
Or  wast  thou  blind  or  fast  asleep  wcr't  lulled  : 
The  case  would  somewhat  alter,  but  for  thee, 
Thy  eyes  are  ope,  and  thou  hast  Wings  to  see. 

Remember  that  thy  Song  is  in  thy  Rise, 
Not  in  thy  Fall,  Earth's  not  thy  Paradise. 
Keep  up  aloft  then,  let  thy  circuits  be 
Above,  where  Birds  from  Fowlers  nets  are  free.  .  .  . 

John  Bunyan 

122  THE  BIRDS 

He.     Where  thou  dwellest,  in  what  Grove, 
Tell  me  Fair  One,  tell  me  Love  ; 
Where  thou  thy  charming  nest  dost  build, 

0  thou  pride  of  every  field  ! 

She.    Yonder  stands  a  lonely  tree, 

There  I  live  and  mourn  for  thee  ; 
Morning  drinks  my  silent  tear, 
And  evening  winds  my  sorrow  bear. 

He.     0  thou  summer's  harmony, 

1  have  lived  and  mourned  for  thee  ; 
Each  day  I  mourn  along  the  wood, 
And  night  hath  heard  my  sorrows  loud. 

112 


THE  BIRDS 

She.    Dost  thou  truly  long  for  me  ? 
And  am  I  thus  sweet  to  thee  ? 
Sorrow  now  is  at  an  end, 
O  my  Lover  and  my  Friend  ! 

He.     Come,  on  wings  of  joy  we'll  fly 

To  where  my  bower  hangs  on  high  ; 
Come,  and  make  thy  calm  retreat 
Among  green  leaves  and  blossoms  sweet. 

William  Blake 


123  TWO  PEWITS 

Under  the  after-sunset  sky 

Two  pewits  sport  and  cry, 

More  white  than  is  the  moon  on  high 

Riding  the  dark  surge  silently  ; 

More  black  than  earth.     Their  cry 

Is  the  one  sound  under  the  sky. 

They  alone  move,  now  low,  now  high, 

And  merrily  they  cry 

To  the  mischievous  Spring  sky, 

Plunging  earthward,  tossing  high, 

Over  the  ghost  who  wonders  why 

So  merrily  they  cry  and  fly, 

Nor  choose  'twixt  earth  and  sky, 

While  the  moon's  quarter  silently 

Rides,  and  earth  rests  as  silently. 

Edward  Thomas 

124  TO  A  WATERFOWL 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew, 
While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 

Thy  solitary  way  ? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 
Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 

113  H 


BEASTS  OF  THE  FIELD:   FOWLS  OF  THE  AIR 

As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 
Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean-side  ? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast, — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air, — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end  ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows  ;   reeds  shall  bend, 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou'rt  gone :  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form  ;   yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 
Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 

William  Cullen  Bryant 


114 


l 


MIDNIGHT 

125  MIDNIGHT 

. . .  Midnight  was  come,  when  every  vital  thing 

With  sweet  sound  sleep  their  weary  limbs  did  rest, 
The  beasts  were  still,  the  little  birds  that  sing 
Now  sweetly  slept,  beside  their  mother's  breast, 
The  old  and  all  were  shrouded  in  their  nest : 
The  waters  calm,  the  cruel  seas  did  cease, 
The  woods,  and  fields,  and  all  things  held  their  peace. 

The  golden  stars  were  whirled  amid  their  race, 
And  on  the  earth  did  laugh  with  twinkling  light, 
When  each  thing,  nestled  in  his  resting-place, 
Forgat  day's  pain  with  pleasure  of  the  night : 
The  hare  had  not  the  greedy  hounds  in  sight, 
The  fearful  deer  of  death  stood  not  in  doubt, 
The  partridge  dreamed  not  of  the  falcon's  foot. 

The  ugly  bear  now  minded  not  the  stake, 

Nor  how  the  cruel  mastives  do  him  tear  ; 

The  stag  lay  still  unroused  from  the  brake  ; 

The  foamy  boar  feared  not  the  hunter's  spear  : 

All  things  were  still,  in  desert,  bush,  and  brere  : * 
With  quiet  heart,  now  from  their  travails  ceased, 
Soundly  they  slept  in  midst  of  all  their  rest. 

Thomas  Sackville,  Lord  Buckhurst 


1  Briar  :  wildwood 

115 


ELPHIN  -.  OUPH :  FAY. 


126         COME  UNTO  THESE  YELLOW  SANDS 

(Ariel  singing)    Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, 
And  then  take  hands  : 
Curtsied  when  you  have,  and  kist, 
The  wilde  waves  whist : 
Foote  it  featly  heere,  and  there, 
And  sweete  Sprights  the  burthen  beare. 
Harke,  harke,  bowgh  wawgh  : 
The  watch-dogges  barke,  bowgh  wawgh. 
Hark,  hark,  I  heare, 
The  straine  of  strutting  Chanticlere 
Cry  Cockadidle-dowe. 

William  Shakespeare 


127  THE  ELVES'  DANCE 

Round  about,  round  about 

In  a  fair  ring-a, 
Thus  we  dance,  thus  we  dance 

And  thus  we  sing-a, 
Trip  and  go,  to  and  fro 

Over  this  green-a, 
All  about,  in  and  out, 

For  our  brave  Queen-a. 


119 


I.I.I'IIIN.  OUPH   AM)   FAY 

[28  l'-V    II IK  MOON 

I  .\  tlu-  Moonc  w  v  sport  and  play, 
With  the  night  begins  our  day  : 
As  we  daunce  the  deaw  « I  *  >  1 1 1  fall, 

Trip  it  little  urchins  all  : 

Lightly  as  the  little  Bee, 

Two  by  two,  and  three  by  three  : 

And  about  go  we,  and  about  go  wee. 

"  I  do  come  about  the  coppes, 
Leaping  upon  flowers  toppes  : 
Then  I  get  upon  a  flie, 
Shee  carries  mc  above  the  skie  : 
And  trip  and  goe." 

"  When  a  dcawc  drop  falleth  downe, 
And  doth  light  upon  my  crowne, 
Then  I  shake  my  head  and  skip, 
And  about  I  trip. 
Two  by  two,  and  three  by  three  : 
And  about  go  we,  and  about  go  wee." 

Thomas  Ravenscroft 


12Q  FOR  A  MOCKING  VOICE 

Who  calls  ?     Who  calls  ?     Who  ? 
Did  you  call  ?     Did  you  ? — 
I  call  !     I  call  !     I  ! 
Follow  where  I  fly. — 
Where  ?     0  where  ?     O  where  ? 
On  Earth  or  in  the  Air  ? — 
Where  you  come,  I'm  gone  ! 
Where  you  fly,  I've  flown  ! — 
Stay  !   ah,  stay  !   ah,  stay, 
Pretty  Elf,  and  play  ! 
Tell  me  where  you  are — 
Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Eleanor  Farjeon 
120 


WHERE  THE  BEE  SUCKS 

130  WHERE  THE  BEE  SUCKS 

Where  the  Bee  sucks,  there  suck  I, 

In  a  Cowslip's  bell  I  lie, 

There  I  cowch  when  Owles  do  crie  ; 

On  the  Batt's  back  I  doe  flie 

After  Sommer  merrily. 
Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  Bow. 

William  Shakespeare 


131  ECHO 

How  see  you  Echo  ?     When  she  calls  I  see 

Her  pale  face  looking  down  through  some  great  tree, 

Whose  world  of  green  is  like  a  moving  sea, 

That  shells  re-echo. 

I  see  her  with  a  white  face  like  a  mask, 

That  vanishes  to  come  again  ;   damask 

Her  cheek,  but  deeply  pale, 

Her  eyes  are  green, 

With  a  silver  sheen, 

And  she  mocks  the  thing  you  ask. 

"  0  Echo  ! "  (hear  the  children  calling)  "  are  you  there  ? "  .  .  . 

"Where?"  .  .  . 

When  the  wind  blows  over  the  hill, 

She  hides  with  a  vagrant  will, 

And  call  you  may  loud,  and  call  you  may  long, 

She  lays  finger  on  lip  when  the  winds  are  strong, 

And  for  all  your  pains  she  is  still. 

But  when  young  plants  spring,  and  the  chiff-chaffs  sing, 

And  the  scarlet  capped  woodpecker  flies  through  the  vale, 

She  is  out  all  day, 

Through  the  fragrant  May, 

To  babble  and  tattle  her  Yea  and  Nay. 

"  0    Echo  !"    (still    the    children    call)    "  Where    are   you  ? 

where  ?"  .  .  . 
"  Air  .  .  ."  Viscountess  Grey 

121 


KLPIIIN.  OUPII  AM)  1  AY 

132  THE  SPLENDOUR   FALLS 

I'm-:  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story  : 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  Lakes, 

And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  Hying, 
Blow,  bugle  ;    answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

0  hark,    O  hear  !   how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going  ! 
0  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 

The  horns  of  Elfiand  faintly  blowing  ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying  : 
Blow,  bugle  ;   answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

0  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river  : 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 

And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson 


133  THE  FAIRIES 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men  ; 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together  ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather  ! 

Down  along  the  rocky  shore 
Some  make  their  home, 

They  live  on  crispy  pancakes 
Of  yellow  tide-foam  ; 
122 


THE  FAIRIES 

Some  in  the  reeds 

Of  the  black  mountain-lake, 
With  frogs  for  their  watch-dogs, 

All  night  awake. 

High  on  the  hill-top 

The  old  King  sits  ; 
He  is  now  so  old  and  gray 

He's  nigh  lost  his  wits. 
With  a  bridge  of  white  mist 

Columbkill  he  crosses, 
On  his  stately  journeys 

From  Slieveleague  to  Rosses  ; 
Or  going  up  with  music 

On  cold  starry  nights, 
To  sup  with  the  Queen 

Of  the  gay  Northern  Lights. 

They  stole  little  Bridget 

For  seven  years  long  ; 
When  she  came  down  again 

Her  friends  were  all  gone. 
They  took  her  lightly  back, 

Between  the  night  and  morrow, 
They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asleep, 

But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow. 
They  have  kept  her  ever  since 

Deep  within  the  lake, 
On  a  bed  of  flag-leaves, 

Watching  till  she  wake. 

By  the  craggy  hill-side, 

Through  the  mosses  bare, 
They  have  planted  thorn-trees 

For  pleasure  here  and  there. 
Is  any  man  so  daring 

As  to  dig  one  up  in  spite, 
He  shall  find  the  thornies  set 

In  his  bed  at  night. 
123 


ELPHIN,  OUPH  AND  FAY 

l'p  tin-  airy  mountain, 

I  )own  the  rushy  glen, 
We  daren't  lm>  a-hunting 

For  fear  ol  litl  le  men  ; 

W'ri'  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together  ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather  ! 

William  Allingham 


134  OVERHEARD  ON  A  SALTMARSH 

Nymph,  nymph,  what  are  your  beads  ? 

Green  glass,  goblin.     Why  do  you  stare  at  them  ? 

Give  them  me. 

No. 
Give  them  me.     Give  them  me. 

No. 

Then  I  will  howl  all  night  in  the  reeds, 
Lie  in  the  mud  and  howl  for  them. 

Goblin,  why  do  you  love  them  so  ? 

They  are  better  than  stars  or  water, 
Better  than  voices  of  winds  that  sing, 
Better  than  any  man's  fair  daughter, 
Your  green  glass  beads  on  a  silver  ring. 

Hush,  I  stole  them  out  of  the  moon. 

Give  me  your  beads,  I  want  them. 

No. 

I  will  howl  in  a  deep  lagoon 

For  your  green  glass  beads,  I  love  them  so. 

Give  them  me.     Give  them. 

No. 

Harold  Monro 
124 


THE  FAIRY  THORN 

135  THE  FAIRY  THORN 

"  Get  up,  our  Anna  dear,  from  the  weary  spinning  wheel ; 
For  your  father's  on  the  hill,  and  your  mother  is  asleep  : 
Come  up  above  the  crags,  and  we'll  dance  a  highland  reel 
Around  the  fairy  thorn  on  the  steep." 

At  Anna  Grace's  door  'twas  thus  the  maidens  cried, 
Three  merry  maidens  fair  in  kirtles  of  the  green  ; 
And  Anna  laid  the  rock  x  and  the  weary  wheel  aside, 
The  fairest  of  the  four,  I  ween. 

They're  glancing  through  the  glimmer  of  the  quiet  eve, 

Away  in  milky  wavings  of  neck  and  ankle  bare  ; 
The  heavy-sliding  stream  in  its  sleep  song  they  leave, 
And  the  crags  in  the  ghostly  air. 

And  linking  hand  and  hand,  and  singing  as  they  go, 

The  maids  along  the  hill-side  have  ta'en  their  fearless  way, 
Till  they  come  to  where  the  rowan  trees  in  lonely  beauty  grow 
Beside  the  Fairy  Hawthorn  grey. 

The  hawthorn  stands  between     the  ashes  tall  and  slim, 

Like  matron  with  her  twin  grand-daughters  at  her  knee  ; 
The  rowan  berries  cluster  o'er  her  low  head  grey  and  dim 
In  ruddy  kisses  sweet  to  see. 

The  merry  maidens  four    have  ranged  them  in  a  row, 
Between  each  lovely  couple  a  stately  rowan  stem, 
And  away  in  mazes  wavy,  like  skimming  birds  they  go, 
Oh,  never  carolled  bird  like  them  ! 

But  solemn  is  the  silence  of  the  silvery  haze 

That  drinks  away  their  voices  in  echoless  repose, 
And  dreamily  the  evening  has  stilled  the  haunted  braes, 
And  dreamier  the  gloaming  grows. 

And  sinking  one  by  one,  like  lark-notes  from  the  sky 
When  the  falcon's  shadow  saileth  across  the  open  shaw, 

1  Distaff 

125 


ELPHIN,  OUPH  AM)  FAY 

Arc  hushed  the  maidens1  voices,  as  cowering  down  they  lie 
In  the  flutter  of  their  sudden  awe. 

For,  from  the  air  above,  .md  the  grassy  ground  beneath, 
And   from   the  mountain-ashes   and   the   old   Whitethorn 
between, 
A  power  of  faint  enchantment  doth   through   their  beings 
breathe, 

And  they  sink  down  together  on  the  green. 

They  sink  together  silent,  and  stealing  side  to  side, 

They  fling  their  lovely  arms  o'er  their  drooping  necks  so 
fair. 
Then  vainly  strive  again  their  naked  arms  to  hide, 
For  their  shrinking  necks  again  are  bare. 

Thus  clasped  and  prostrate  all,  with  their  heads  together 
bowed, 
Soft  o'er  their  bosom's  beating — the  only  human  sound — 
They  hear  the  silky  footsteps  of  the  silent  fairy  crowd, 
Like  a  river  in  the  air,  gliding  round. 

Nor  scream  can  any  raise,  nor  prayer  can  any  say, 

But  wild,  wild,  the  terror  of  the  speechless  three — 
For  they  feel  fair  Anna  Grace  drawn  silently  away, 
By  whom  they  dare  not  look  to  see. 

They  feel  their  tresses  twine  with  her  parting  locks  of  gold, 

And  the  curls  elastic  falling,  as  her  head  withdraws  ; 
They  feel  her  sliding  arms  from  their  tranced  arms  unfold, 
But  they  dare  not  look  to  see  the  cause  : 

For  heavy  on  their  senses  the  faint  enchantment  lies 

Through  all  that  night  of  anguish  and  perilous  amaze  ; 
And  neither  fear  nor  wonder  can  ope  their  quivering  eyes 
Or  their  limbs  from  the  cold  ground  raise, 

Till  out  of  Night  the  Earth  has  rolled  her  dewy  side, 

With  every  haunted  mountain  and  streamy  vale  below  ; 
When,  as  the  mist  dissolves  in  the  yellow  morning-tide, 
The  maidens'  trance  dissolveth  so. 

126 


THE  FAIRY  THORN 

Then  fly  the  ghastly  three  as  swiftly  as  they  may, 

And  tell  their  tale  of  sorrow  to  anxious  friends  in  vain — 
They  pined  away  and  died  within  the  year  and  day, 
And  ne'er  was  Anna  Grace  seen  again. 

Samuel  Ferguson 


136  THE  QUEEN  OF  ELFLAND 

True  Thomas  lay  oer  yond  grassy  bank, 

And  he  beheld  a  ladie  gay, 
A  ladie  that  was  brisk  and  bold, 

Come  riding  oer  the  fernie  brae. 

Her  skirt  was  of  the  grass-green  silk, 
Her  mantel  of  the  velvet  fine, 

At  ilka  tett  of  her  horse's  mane 
Hung  fifty  silver  bells  and  nine. 

True  Thomas  he  took  off  his  hat, 

And  bowed  him  low  down  till  his  knee  : 

"  All  hail,  thou  mighty  Queen  of  Heaven  ! 
For  your  peer  on  earth  I  never  did  see." 

"  0  no,  O  no,  True  Thomas,"  she  says, 
"  That  name  does  not  belong  to  me  ; 

I  am  but  the  queen  of  fair  Elfland, 
And  I'm  come  here  for  to  visit  thee.  .  .  . 

"  But  ye  maun  go  wi  me  now,  Thomas, 
True  Thomas,  ye  maun  go  wi  me, 

For  ye  maun  serve  me  seven  years, 
Thro  weel  or  wae  as  may  chance  to  be. 

"  Then  harp  and  carp,  Thomas,"  she  said, 

"  Then  harp  and  carp  alang  wi  me  ; 
But  it  will  be  seven  years  and  a  day 
Till  ye  win  back  to  yere  ain  countrie." 

She  turned  about  her  milk-white  steed, 
And  took  True  Thomas  up  behind, 
127 


1,1  IMI1N.  OUPH  AM)  FAY 
Ami  aye  wheneer  her  bridle  rang, 

I  he  stec<l  flew  swifter  than  tin    wind. 

For  forty  days  and  forty  nights 

lie  wade  thro  red  blude  to  the  knee, 

And  lie  saw  neither  sun  nor  moon, 
I'.ut  heard  the  roaring  of  the  sea. 


■.-> 


O  they  rade  on,  and  further  on, 

Until  they  came  to  a  garden  green  : 

"  Light  down,  light  down,  ye  ladie  free, 
Some  of  that  fruit  let  me  pull  to  thee." 

"  0  no,  0  no,  True  Thomas,"  she  says, 
"  That  fruit  maun  not  be  touched  by  thee, 

For  a'  the  plagues  that  are  in  hell 
Light  on  the  fruit  of  this  countrie. 

"  But  I  have  a  loaf  here  in  my  lap, 
Likewise  a  bottle  of  claret  wine, 

And  now  ere  we  go  farther  on, 

We'll  rest  a  while,  and  ye  may  dine." 

When  he  had  eaten  and  drunk  his  fill  : — 
"  Lay  down  your  head  upon  my  knee," 

The  lady  sayd,  "  ere  we  climb  yon  hill 
And  I  will  show  you  fairlies  three. 

"  O  see  not  ye  yon  narrow  road, 

So  thick  beset  wi  thorns  and  briers  ? 

That  is  the  path  of  righteousness, 
Tho  after  it  but  few  enquires. 

"  And  see  not  ye  that  braid  braid  road, 
That  lies  across  yon  lillie  leven  ? 

That  is  the  path  of  wickedness, 

Tho  some  call  it  the  road  to  heaven 

"  And  see  not  ye  that  bonny  road, 
Which  winds  about  the  fernie  brae  ? 

That  is  the  road  to  fair  Elfland, 

Where  you  and  I  this  night  maun  gae 
128 


THE  QUEEN  OF  ELFLAND 

"  But  Thomas,  ye  maun  hold  your  tongue, 

Whatever  you  may  hear  or  see, 
For  gin  ae  word  you  should  chance  to  speak, 

You  will  neer  get  back  to  your  ain  countrie." 

He  has  gotten  a  coat  of  the  even  cloth, 
And  a  pair  of  shoes  of  velvet  green, 

And  till  seven  years  were  past  and  gone 
True  Thomas  on  earth  was  never  seen. 


137  LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI 

0,  what  can  ail  thee,  knight  at  arms, 
Alone  and  palely  loitering  ; 

The  sedge  has  withered  from  the  lake, 
And  no  birds  sing. 

0,  what  can  ail  thee,  knight  at  arms, 
So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone  ? 

The  squirrel's  granary  is  full, 
And  the  harvest's  done. 

I  see  a  lilly  on  thy  brow 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever-dew, 
And  on  thy  cheeks  a  fading  rose 

Fast  withereth  too. 

I  met  a  lady  in  the  meads, 

Full  beautiful — a  faery's  child, 

Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light, 
And  her  eyes  were  wild. 

I  made  a  garland  for  her  head, 
And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone  ; 

She  looked  at  me  as  she  did  love, 
And  made  sweet  moan. 

I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed 
And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long  ; 

For  sideways  would  she  lean,  and  sing 
A  faery's  song. 

129 


KLI'IIIN,  OUPH  AM)  FAY 

She  found  me  roots  of  relish  swi 
Ami  honey  wild  and  manna  dew  ; 

And  Mirr  in  language  strange  she  s.iid — 
I  love  thee  true. 

She  took  me  to  her  elfin  gn>t, 

Ami  there  she  gazed  and  sighed  full  sore  : 
And  there  I  shut  her  wild  wild  eyes 

With  kisses  four. 

And  there  she  lulled  me  asleep, 

And  there  I  dreamed,  ah  woe  betide, 

The  latest  dream  I  ever  dreamed 
On  the  cold  hill  side. 

I  saw  pale  kings  and  princes  too, 
Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all  : 

They  cry'd — "  La  belle  Dame  sans  Merci 
Hath  thee  in  thrall  !  " 

I  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloam 

With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide, 
And  I  awoke,  and  found  me  here 

On  the  cold  hill  side. 

And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 
Though  the  sedge  is  withered  from  the  lake, 

And  no  birds  sing. 

John  Keats 


»&■ 


138  SABRINA 

"  Sabrina  fair 

Listen  where  thou  art  sitting 
Under  the  glassie,  cool,  translucent  wave, 

In  twisted  braids  of  Lillies  knitting 
The  loose  train  of  thy  amber-dropping  hair, 
Listen  for  dear  honour's  sake, 
Goddess  of  the  silver  lake, 

Listen  and  save  !  .  .  . 
130 


SABRINA 

By  all  the  Nymphs  that  nightly  dance 
Upon  thy  streams  with  wily  glance, 
Rise,  rise,  and  heave  thy  rosie  head 
From  thy  coral-pav'n  bed, 
And  bridle  in  thy  headlong  wave, 
Till  thou  our  summons  answered  have. 
Listen  and  save  !  " 

"  By  the  rushy-fringed  bank, 

Where  grows  the  Willow  and  the  Osier  dank, 

My  sliding  Chariot  stayes, 
Thick  set  with  Agat,  and  the  azurn  sheen 
Of  Turkis  blew,  and  Emrauld  green 

That  in  the  channell  strayes, 
Whilst  from  off  the  waters  fleet 
Thus  I  set  my  printless  feet 
O're  the  Cowslips  Velvet  head, 

That  bends  not  as  I  tread, 
Gentle  swain  at  thy  request 

I  am  here."  John  Milton 

139  NOW  THE  HUNGRY  LION  ROARS 

"  Now  the  hungry  Lyon  rores, 
And  the  Wolfe  behowls  the  Moone  : 
Whilst  the  heavy  ploughman  snores, 
All  with  weary  taske  fordone. 
Now  the  wasted  brands  doe  glow, 
Whil'st  the  scritch-owle  scritching  loud, 
Puts  the  wretch  that  lies  in  woe 
In  remembrance  of  a  shrowd. 
Now  it  is  the  time  of  night 
That  the  graves,  all  gaping  wide, 
Every  one  lets  forth  his  spright, 
In  the  Church-way  paths  to  glide. 
And  we  Fairies,  that  do  runne 
By  the  triple  Hecate's  teame, 
From  the  presence  of  the  Sunne, 
Following  darknesse  like  a  dreame, 
131 


BLTIIIN,  (HTII  AND   l'AV 
Now  are  frollickc  ;    tlOt  a  Mouse 

Shall  disturbe  this  hallowed  hou 

1  am  scut  w lth  broome  before, 

To  sweep  the  dust  behinde  the  doore." 

"  Through  the  house  give  glimmering  light, 
By  the  dead  and  drowsic  ficr  ; 
Everie  Elfe  and  Fairie  spright 

Hop  as  light  as  bird  from  brier !  .  .  ." 

William  Shakespeare 


140  THE  FAIRIES  FEAST 

.  .  .  Awn.     Who  feasts  tonight  ? 

Some  Elves.     Prince  Olbin  is  truth-plight 

To  Rosalind,  daughter  of  the  Faery  Queen. 

Other  Elves.     She's  a  mannikin  changeling  ;  her  name  shows  it. 

Other  Elves.     We  have  heard  tell ;    that  she  as  dream  is  fair. 

Awn.  I've  heard  old  Paigle  say,  fays  gave  for  her 

To  humans,  in  the  cradle,  Moonshecn  bright. 

Other  Elves.     And  Eglantine  should  wedded  be  this  night, 
To  Ivytwine,  in  the  laughing  full  moon. 

Moth.  I  was  there  and  saw  it :    on  hoar  roots, 

All  gnarled  and  knotty,  of  an  antique  oak,  .  .  . 
Crowned,  some  with  plighted  frets  of  violets 

sweet ; 
Other,  with  flower-cups  many-hewed,  had  dight 
Their  locks  of  gold  ;    the  gentle  faeries  sate  : 
All  in  their  watchet  cloaks  :   were  dainty  mats 
Spread   under   them,    of  dwarve-wives   rushen 

work  : 
And  primroses  were  strewed  before  their  feet. 
They  at  banquet  sate,   from  dim  of  after- 
noon .  .  .         {Enter  more  elves  running.) 

Howt.  Whence  come  ye  foothot  ? 

132 


THE  FAIRIES  FEAST 

One  of  the  new-come  Elves.     0  Awn,  0  Howt ! 

Not  past  a  league  from  hence,  lies  close-cropped 

plot, 
Where   purple   milkworts   blow,   which   conies 

haunt, 
Amidst    the   windy   heath.     We   saw    gnomes 

dance 
There  ;   that  not  bigger  been  than  harvest  mice. 
Some  of  their  heads  were  deckt,  as  seemed  to  us, 
With    moonbeams   bright :    and  those  tonight 

hold  feast : 
Though   in   them   there   none   utterance  is   of 

speech. 

Awn.  Be  those  our  mothers'  cousins,  dainty  of  grace  : 

But  seld  now,  in  a  moonlight,  are  they  seen. 
They  live  not  longer  than  do  humble  been. 

Elves.  We  saw  of  living  herb,  intressed  with  moss, 

Their  small  wrought  cabins  open  on  the  grass. 

Awn.  Other,  in  gossamer  bowers,  wonne  underclod. 

Elves.  And  each  gnome  held  in  hand  a  looking  glass  ; 

Wherein  he  keeked,  and  kissed  oft  the  Moons 
face. 

Awn.  Are  they  a  faery  offspring,  without  sex, 

Of  the  stars'  rays. 

Elves.  They'd  wings  on  their  flit  feet ; 

That  seemed,  in  their  oft  shining,  glancing  drops 
Of  rain,  which  beat  on  bosom  of  the  grass  : 
Wherein  be  some  congealed  as  adamant. 

We  stooped  to  gaze  (a  neighbour  tussock  hid 
us,) 
On  sight  so  fair  :    their  beauty  being  such, 
That  seemed  us  it  all  living  thought  did  pass. 
Yet  were  we  spied  !   for  looked  down  full  upon 

us, 

133 


ELPIIIX.  OITII   AND   FAY 

Disclosing  then   murk  skies,  Moons  clear  still 
lace. 
In  that  they  shrunk  back,   and  clapped  to 
their  doors.  .  .  . 

Chari.es  M.  Doughty 


134 


SUMMER :  GREENWOOD 
SOLITUDE.    ©     ©     ©     © 


141  THE  HUNT  IS  UP 

The  hunt  is  up,  the  hunt  is  up, 

And  it  is  well  nigh  day  ; 
And  Harry  our  King  is  gone  hunting 

To  bring  his  deer  to  bay. 

The  east  is  bright  with  morning  light, 

And  darkness  it  is  fled  ; 
And  the  merry  horn  wakes  up  the  morn 

To  leave  his  idle  bed. 

Behold  the  skies  with  golden  dyes 

Are  glowing  all  around  ; 
The  grass  is  green,  and  so  are  the  treen 

All  laughing  at  the  sound. 

The  horses  snort  to  be  at  sport, 
The  dogs  are  running  free, 

The  woods  rejoice  at  the  merry  noise 
Of  Hey  tantara  tee  ree  ! 

The  sun  is  glad  to  see  us  clad 

All  in  our  lusty  green, 
And  smiles  in  the  sky  as  he  riseth  high 

To  see  and  to  be  seen. 

Awake  all  men,  I  say  again, 

Be  merry  as  you  may  ; 
For  Harry  our  King  is  gone  hunting, 

To  bring  his  deer  to  bay. 

137 


SUMMER:   GREENWOOD:    SOLITUDE 

[42  THE  CHEERFUL  HORN 

Tin-  cheerful  arn  he  Maws  in  the  mam, 

Ami  we'll  a-'untin'  <j;oo  ; 
The  cheerful  arn  he  blaws  in  the  mam, 

And  we'll  a-'untin'  goo, 
And  we'll  a-'untin'  goo, 

And  we'll  a-'untin'  goo  .  .  . 

Var  all  my  vancy  dwells  upon  Nancy, 

And  I'll  zing  Tally  ho  ! 
Var  all  my  vancy  dwells  upon  Nancy, 

And  I'll  zing  Tally  ho  ! 

The  vox  jumps  awer  the  'edge  zo  'igh, 
An'  the  'ouns  all  atter  un  goo  ; 

Var  all  my  vancy  dwells  upon  Nancy, 
And  I'll  zing  Tally  ho  ! 

Then  never  despoise  the  soldjer  lod, 
Thof  'is  ztaition  be  boot  low  ; 

Var  all  my  vancy  dwells  upon  Nancy, 
And  I'll  zing  Tally  ho  ! 

Then  push  about  the  coop,  my  bwoys, 
An'  we  will  wumwards  goo, 

Var  all  my  vancy  dwells  upon  Nancy, 
And  I'll  zing  Tally  ho  ! 

If  you  ax  me  the  zenze  of  this  z6ng  vur  to  tell, 

Or  the  reazon  vur  to  zhow  ; 
\Yoy,  I  doan't  exacaly  knoo, 
Woy,  I  doan't  exacaly  knoo  : 

Var  all  my  vancy  dwells  upon  Nancy, 

And  I'll  zing  Tally  ho  ! 
Var  all  my  vancy  dwells  upon  Nancy, 
And  I'll  zing  Tally  ho  ! 


138 


JOHN  PEEL 

143  JOHN  PEEL 

D'ye  ken  John  Peel  with  his  coat  so  gay  ? 

D'ye  ken  John  Peel  at  the  break  of  the  day  ? 

D'ye  ken  John  Peel  when  he's  far,  far  away, 

With  his  hounds  and  his  horn  in  the  morning  ? 

'Twas  the  sound  of  his  horn  called  me  from  my  bed, 
And  the  cry  of  his  hounds  has  me  oft-times  led, 
For  Peel's  View-hollo  would  awaken  the  dead, 
Or  a  fox  from  his  lair  in  the  morning. 

D'ye  ken  that  bitch  whose  tongue  is  death  ? 
D'ye  ken  her  sons  of  peerless  faith  ? 
D'ye  ken  that  a  fox  with  his  last  breath 
Cursed  them  all  as  he  died  in  the  morning  ? 

Yes,  I  ken  John  Peel  and  Ruby  too 

Ranter  and  Royal  and  Bellman  as  true  ; 

From  the  drag  to  the  chase,  from  the  chase  to  a  view, 

From  a  view  to  the  death  in  the  morning. 

And  I've  followed  John  Peel  both  often  and  far 
O'er  the  rasper-fence  and  the  gate  and  the  bar, 
From  Low  Denton  Holme  up  to  Scratchmere  Scar, 
When  we  vied  for  the  brush  in  the  morning. 

Then  here's  to  John  Peel  with  my  heart  and  soul, 

Come  fill — fill  to  him  another  strong  bowl  : 

And  we'll  follow  John  Peel  through  fair  and  through  foul, 

While  we're  waked  by  his  horn  in  the  morning. 

'Twas  the  sound  of  his  horn  called  me  from  my  bed, 
And  the  cry  of  his  hounds  has  me  oft-times  led, 
For  Peel's  View-hollo  would  awaken  the  dead 
Or  a  fox  from  his  lair  in  the  morning. 

John  Woodcock  Graves 


139 


SUMMER:   GREENWOOD:  SOLITUDE 

144  THE  SCHOOLBOY 

I  love  to  rise  in  a  summer  morn 
When  the  birds  sing  on  every  tree  ; 
The  distant  huntsman  winds  his  horn, 
And  the  skylark  sings  with  me. 
0  !  what  sweet  company. 

But  to  go  to  school  in  a  summer  morn, 
0  !  it  drives  all  joy  away  ; 
Under  a  cruel  eye  outworn, 
The  little  ones  spend  the  day 
In  sighing  and  dismay. 

Ah  !  then  at  times  I  drooping  sit, 
And  spend  many  an  anxious  hour, 
Nor  in  my  book  can  I  take  delight, 
Nor  sit  in  learning's  bower, 
Worn  thro'  with  the  dreary  shower. 

How  can  the  bird  that  is  born  for  joy 

Sit  in  a  cage  and  sing  ? 

How  can  a  child,  when  fears  annoy, 

But  droop  his  tender  wing, 

And  forget  his  youthful  spring  ? 

0  !  father  and  mother,  if  buds  are  nipped, 

And  blossoms  blown  away, 

And  if  the  tender  plants  are  stripped 

Of  their  joy  in  the  springing  day, 

By  sorrow  and  care's  dismay, 

How  shall  the  summer  arise  in  joy, 

Or  the  summer  fruits  appear  ? 

Or  how  shall  we  gather  what  griefs  destroy, 

Or  bless  the  mellowing  year, 

When  the  blasts  of  winter  appear  ? 

William  Blake 


140 


A  BOY'S  SONG 

145  A  BOY'S  SONG 

Where  the  pools  are  bright  and  deep, 
Where  the  grey  trout  lies  asleep, 
Up  the  river  and  over  the  lea, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Where  the  blackbird  sings  the  latest, 
Where  the  hawthorn  blooms  the  sweetest, 
Where  the  nestlings  chirp  and  flee, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Where  the  mowers  mow  the  cleanest, 
Where  the  hay  lies  thick  and  greenest, 
There  to  track  the  homeward  bee, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Where  the  hazel  bank  is  steepest, 
Where  the  shadow  falls  the  deepest, 
Where  the  clustering  nuts  fall  free, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

Why  the  boys  should  drive  away 
Little  sweet  maidens  from  their  play, 
Or  love  to  banter  and  fight  so  well, 
That's  the  thing  I  never  could  tell. 

But  this  I  know,  I  love  to  play 
Through  the  meadow,  among  the  hay  ; 
Up  the  water  and  over  the  lea, 
That's  the  way  for  Billy  and  me. 

James  Hogg 

146  MARKET  DAY 

Who'll  walk  the  fields  with  us  to  town, 
In  an  old  coat  and  a  faded  gown  ? 
We  take  our  roots  and  country  sweets, 
Where  high  walls  shade  the  steep  old  streets, 
And  golden  bells  and  silver  chimes 
Ring  up  and  down  the  sleepy  times. 
141 


SUMMER:  GREENWOOD:  SOLITUDE 

The  morning  mountains  smoke  Like  fires ; 
The  sun  spreads  out  his  shining  wins ; 

The  mower  in  the  half-mown  lezza 
Sips  his  ten  and  takes  his  pleasure. 
Along  the  lane  slow  waggons  amble. 

The  sad-eyed  ealves  awake  and  gamble  ; 
The  foal  that  lay  so  sorrowful 
Is  playing  in  the  grasses  cool. 
By  slanting  ways,  in  slanting  sun, 
Through  startled  lapwings  now  we  run 
Along  the  pale  green  hazel-path, 
Through  April's  lingering  aftermath 
Of  lady's  smock  and  lady's  slipper  ; 
We  stay  to  watch  a  nesting  dipper. 
The  rabbits  eye  us  while  we  pass, 
Out  of  the  sorrel-crimson  grass  ; 
The  blackbird  sings,  without  a  fear, 
Where  honeysuckle  horns  blow  clear — 
Cool  ivory  stained  with  true  vermilion, 
And  here,  within  a  silk  pavilion, 
Small  caterpillars  lie  at  ease. 
The  endless  shadows  of  the  trees 
Are  painted  purple  and  cobalt  ; 
Grandiloquent,  the  rook-files  halt, 
Each  one  aware  of  you  and  me, 
And  full  of  conscious  dignity. 
Our  shoes  are  golden  as  we  pass 
With  pollen  from  the  pansied  grass. 
Beneath  an  elder — set  anew 
With  large  clean  plates  to  catch  the  dew- 
On  fine  white  cheese  and  bread  we  dine. 
The  clear  brook-water  tastes  like  wine. 
If  all  folk  lived  with  labour  sweet 
Of  their  own  busy  hands  and  feet, 
Such  marketing,  it  seems  to  me, 
Would  make  an  end  of  poverty. 

Mary  Webb 


142 


UNDER  THE  GREENWOOD  TREE 

147      UNDER  THE  GREENWOOD  TREE 

Under  the  greenewood  tree, 

Who  loves  to  lye  with  me, 

And  turne  his  merrie  Note 

Unto  the  sweet  Bird's  throte  : 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither, 

Heere  shall  he  see  no  enemie 
But  Winter  and  rough  Weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shunne 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  Sunne, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eates 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets  : 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither, 

Here  shall  he  see  no  enemie 
But  Winter  and  rough  Weather. 

William  Shakespeare 


148  IN  SUMMER 

In  somer  when  the  shawes  be  sheyne,1 

And  leves  be  large  and  long, 
Hit  2  is  full  merry  in  feyre  foreste 

To  here  the  foulys  3  song. 

To  se  the  dere  draw  to  the  dale 

And  leve  the  hilles  hee, 
And  shadow  him  in  the  leves  grene 

Under  the  green-wode  tree. 

Hit  befell  on  Whitsontide 

Early  in  a  May  mornyng, 
The  Sonne  up  faire  gan  shyne, 

And  the  briddis  mery  gan  syng. 

"  This  is  a  mery  mornyng,"  said  Litulle  Johne, 
"  By  Hym  that  dyed  on  tree  ; 

1  When  the  woods  are  fresh  and  fair         2  It         3  Small  birds' 

143 


SUMMER:   GREENWOOD:  SOLITUDE 

A  more  mery  man  than  I  am  one 
Lyvcs  not  in  Christ  i.mtr. 

•■  Pluk  up  tin  hert,  my  dere  mayster," 

Litulle  Johne  can  say, 
•■  \ml  thynk  hit  is  a  fulle  fayre  tyme 

In  a  moraynge  of  May." 

149  LUBBER  BREEZE 

The  four  sails  of  the  mill 
Like  stocks  stand  still  ; 
Their  lantern-length  is  white 
On  blue  more  bright. 

Unruffled  is  the  mead, 
Where  lambkins,  feed 
And  sheep  and  cattle  browse 
And  donkeys  drowse. 

Never  the  least  breeze  will 
The  wet  thumb  chill 
That  the  anxious  miller  lifts, 
Till  the  vane  shifts. 

The  breeze  in  the  great  flour-bin 
Is  snug  tucked  in  ; 
The  lubber,  while  rats  thieve, 
Laughs  in  his  sleeve. 

T.  Sturge  Moore 

l5o  A  SUMMER'S  DAY 

"  The  ample  heaven  of  fabrik  sure, 
In  cleannes  dois  surpas 
The  chrystall  and  the  silver  pure, 
Or  clearest  poleist  x  glas. 

The  shadow  of  the  earth  anon 
Removes  and  drawes  by, 

1  Polished 

144 


A  SUMMER'S  DAY 

Sine  in  the  east,  when  it  is  gon, 
Appears  a  clearer  sky. 

Ouhilk  sune  x  perceives  the  little  larks, 

The  lapwing  and  the  snyp, 
And  tune  their  sangs,  like  Nature's  clarks 

Our  medow,  mure  and  stryp.2 

The  time  sa  tranquil  is  and  still, 

That  na  where  sail  ye  find, 
Saife  on  ane  high  and  barren  hill, 

Ane  aire  of  peeping  wind. 

All  trees  and  simples  3  great  and  small, 

That  balmie  leife  do  beir, 
Nor  thay  were  painted  on  a  wall, 

Na  mair  they  move  or  steir  4.  .  ." 

Alexander  Hume 

151  LEISURE 

What  is  this  life  if,  full  of  care, 

We  have  no  time  to  stand  and  stare  ? 

No  time  to  stand  beneath  the  boughs 
And  stare  as  long  as  sheep  or  cows. 

No  time  to  see,  when  woods  we  pass, 
Where  squirrels  hide  their  nuts  in  grass. 

No  time  to  see,  in  broad  daylight, 
Streams  full  of  stars,  like  skies  at  night. 

No  time  to  turn  at  Beauty's  glance, 
And  watch  her  feet,  how  they  can  dance. 

No  time  to  wait  till  her  mouth  can 
Enrich  that  smile  her  eyes  began. 

A  poor  life  this  if,  full  of  care, 

We  have  no  time  to  stand  and  stare. 

William  H.  Davies 

1  Which  soon         2  O'er  meadow,  moor  and  stream 
3  Herbs,  wild  flowers  4  Stir 

1 45  k 


SUMMER:  GREENWOOD:  SOLITUDE 

THE  HAPPY  COUNTRYMAN 

Who  can  live  in  heart  so  glad 

As  the  merry  country  lad  ? 

Who  upon  a  fair  green  balk  ' 

May  at  pleasure  sit  and  walk, 

And  amid  the  azure  skies 

See  the  morning  sun  arise, — 

While  he  hears  in  every  spring 

How  the  birds  do  chirp  and  sing  : 

Or  before  the  hounds  in  cry 

See  the  hare  go  stealing  by  : 

Or  along  the  shallow  brook, 

Angling  with  a  baited  hook, 

See  the  fishes  leap  and  play 

In  a  blessed  sunny  day  : 

Or  to  hear  the  partridge  call, 

Till  she  have  her  covey  all  : 

Or  to  see  the  subtle  fox, 

How  the  villain  plies  the  box  : 

After  feeding  on  his  prey, 

How  he  closely  sneaks  away, 

Through  the  hedge  and  down  the  furrow 

Till  he  gets  into  his  burrow  : 

Then  the  bee  to  gather  honey, 

And  the  little  black-haired  coney, 

On  a  bank  for  sunny  place, 

With  her  forefeet  wash  her  face  : 

Are  not  these,  with  thousands  moe  2 

Than  the  courts  of  kings  do  know, 

The  true  pleasing  spirit's  sights 

That  may  breed  true  love's  delights  ?  .  .  . 

Nicholas  Breton 


1  A  bank  between  ploughlands  2  More 

146 


"  O  FOR  A  BOOKE  " 


153  "0  FOR  A  BOOKE" 

0  for  a  Booke  and  a  shadie  nooke, 

eyther  in-a-doore  or  out ; 
With  the  grene  leaves  whispering  overhede, 

or  the  Streete  cryes  all  about. 
Where  I  maie  Reade  all  at  my  ease, 

both  of  the  Newe  and  Olde  ; 
For  a  jollie  goode  Booke  whereon  to  looke, 

is  better  to  me  than  Golde. 


154  GREEN  BROOM 

There  was  an  old  man  lived  out  in  the  wood, 
His  trade  was  a-cutting  of  Broom,  green  Broom  ; 

He  had  but  one  son  without  thrift,  without  good, 
Who  lay  in  his  bed  till  'twas  noon,  bright  noon. 

The  old  man  awoke,  one  morning  and  spoke, 
He  swore  he  would  fire  the  room,  that  room, 

If  his  John  would  not  rise  and  open  his  eyes, 
And  away  to  the  wood  to  cut  Broom,  green  Broom. 

So  Johnny  arose,  and  he  slipped  on  his  clothes, 
And  away  to  the  wood  to  cut  Broom,  green  Broom, 

He  sharpened  his  knives,  for  once  he  contrives 
To  cut  a  great  bundle  of  Broom,  green  Broom. 

When  Johnny  passed  under  a  lady's  fine  house, 

Passed  under  a  lady's  fine  room,  fine  room, 
She  called  to  her  maid,  "  Go  fetch  me,"  she  said, 

"  Go  fetch  me  the  boy  that  sells  Broom,  green  Broom." 

When  Johnny  came  in  to  the  lady's  fine  house, 
And  stood  in  the  lady's  fine  room,  fine  room  ; 

"  Young  Johnny,"  she  said,  "  Will  you  give  up  your  trade, 
And  marry  a  lady  in  bloom,  full  bloom  ?  " 

147 


SUMMER:   GREENWOOD:  SOLITl'DK 

Johnny  gave  his  consent,  and  to  church  they  both  went, 

And  he  wedded  the  lady  in  bloom,  full  bloom, 
At  market  and  fair,  all  folks  do  declare, 

There  is  none  like  the  Boy  that  sold  Broom,  green  Broom. 


155  THE  TWELVE  OXEN 

I  have  twelfe  oxen  that  be  faire  and  brown, 
And  they  go  a  grasing  down  by  the  town. 

With  hey  !  with  how  !  with  hoy  ! 
Sawcste  not  you  mine  oxen,  you  litill  prcty  boy  ? 

I  have  twelfe  oxen,  and  they  be  faire  and  white, 
And  they  go  a  grasing  down  by  the  dyke. 

With  hey  !  with  how  !  with  hoy  ! 
Saweste  not  you  mine  oxen,  you  litill  prety  boy  ? 

I  have  twelfe  oxen,  and  they  be  faire  and  blak, 
And  they  go  a  grasing  down  by  the  lake. 

With  hey  !  with  how  !  with  hoy  ! 
Saweste  not  you  mine  oxen,  you  litill  prety  boy  ? 

I  have  twelfe  oxen,  and  they  be  faire  and  rede, 
And  they  go  a  grasing  down  by  the  mede 

With  hey  !  with  how  !  with  hoy  ! 
Saweste  not  you  mine  oxen,  you  litill  prety  boy  ? 


156  LAVENDER'S  BLUE 

Lavender's  blue,  dilly  dilly,  lavender's  green, 
WThen  I  am  king,  dilly  dilly,  you  shall  be  queen 
Who  told  you  so,  dilly  dilly,  wrho  told  you  so  ? 
'Twas  mine  one  heart,  dilly  dilly,  that  told  me  so. 

Call  up  your  men,  dilly  dilly,  set  them  to  work, 
Some  with  a  rake,  dilly  dilly,  some  with  a  fork, 
Some  to  make  hay,  dilly  dilly,  some  to  thresh  corn, 
Whilst  you  and  I,  dilly  dilly,  keep  ourselves  warm. 

148 


THE  GARDEN 

157  THE  GARDEN 

.  .  .  What  wondrous  life  is  this  I  lead  ! 
Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head  ; 
The  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 
Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine  ; 
The  nectarine  and  curious  peach 
Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach  ; 
Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass, 
Ensnared  with  flowers,  I  fall  on  grass. 

Meanwhile  the  mind,  from  pleasure  less, 

Withdraws  into  its  happiness  ; 

The  mind,  that  ocean  where  each  kind 

Does  straight  its  own  resemblance  find  ; 

Yet  it  creates,  transcending  these, 

Far  other  worlds  and  other  seas, 

Annihilating  all  that's  made 

To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade. 

Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot 
Or  at  some  fruit-tree's  mossy  root, 
Casting  the  body's  vest  aside 
My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  glide  : 
There,  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings, 
Then  whets  *  and  claps  its  silver  wings, 
And,  till  prepared  for  longer  flight, 
Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light.  .  .  . 

Such  was  the  happy  Garden-state 
While  man  there  walked  without  a  mate  : 
After  a  place  so  pure  and  sweet, 
What  other  help  could  yet  be  meet  ! 
But  'twas  beyond  a  mortal's  share 
To  wander  solitary  there  : 
Two  paradises  'twere  in  one, 
To  live  in  Paradise  alone.  .  .  . 

Andrew  Marvell 

1  Preens 

149 


SUMMER:   GREENWOOD:   SOLITUDE 

[58  CHERRY-RIPE 

Cherrie  Ripe,  Ripe,  Ripe,  I  cry, 
Full  and  f.ure  ones  ;   come  and  buy  : 
If  so  be  you  ask  me  where 
They  doe  grow  ?    I  answer,  There, 
Where  my  Julia's  lips  doe  smile  ; 
There's  the  Land,  or  Cherrie  He  : 
Whose  Plantations  fully  show 
All  the  yeare,  where  Cherries  grow. 

Robert  Herrick 


159  CHERRY-RIPE 

There  is  a  Garden  in  her  face 
Where  Roses  and  white  Lillies  grow  ; 

A  heav'nly  paradice  is  that  place, 
Wherein  all  pleasant  fruits  doe  flow. 

There  Cherries  grow,  which  none  may  buy, 

Till  Cherry  Ripe  themselves  doe  cry. 

Those  Cherries  fayrely  doe  enclose 
Of  Orient  Pearle  a  double  row, 

Which  when  her  lovely  laughter  showes, 
They  look  like  Rose-buds  filled  with  snow. 

Yet  them  nor  Peere  nor  Prince  can  buy, 

Till  Cherry  Ripe  themselves  doe  cry. 

Her  Eyes  like  Angels  watch  them  still  ; 
Her  Browes  like  bended  bowes  doe  stand, 

Threat'ning  with  piercing  frownes  to  kill 
All  that  approach  with  eye  or  hand 

These  sacred  Cherries  to  come  nigh, 

Till  Cherry  Ripe  themselves  do  cry. 

Thomas  Campion 


150 


SONG 

160  SONG 

What  is  there  hid  in  the  heart  of  a  rose, 

Mother-mine  ? 
Ah,  who  knows,  who  knows,  who  knows  ? 
A  Man  that  died  on  a  lonely  hill 
May  tell  you,  perhaps,  but  none  other  will, 

Little  child. 

What  does  it  take  to  make  a  rose, 

Mother-mine  ? 
The  God  that  died  to  make  it  knows 
It  takes  the  world's  eternal  wars, 
It  takes  the  moon  and  all  the  stars, 
It  takes  the  might  of  heaven  and  hell 
And  the  everlasting  Love  as  well, 

Little  child. 

Alfred  Noyes 


161  THE  MYSTERY 

He  came  and  took  me  by  the  hand 

Up  to  a  red  rose  tree, 
He  kept  His  meaning  to  Himself 

But  gave  a  rose  to  me. 
I  did  not  pray  Him  to  lay  bare 

The  mystery  to  me, 
Enough  the  rose  was  Heaven  to  smell, 

And  His  own  face  to  see. 

Ralph  Hodgson 

162  THE  ROSE 

A  Rose,  as  fair  as  ever  saw  the  North, 
Grew  in  a  little  garden  all  alone  ; 
A  sweeter  flower  did  Nature  ne'er  put  forth, 
Nor  fairer  garden  yet  was  never  known  : 

The  maidens  danced  about  it  morn  and  noon, 
And  learned  bards  of  it  their  ditties  made  ; 
151 


SUMMER:  GREENWOOD:  SOLITUDE 

The  nimble  fairies  by  the  pale-faced  moon 
Watered  the  rout  and  kissed  her  pretty  shade. 

But  well-a-day  ! — the  gardener  careless  grew  ; 
The  maids  and  fairies  both  were  kept  away, 
And  in  a  drought  the  caterpillars  threw 
Themselves  upon  the  bud  and  every  spray. 

God  shield  the  stock  !     If  heaven  send  no  supplies, 
The  fairest  blossom  of  the  garden  dies. 

William  Browne 


163  SONG 

Ask  me  no  more,  where  Jove  bestows 
When  June  is  past  the  fading  rose  ; 
For  in  your  beauty's  orient  deep 
These  flowers,  as  in  their  causes,  sleep. 

Ask  me  no  more,  whither  do  stray 
The  golden  atoms  of  the  day  ; 
For  in  pure  love  heaven  did  prepare 
Those  powders  to  enrich  your  hair. 

Ask  me  no  more,  whither  doth  haste 
The  nightingale  when  May  is  past ; 
For  in  your  sweet  dividing  throat 
She  winters  and  keeps  warm  her  note. 

Ask  me  no  more,  where  those  stars  light1 
That  downwards  fall  in  dead  of  night ; 
For  in  your  eyes  they  sit  and  there 
Fixed  become  as  in  their  sphere. 

Ask  me  no  more  if  east  or  west 

The  Phoenix  builds  her  spicy  nest ; 

For  unto  you  at  last  she  flies, 

And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies. 

Thomas  Carew 
1  Stay 

152 


THE  BOWER  OF  BLISS 

164  THE  BOWER  OF  BLISS 

(The  "  daintie  Paradise  of  the  Enchauntresse  "  whereinto  the 
Palmer  brought  Sir  Guyon.) 

.  .  .  And  in  the  midst  of  all,  a  fountaine  stood, 
Of  richest  substaunce  that  on  earth  might  bee, 
So  pure  and  shiny,  that  the  silver  flood 
Through  every  channell  running,  one  might  see  ; 
Most  goodly  it  with  pure  imageree 
Was  over-wrought,  and  shapes  of  naked  boyes, 
Of  which  some  seemed  with  lively  jollitee 
To  fly  about,  playing  their  wanton  toyes, 

Whiles  others  did  them  selves  embay  in  liquid  joyes. 

And  over  all,  of  purest  gold  was  spred 
A  trayle  of  yvie  in  his  native  hew  : 
For  the  rich  mettall  was  so  coloured, 
That  wight,  who  did  not  well-advised  it  vew, 
Would  surely  deeme  it  to  be  yvie  treu. 
Lowe  his  lascivious  arms  adown  did  creepe, 
That  themselves  dipping  in  the  silver  dew, 
Their  fleecy  flowres  they  tenderly  did  steepe, 

Which  drops  of  Cristall  seemd  for  wantonnes  to  weepe. 

Infinit  streames  continually  did  well 

Out  of  this  fountaine,  sweet  and  faire  to  see, 
The  which  into  an  ample  laver  fell, 
And  shortly  grew  to  so  great  quantitie, 
That  like  a  little  lake  it  seemed  to  bee  ; 
Whose  depth  exceeded  not  three  cubits  hight, 
That  through  the  waves  one  might  the  bottom  see, 
All  paved  beneath  with  Jaspar  shining  bright 

That  seemd  the  fountaine  in  that  sea  did  sayle  upright. 

And  all  the  margent  round  about  was  set 
With  shady  lawrell-trees,  thence  to  defend 
The  sunny  beames,  which  on  the  billows  bet, 
And  those  which  therein  bathed,  mote  1  offend  .  .  . 

1  Might 

153 


SUMMER:   GREENWOOD:   SOLITUDE 

Eftsoonea  they  heard  a  most  melodious  sound, 
Of  all  thai  mote  delight  a  daintie  eare, 
Such  as  att  once  might  not  on  living  ground, 
Save  in  this  Paradise,  be  heard  elswhere  : 
Right  hard  it  was,  for  wight,  which  did  it  hcare, 
To  re. id,  what  manner  musicke  that  mote  bee  : 
For  all  that  pleasing  is  to  living  care, 
Was  there  consorted  in  one  harmonie, 

Birdes,  voyecs,  instruments,  windes,  waters,  all  agree. 

The  joyous  birdes,  shrouded  in  cheareful  shade, 
Their  notes  unto  the  voice  attempred  sweet ; 
Th'  Angelicall  soft  trembling  voyces  made 
To  th'  instruments  divine  respondence  meet  : 
The  silver  sounding  instruments  did  meet 
With  the  base  murmure  of  the  waters  fall  : 
The  waters  fall  with  difference  discreet, 
Now  soft,  now  loud,  unto  the  wind  did  call  : 

The  gentle  warbling  wind  low  answered  to  all. 

Edmund  Spenser 


165  SMALL  FOUNTAINS 

.  .  .  Jarring  the  air  with  rumour  cool, 
Small  fountains  played  into  a  pool 
With  sound  as  soft  as  the  barley's  hiss 
When  its  beard  just  sprouting  is  ; 
Whence  a  young  stream,  that  trod  on  moss, 
Prettily  rimpled  the  court  across. 
And  in  the  pool's  clear  idleness, 
Moving  like  dreams  through  happiness, 
Shoals  of  small  bright  fishes  were  ; 
In  and  out  weed-thickets  bent 
Perch  and  carp,  and  sauntering  went 
With  mounching  jaws  and  eyes  a-stare  ; 
Or  on  a  lotus  leaf  would  crawl, 
A  brinded  loach  to  bask  and  sprawl, 
154 


SMALL  FOUNTAINS 

Tasting  the  warm  sun  ere  it  dipt 

Into  the  water ;  but  quick  as  fear 

Back  his  shining  brown  head  slipt 

To  crouch  on  the  gravel  of  his  lair, 

Where  the  cooled  sunbeams  broke  in  wrack, 

Spilt  shattered  gold  about  his  back.  .  .  . 

Lascelles  Abercrombie 


166  THE  INVITATION,  TO  JANE 

Best  and  brightest,  come  away  ! 

Fairer  far  than  this  fair  Day, 

Which,  like  thee  to  those  in  sorrow, 

Comes  to  bid  a  sweet  good-morrow 

To  the  rough  Year  just  awake 

In  its  cradle  on  the  brake. 

The  brightest  hour  of  unborn  Spring, 

Through  the  winter  wandering, 

Found,  it  seems,  the  halcyon  Morn 

To  hoar  February  born  ; 

Bending  from  Heaven,  in  azure  mirth, 

It  kissed  the  forehead  of  the  Earth, 

And  smiled  upon  the  silent  sea, 

And  bade  the  frozen  streams  be  free. 

And  waked  to  music  all  their  fountains, 

And  breathed  upon  the  frozen  mountains, 

And  like  a  prophetess  of  May 

Strewed  flowers  upon  the  barren  way, 

Making  the  wintry  world  appear 

Like  one  on  whom  thou  smilest,  dear.  .  .  . 

Radiant  sister  of  the  Day, 
Awake  !  arise  !  and  come  away  ! 
To  the  wild  woods  and  the  plains, 
And  the  pools  where  winter  rains 
Image  all  their  roof  of  leaves, 
Where  the  pine  its  garland  weaves 
Of  sapless  green  and  ivy  dun 
Round  stems  that  never  kiss  the  sun  ; 
155 


SUMMER:  GREENWOtiD:  SOLITUDE 

Where  the  lawns  and  pastures  be, 
And  the  sand-hills  of  the  sea  ; — 
Where  the  melting  hoar-frosl  wets 
The  daisy-star  thai  never  sets, 
The  wind-flowers,  and  violets, 
Which  yet  join  not  scent  to  hue, 
(n»wn  the  pale  year  weak  and  new  ; 
When  the  night  is  left  behind 
In  the  deep  east,  dun  and  blind, 
And  the  blue  noon  is  over  us, 
And  the  multitudinous 
Billows  murmur  at  our  feet, 
Where  the  earth  and  ocean  meet, 
And  all  things  seem  only  one 
In  the  universal  sun. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


167  THE  RECOLLECTION 

...  We  wandered  to  the  Pine  Forest 

That  skirts  the  Ocean's  foam  ; 
The  lightest  wind  was  in  its  nest, 

The  tempest  in  its  home. 
The  whispering  waves  were  half  asleep, 

The  clouds  were  gone  to  play, 
And  on  the  bosom  of  the  deep 

The  smile  of  Heaven  lay  ; 
It  seemed  as  if  the  hour  were  one 

Sent  from  beyond  the  skies, 
Which  scattered  from  above  the  sun 

A  light  of  Paradise  ! 

We  paused  amid  the  pines  that  stood 
The  giants  of  the  waste, 

Tortured  by  storms  to  shapes  as  rude 
As  serpents  interlaced, 

And  soothed  by  every  azure  breath, 
That  under  heaven  is  blown, 
156 


THE  RECOLLECTION 

To  harmonies  and  hues  beneath, 

As  tender  as  its  own  : 
Now  all  the  tree-tops  lay  asleep 

Like  green  waves  on  the  sea, 
As  still  as  in  the  silent  deep 

The  ocean  woods  may  be. 

How  calm  it  was  ! — The  silence  there 

By  such  a  chain  was  bound 
That  even  the  busy  woodpecker 

Made  stiller  with  her  sound 
The  inviolable  quietness  ; 

The  breath  of  peace  we  drew 
With  its  soft  motion  made  not  less 

The  calm  that  round  us  grew. 
There  seemed,  from  the  remotest  seat 

Of  the  white  mountain  waste 
To  the  soft  flower  beneath  our  feet, 

A  magic  circle  traced, — 
A  spirit  interfused  around, 

A  thrilling,  silent  life — 
To  momentary  peace  it  bound 

Our  mortal  nature's  strife  ; — 
And  still  I  felt  the  centre  of 

The  magic  circle  there 
Was  one  fair  form  that  filled  with  love 

The  lifeless  atmosphere.  .  .  . 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


i 68  THE  GOAT  PATHS 

The  crooked  paths  go  every  way 
Upon  the  hill — they  wind  about 
Through  the  heather  in  and  out 

Of  the  quiet  sunniness. 

And  there  the  goats,  day  after  day, 
Stray  in  sunny  quietness, 

157 


SUMMER:   GREENWOOD:   SOLITUDE 

Cropping  here  and  cropping  there, 
As  they  pause  and  turn  and  pass, 

Now  a  bit  of  heather  spray, 
Now  a  mouthful  of  the  grass. 

In  the  deeper  sunniness, 

In  the  place  where  nothing  stirs, 
Quietly  in  quietness, 

In  the  quiet  of  the  furze, 
For  a  time  they  come  and  lie 
Staring  on  the  roving  sky. 

If  you  approach  they  run  away, 
They  leap  and  stare,  away  they  bound, 
With  a  sudden  angry  sound, 

To  the  sunny  quietude  ; 

Crouching  down  where  nothing  stirs 
In  the  silence  of  the  furze, 

Couching  down  again  to  brood 

In  the  sunny  solitude. 

If  I  were  as  wise  as  they, 

I  would  stray  apart  and  brood, 
I  would  beat  a  hidden  way 
Through  the  quiet  heather  spray 
To  a  sunny  solitude  ; 

And  should  you  come  I'd  run  away, 
I  would  make,  an  angry  sound, 
I  would  stare  and  turn  and  bound 

To  the  deeper  quietude, 

To  the  place  where  nothing  stirs 
In  the  silence  of  the  furze. 

In  that  airy  quietness 

I  would  think  as  long  as  they  ; 

Through  the  quiet  sunniness 
I  would  stray  away  to  brood 

By  a  hidden  beaten  way 
In  a  sunny  solitude, 
158 


THE  GOAT  PATHS 

I  would  think  until  I  found 

Something  I  can  never  find, 
Something  lying  on  the  ground, 

In  the  bottom  of  my  mind. 

James  Stephens 


169         UNDER  A  WILTSHIRE  APPLE  TREE 

Some  folks  as  can  afford, 
So  I've  heard  say, 
Set  up  a  sort  of  cross 
Right  in  the  garden  way 
To  mind  'em  of  the  Lord. 
But  I,  when  I  do  see 
Thik  x  apple  tree 
An'  stoopin'  limb 
•    All  spread  wi'  moss, 
I  think  of  Him 
And  how  He  talks  wi'  me. 

I  think  of  God 

And  how  He  trod 

That  garden  long  ago  ; 

He  walked,  I  reckon,  to  and  fro 

And  then  sat  down 

Upon  the  groun' 

Or  some  low  limb 

What  suited  Him, 

Such  as  you  see 

On  many  a  tree, 

And  on  thik  very  one 

Where  I  at  set  o'  sun 

Do  sit  and  talk  wi'  He. 

And,  mornings,  too,  I  rise  and  come 

An'  sit  down  where  the  branch  be  low  ; 

A  bird  do  sing,  a  bee  do  hum, 

The  flowers  in  the  border  blow, 

iThis 

159 


SUMMER:  (H  KENWOOD:   SOLITUDE 

A tu  1  .ill  my  heart's  so  glad  and  clear 
As  pools  be  when  the  sun  do  peer, 
As  pools  a-laughing  in  the  light 
When  mornin'  air  is  swep1  an1  bright, 
As  pools  what  got  all  Heaven  in  sight, 

So's  my  heart 's  cheer 
When  I  [e  be  near. 

He  never  pushed  the  garden  door, 
He  left  no  footmark  on  the  floor  ; 
I  never  heard  'Un  stir  nor  tread 
And  yet  His  Hand  do  bless  my  head, 
And  when  'tis  time  for  work  to  start 
I  takes  Him  with  me  in  my  heart. 
And  when  I  die,  pray  God  I  see 
At  very  last  thik  apple  tree 
An'  stoopin'  limb, 
And  think  of  Him 
And  all  He  been  to  me. 

Anna  Bunston  de  Bary 


170  WONDER 

How  like  an  Angel  came  I  down  ! 
How  bright  were  all  things  here  ! 
When  first  among  His  works  I  did  appear 

0  how  their  Glory  me  did  crown  ! 
The  world  resembled  His  Eternity, 
In  which  mv  soul  did  walk  ; 
And  every  thing  that  I  did  see 
Did  with  me  talk. 

The  skies  in  their  magnificence, 
The  lively,  lovely  air, 
Oh  how  divine,  how  soft,  how  sweet,  how  fair  ! 
The  stars  did  entertain  my  sense, 
160 


WONDER 

And  all  the  works  of  God,  so  bright  and  pure, 
So  rich  and  great  did  seem, 
As  if  they  ever  must  endure 
In  my  esteem.  .  .  . 

The  streets  were  paved  with  golden  stones, 
The  boys  and  girls  were  mine, 
Oh  how  did  all  their  lovely  faces  shine  ! 

The  sons  of  men  were  holy  ones, 
In  joy  and  beauty  they  appeared  to  me, 
And  every  thing  which  here  I  found, 
While  like  an  Angel  I  did  see, 
Adorned  the  ground. 

Rich  diamond  and  pearl  and  gold 
In  every  place  was  seen  ; 
Rare  splendours,  yellow,  blue,  red,  white  and  green, 

Mine  eyes  did  everywhere  behold. 
Great  wonders  clothed  with  glory  did  appear, 
Amazement  was  my  bliss, 
That  and  my  wealth  was  everywhere  ; 
No  joy  to  this  !  .  .  . 

Thomas  Traherne 


171  SONG 

How  sweet  I  roamed  from  field  to  field 
And  tasted  all  the  summer's  pride, 
Till  I  the  Prince  of  Love  beheld 
Who  in  the  sunny  beams  did  glide  ! 

He  showed  me  lilies  for  my  hair, 
And  blushing  roses  for  my  brow  ; 
He  led  me  through  his  gardens  fair 
Where  all  his  golden  pleasures  grow. 

With  sweet  May  dews  my  wings  were  wet, 
And  Phoebus  fired  my  vocal  rage  ; 
He  caught  me  in  his  silken  net, 
And  shut  me  in  his  golden  cage. 

161 


SUMMER:  GREENWOOD:  SOLITUDE 

He  loves  to  sit  and  hear  me  sing, 

Then,  laughing,  sports  and  plays  with  mc  ; 

Then  stretches  out  my  golden  wing, 

And  mocks  my  loss  of  liberty. 

William   Blake 


17:  THE  BOOK 

Of  this  fair  volume  which  we  World  do  name 
If  we  the  sheets  and  leaves  could  turn  with  care, 
Of  Him  who  it  corrects  and  did  it  frame, 
We  clear  might  read  the  art  and  wisdom  rare  : 

Find  out  His  power  which  wildest  powers  doth  tame, 

His  providence  extending  everywhere, 

His  justice  which  proud  rebels  doth  not  spare, 

In  every  page,  no  period  of  the  same. 

But  silly  we,  like  foolish  children,  rest 
Well  pleased  with  coloured  vellum,  leaves  of  gold, 
Fair  dangling  ribbands,  leaving  what  is  best, 
On  the  great  Writer's  sense  ne'er  taking  hold  ; 

Or,  if  by  chance  we  stay  our  minds  on  aught,  . 
It  is  some  picture  on  the  margin  wrought. 

William  Drummond 


173  TETHY'S  FESTIVAL 

Are  they  shadows  that  we  see  ? 

And  can  shadows  pleasure  give  ? 
Pleasures  only  shadows  be, 
Cast  by  bodies  we  conceive  ; 
And  are  made  the  things  we  deem 
In  those  figures  which  they  seem. 

But  those  pleasures  vanish  fast, 
Which  by  shadows  are  exprest  ; 
162 


TETHY'S  FESTIVAL 

Pleasures  are  not,  if  they  last  ; 
In  their  passing  is  their  best : 
Glory  is  more  bright  and  gay 
In  a  flash,  and  so  away. 

Feed  apace  then,  greedy  eyes, 

On  the  wonder  you  behold  : 
Take  it  sudden,  as  it  flies, 
Though  you  take  it  not  to  hold. 
When  your  eyes  have  done  their  part 
Thought  must  length'n  it  in  the  heart. 

Samuel  Daniel 


163 


WAR    0000 


174  A  WAR  SONG  TO  ENGLISHMEN 

Prepare,  prepare  the  iron  helm  of  War, 
Bring  forth  the  lots,  cast  in  the  spacious  orb  ; 
The  Angel  of  Fate  turns  them  with  mighty  hands, 
And  casts  them  out  upon  the  darkened  earth  ! 

Prepare,  prepare  ! 

Prepare  your  hearts  for  Death's  cold  hand  !  prepare 
Your  souls  for  flight,  your  bodies  for  the  earth  ; 
Prepare  your  arms  for  glorious  victory  ; 
Prepare  your  eyes  to  meet  a  holy  God  ! 

Prepare,  prepare  ! 

Whose  fatal  scroll  is  that  ?     Methinks  'tis  mine  ! 
Why  sinks  my  heart,  why  faltereth  my  tongue  ? 
Had  I  three  lives,  I'd  die  in  such  a  cause, 
And  rise,  with  ghosts,  over  the  well-fought  field. 

Prepare,  prepare  ! 

The  arrows  of  Almighty  God  are  drawn  ! 
Angels  of  Death  stand  in  the  lowering  heavens  ! 
Thousands  of  souls  must  seek  the  realms  of  light, 
And  walk  together  on  the  clouds  of  heaven  ! 

Prepare,  prepare  ! 

Soldiers,  prepare  !     Our  cause  is  Heaven's  cause  ; 
Soldiers,  prepare  !     Be  worthy  of  our  cause  : 
Prepare  to  meet  our  fathers  in  the  sky  : 
Prepare,  0  troops,  that  are  to  fall  to-day  ! 

Prepare,  prepare  ! 

167 


WAR 

Alfred  shall  smile,  and  make  his  harp  rejoice  ; 
The  Norman  William,  and  the  learned  Clerk, 
And  Lion  Heart,  and  black-browed  Edward,  with 
His  loyal  Queen,  shall  rise,  and  welcome  us  ! 

Prepare,  prepare  ! 
William  Blake 


175  FOR  SOLDIERS 

Ye  buds  of  Brutus'  land,  courageous  youths,  now  play  your 

parts  ; 
Unto  your  tackle  stand,  abide  the  brunt  with  valiant  hearts. 
For  news  is  carried  to  and  fro,  that  we  must  forth  to  warfare 

go: 
Men  muster  now  in  every  place,  and  soldiers  are  prest  forth 
apace. 

Faint  not,  spend  blood, 
To  do  your  Queen  and  country  good  ; 

Fair  words,  good  pay, 
Will  make  men  cast  all  care  away. 

The  time  of  war  is  come,  prepare  your  corslet,  spear  and 

shield  ; 
Methinks  I  hear  the  drum  strike  doleful  marches  to  the  field  ; 
Tantara,    tantara,    ye   trumpets    sound,    which    makes    our 

hearts  with  joy  abound. 
The  roaring  guns  are  heard  afar,  and  everything  denounceth 
war. 

Serve  God  ;  stand  stout  ; 
Bold  courage  brings  this  gear  about. 

Fear  not  ;  fate  run  x ; 
Faint  heart  fair  lady  never  won. 

Ye  curious  2  carpet-knights,  that  spend  the  time  in  sport  and 

play; 
Abroad  and  see  new  sights,  your  country's  cause  calls  you 

away  ; 

1  Risk,  hazard,  dare.  2 Dainty;  luxurious. 

168 


FOR  SOLDIERS 

Do  not  to  make  your  ladies'  game,  bring  blemish  to  your 

worthy  name. 
Away   to   field   and  win   renown,   with   courage   beat  your 
enemies  down. 

Stout  hearts  gain  praise, 
When  dastards  sail  in  Slander's  seas ; 

Hap  what  hap  shall, 
We  sure  shall  die  but  once  for  all. 

Alarm  methinks  they  cry,  Be  packing,  mates,  begone  with 

speed  ; 
Our  foes  are  very  nigh  ;    shame  have  that  man  that  shrinks 

at  need  ! 
Unto  it  boldly  let  us  stand,  God  will  give  Right  the  upper 

hand. 
Our  cause  is  good,  we  need  not  doubt,  in  sign  of    coming 
give  a  shout. 

March  forth,  be  strong, 
Good  hap  will  come  ere  it  be  long. 

Shrink  not,  fight  well, 
For  lusty  lads  must  bear  the  bell. 

All  you  that  will  shun  evil,  must  dwell  in  warfare  every  day  ; 
The  world,  the  flesh,  and  devil,  always  do  seek  our  soul's 

decay  ; 
Strive  with  these  foes  with  all  your  might,  so  shall  you  fight 

a  worthy  fight. 
That  conquest  doth  deserve  most  praise,  where  vice  do  yield 
to  viitue's  ways. 

Beat  down  foul  sin, 
A  worthy  crown  then  shall  ye  win  ; 

If  ye  live  well, 
In  heaven  with  Christ  our  souls  shall  dwell. 

Humphrey  Gifford 


169 


\\\n 

176  BATTLE-HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC 

Mini:  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord  ; 
He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes  of  wrath 

are  stored  ; 
He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  His  terrible  swift 

sword  ; 

His  truth  is  inarching  on. 

I  have  seen  Him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hundred  circling 

camps  ; 
They  have  budded  Him  an  altar  in  the  evening  clews  and 

damps  ; 
I  can  read  his  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and  flaring 

lamps  ; 

His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel,  writ  in  burnished  rows  of  steel  : 
"  As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you  my  grace 

shall  deal  ; 
Let  the  Hero,  born  of   woman,  crush  the  serpent  with  his 

heel, 

Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded   forth   the   trumpet   that   shall   never  call 

retreat  ; 
He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  His  judgment-seat  ; 
Oh,  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him  !  be  jubilant,  my  feet  ! 
Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  the  sea, 
With  a  glory  in  His  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me  : 
As  He  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men  free, 
While  God  is  marching  on. 

Julia  Ward  Howe 


170 


"  I  HEARD  A  SOLDIER  " 

177  "I  HEARD  A  SOLDIER  " 

I  heard  a  soldier  sing  some  trifle 
Out  in  the  sun-dried  veldt  alone  : 

He  lay  and  cleaned  his  grimy  rifle 
Idly,  behind  a  stone. 

"  If  after  death,  love,  comes  a  waking, 
And  in  their  camp  so  dark  and  still 

The  men  of  dust  hear  bugles,  breaking 
Their  halt  upon  the  hill, 

"  To  me  the  slow,  the  silver  pealing 
That  then  the  last  high  trumpet  pours 

Shall  softer  than  the  dawn  come  stealing, 
For,  with  its  call,  comes  yours  !  " 

What  grief  of  love  had  he  to  stifle, 

Basking  so  idly  by  his  stone, 
That  grimy  soldier  with  his  rifle 

Out  in  the  veldt,  alone  ? 

Herbert  Trench 


178  THE  DUG-OUT 

Why  do  you  lie  with  your  legs  ungainly  huddled, 
And  one  arm  bent  across  your  sullen  cold 
Exhausted  face  ?      It  hurts  my  heart  to  watch  you, 
Deep-shadowed  from  the  candle's  guttering  gold  ; 
And  you  wonder  why  I  shake  you  by  the  shoulder  ; 
Drowsy,  you  mumble  and  sigh  and  turn  your  head  .  .  . 
You  are  too  young  to  fall  asleep  for  ever  ; 
And  when  you  sleep  you  remind  me  of  the  dead. 

Siegfried  Sassoon 


171 


WAR 

179  NOCTURNE 

Be  thou  at  pr.uc  this  night 

\\  herever  be  thy  bed, 
Thy  slumbering  be  lighl , 

The  tearful  dreams  be  dead 

Within  thy  lovely  head  ; 
God  keep  thee  in  His  sight. 

No  hint  of  love  molest 

Thy  quiet  mind  again  ; 
Night  fold  thee  to  her  breast 

And  hush  thy  crying  pain  ; 

Let  memory  in  vain 
Conspire  against  thy  rest. 

So  may  thy  thoughts  be  lost 

In  the  full  hush  of  sleep. 
Lest  any  sight  accost 

Thine  eyes  to  make  them  weep, 

In  darkness  buried  deep 
For  ever  be  my  ghost. 

Edward  L.  Davison 


180  THE  DEAD 

These  hearts  were  woven  of  human  joys  and  cares, 
Washed  marvellously  with  sorrow,  swift  to  mirth. 

The  years  had  given  them  kindness.     Dawn  was  theirs, 
And  sunset,  and  the  colours  of  the  earth. 

These  had  seen  movement,  and  heard  music  ;  known 
Slumber  and  waking;  loved;  gone  proudly  friended  ; 

Felt  the  quick  stir  of  wonder  ;  sat  alone  ; 

Touched    flowers    and  furs  and  cheeks.     All   this  is 
ended. 

There  are  waters  blown  by  changing  winds  to  laughter 
And  lit  by  the  rich  skies,  all  day.     And  after, 
Frost,  with  a  gesture,  stays  the  waves  that  dance 

172 


THE  DEAD 

And  wandering  loveliness.     He  leaves  a  white 

Unbroken  glory,  a  gathered  radiance, 
A  width,  a  shining  peace,  under  the  night. 

Rupert  Brooke 

181  THE  END 

After  the  blast  of  lightning  from  the  east, 
The  flourish  of  loud  clouds,  the  Chariot  throne  ; 
After  the  drums  of  time  have  rolled  and  ceased, 
And,  from  the  bronze  west,  long  retreat  is  blown — 

Shall  Life  renew  these  bodies  ?     Of  a  truth 
All  death  will  he  annul,  all  tears  assuage  ? — 
Or  fill  these  void  veins  full  again  with  youth, 
And  wash,  with  an  immortal  water,  Age  ? 

When  I  do  ask  white  Age,  he  saith,  "  Not  so  : 
My  head  hangs  weighed  with  snow." 
And  when  I  hearken  to  the  Earth,  she  saith  : 
"  My  fiery  heart  sinks  aching.     It  is  death. 
Mine  ancient  scars  shall  not  be  glorified. 
Nor  mv  titanic  tears,  the  seas,  be  dried." 

Wilfred  Owen 

182  THE  CROWNS 

Cherry  and  pear  are  white, 

Their  snows  lie  sprinkled  on  the  land  like  light 

On  darkness  shed. 

Far  off  and  near 

The  orchards  toss  their  crowns  of  delight, 

And  the  sun  casts  down 

Another  shining  crown. 

The  wind  tears  and  throws  down 

Petal  by  petal  the  crown 

Of  cherry  and  pear  till  the  earth  is  white, 

And  all  the  brightness  is  shed 

In  the  orchards  far  off  and  near, 

That  tossed  by  the  road  and  under  the  green  hill ; 

And  the  wind  is  fled. 

173 


WAB 

Far,  far  off  the  wind 

1  [as  shaken  down 

A  brightness  that  was  as  the  brightness  of  cherry  or  pear 

When  the  orchards  shim-  m  the  sun. 

— Oh  there  is  no  more  fairness 

Since  this  rareness, 

The  radiant  blossom  of  English  earth — is  dead  ! 

John  Freeman 

183  CORONACH1 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain, 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest, 
Like  a  summer-dried  fountain, 

When  our  need  was  the  sorest. 
The  font,  reappearing, 

From  the  rain-drops  shall  borrow, 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering, 

To  Duncan  no  morrow  ! 

The  hand  of  the  reaper 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary, 
But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 

Wails  manhood  in  glory. 
The  autumn  winds  rushing 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  serest, 
But  our  flower  was  in  flushing, 

When  blighting  was  nearest. 

Fleet  foot  on  the  correi,2 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber,3 
Red  hand  in  the  foray, 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber  ! 
Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain, 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river, 
Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain, 

Thou  art  gone,  and  for  ever. 

Sir  Walter  Scott 

1  Dirge,  lament  2  Vast  hill-hollow  3  Danger  or  defeat 

174 


THE  CHILDREN'S  BELLS 

184  THE  CHILDREN'S  BELLS 

Where  are  your  Oranges  ? 
Where  are  your  Lemons  ? 
What,  are  you  silent  now, 
Bells  of  St.  Clement's  ?  * 
You,  of  all  bells  that  rang 
Once  in  old  London, 
You,  of  all  bells  that  sang, 
Utterly  undone  ? 
You  whom  all  children  know 
Ere  they  know  letters, 
Making  Big  Ben  himself 
Call  you  his  betters  ? 
Where  are  your  lovely  tones 
Fruitful  and  mellow, 
Full-flavoured  orange-gold, 
Clear  lemon-yellow  ? 
Ring  again,  sing  again, 
Bells  of  St.  Clement's  ! 
Call  as  you  swing  again, 
"  Oranges  !     Lemons  !" 
Fatherless  children 
Are  listening  near  you — 
Sing  for  the  children, 
The  fathers  will  hear  you. 

Eleanor  Farjeon 


185  MEN  WHO  MARCH  AWAY 

We  be  the  King's  men,  hale  and  hearty, 
Marching  to  meet  one  Buonaparty  ; 
If  he  won't  sail,  lest  the  wind  should  blow, 
We  shall  have  marched  for  nothing,  O  ! 

Right  fol-lol  ! 

(  *When  the  half-muffled  City  Bells  rang  in  commemoration  of  the 
Bell-Ringers  who  fell  in  the  war,  the  bells  of  St.  Clement  Danes  could 
not  take  part  owing  to  a  defect  in  the  framework.) 

175 


WAR 

We  be  the  King's  men,  hale  and  hearty, 

Marching  to  meet  one  Buonaparty  ; 
If  he  be  sea-sick,  says  "  No,  no  !  " 
We  shall  have  marched  for  nothing,  0  ! 

Right  fol-lol  ! 

We  be  the  king's  men  hale  and  hearty, 
Marching  to  meet  one  Buonaparty  ; 
Never  mind,  mates  ;   we'll  be  merry,  though 
We  mav  have  marched  for  nothing,  0  ! 

Right  fol-lol  ! 

Thomas  Hardy 


i 86  BUDMOUTH  DEARS 

When  we  lay  where  Budmouth  Beach  is, 
0,  the  girls  were  fresh  as  peaches, 

With  their  tall  and  tossing  figures  and  their  eyes  of  blue  and 
brown  ! 

And  our  hearts  would  ache  with  longing 

As  we  paced  from  our  sing-songing, 
With  a  smart  Clink  !  Clink  /  up  the  Esplanade  and  down. 

They  distracted  and  delayed  us 

By  the  pleasant  pranks  they  played  us, 
And  what  marvel,  then,  if  troopers,  even  of  regiments  of 
renown, 

On  whom  flashed  those  eyes  divine,  O, 

Should  forget  the  countersign,  O, 
As  we  tore  Clink  !  Clink  !  back  to  camp  above  the  town. 

Do  they  miss  us  much,  I  wonder, 
Now  that  war  has  swept  us  sunder, 
And  we  roam  from  where  the  faces  smile  to  where  the  faces 
frown  ? 

And  no  more  behold  the  features 
Of  the  fair  fantastic  creatures, 
And  no  more  Clink  !  Clink  1  past  the  parlours  of  the  town  ? 

176 


BUDMOUTH  DEARS 

Shall  we  once  again  there  meet  them  ? 
Falter  fond  attempts  to  greet  them  ? 
Will    the   gay   sling-jacket    glow    again    beside    the    muslin 
gown  ? 

Will  they  archly  quiz  and  con  us 
With  a  sideway  glance  upon  us, 
While   our   spurs    Clink!    Clink!    up    the    Esplanade    and 
down  ? 

Thomas  Hardy 


187  TRAFALGAR 

In  the  wild  October  night-time,  when  the  wind  raved  round 

the  land, 
And  the  Back-sea  met  the  Front-sea,  and  our  doors  were 

blocked  with  sand, 
And  we  heard  the  drub  of  Dead-man's  Bay,  where  bones  of 

thousands  are, 
We  knew  not  what  the  day  had  done  for  us  at  Trafalgar. 
{All)     Had  done, 
Had  done, 
For  us  at  Trafalgar  ! 

"  Pull  hard,  and  make  the  Nothe,  or  down  we  go  !"  one  says, 

says  he. 
We  pulled  ;    and  bedtime  brought  the  storm  ;    but  snug  at 

home  slept  we. 
Yet  all  the  while  our  gallants    after  fighting  through   the 

day, 
Were  beating  up  and  down  the  dark,  sou'-west  of  Cadiz  Bay. 

The  dark, 
The  dark, 
Sou'-west  of  Cadiz  Bay  ! 

The  victors  and  the  vanquished  then  the  storm  it  tossed  and 

tore, 
As  hard  they  strove,  those  worn-out  men,  upon  that  surly 

shore ; 

177  m 


WAB 

I        I  Nelson  and  his  half-dead  crew,  his  foes  from  near  and 

far, 
Were  rolled  together  on  the  deep  that  night  at  Trafalgar  ! 

The  deep, 
The  deep, 
I  li.it  nighl  at  Trafalgar  ! 

Thomas  Hardy 


188  MKSSMATKS 

He  gave  us  all  a  good-bye  cheerily 

At  the  first  dawn  of  day  ; 
We  dropped  him  down  the  side  full  drearily 

When  the  light  died  away. 
It's  a  dead  dark  watch  that  he's  a-kecping  there, 
And  a  long,  long  night  that  lags  a-creeping  there, 
Where  the  Trades  and  the  tides  roll  over  him 

And  the  great  ships  go  by. 

He's  there  alone  with  green  seas  rocking  him 

For  a  thousand  miles  round  ; 
He's  there  alone  with  dumb  things  mocking  him. 

And  we're  homeward  bound. 
It's  a  long,  lone  watch  that  he's  a-keeping  there, 
And  a  dead  cold  night  that  lags  a-creeping  there, 
While  the  months  and  the  years  roll  over  him 

And  the  great  ships  go  by. 

I  wonder  if  the  tramps  come  near  enough 

As  they  thrash  to  and  fro, 
And  the  battle-ships'  bells  ring  clear  enough 

To  be  heard  down  below  ; 
If    through    all    the    lone    watch    that    he's    a-keeping 

there, 
And  the  long,  cold  night  that  lags  a-creeping  there, 
The  voices  of  the  sailor-men  shall  comfort  him 
When  the  great  ships  go  by. 

Henry  Newbolt 
178 


SONG  FOR  ALL  SEAS,  ALL  SHIPS 

189     SONG  FOR  ALL  SEAS,  ALL  SHIPS 

To-day  a  rude  brief  recitative, 

Of  ships  sailing  the  seas,  each  with  its  special  flag  or  ship- 

signal, 
Of  unnamed  heroes  in  the  ships— of  waves  spreading  and 

spreading  far  as  the  eye  can  reach, 
Of  dashing  spray,  and  the  winds  piping  and  blowing, 
And  out  of  these  a  chant  for  the  sailors  of  all  nations, 
Fitful,  like  a  surge. 

Of  sea-captains  young  or  old,   and  the  mates,   and  of  all 

intrepid  sailors, 
Of  the  few,   very   choice,    taciturn,   whom   fate   can   never 

surprise  nor  death  dismay, 
Picked  sparingly  without  noise  by  thee,  old  ocean,  chosen 

by  thee, 
Thou  sea  that  pickest  and  cullest  the  race  in  time,   and 

unitest  nations, 
Suckled  by  thee,  old  husky  nurse,  embodying  thee, 
Indomitable,  untamed  as  thee.  .  .  . 

Flaunt  out,  0  sea,  your  separate  flags  of  nations  ! 

Flaunt  out  visible  as  ever  the  various  ship-signals  ! 

But  do  you  reserve  especially  for  yourself  and  for  the  soul 

of  man  one  flag  above  all  the  rest, 
A  spiritual  woven  signal  for  all  nations,  emblem  of  man  elate 

above  death, 
Token  of   all  brave  captains   and   all   intrepid   sailors   and 

mates, 
And  all  that  went  down  doing  their  duty, 
Reminiscent  of  them,  twined  from  all  intrepid  captains  young 

or  old, 
A  pennant  universal,  subtly  waving  all  time,  o'er  all,  brave 

sailors, 
All  seas,  all  ships. 

Walt  Whitman 


179 


WAR 

190  IIOHENLINDEN 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 

All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow; 
And  dark  .is  winter  was  the  tlow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight, 
When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  arrayed 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neighed 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven  ; 
Then  rushed  the  steed,  to  battle  driven  ; 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  Heaven 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow  ; 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

'Tis  morn  ;  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 

Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  Brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory  or  the  grave  ! 
Wave,  Munich  !  all  thy  banners  wave, 

And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry  ! 

Few,  few  shall  part,  where  many  meet  ! 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet, 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 

Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 

Thomas  Campbell 
180 


HAME,  HAME,  HAME 

191  HAME,  HAME,  HAME 

Hame,  hame,  hame,  hame,  fain  wad  I  be  : 

0  hame,  hame,  hame  to  my  ain  countrie  ! 

When  the  flower  is  in  the  bud,  and  the  leaf  is  on  the  tree, 

The  lark  shall  sing  me  hame  to  my  ain  countrie. 

Hame,  hame,  hame  !     0  hame  fain  wad  I  be  ! 

0  hame,  hame,  hame  to  my  ain  countrie  ! 

The  green  leaf  o'  loyalty's  beginning  now  to  fa'  ; 
-    The  bonnie  white  rose  it  is  withering  an'  a'  ; 

But  we'll  water  it  with  the  blude  of  usurping  tyrannie, 
And  fresh  it  shall  blaw  in  my  ain  countrie  ! 

0,  there's  nocht  now  frae  ruin  my  countrie  can  save, 
But  the  keys  o'  kind  heaven,  to  open  the  grave, 
That  a'  the  noble  martyrs  wha  died  for  loyal  tie 
May  rise  again  and  fight  for  their  ain  countrie. 

The  great  now  are  gane,  who  attempted  to  save  ; 

The  green  grass  is  growing  abune  their  graves  ; 

Yet  the  sun  through  the  mirk  seems  to  promise  to  me — 

I'll  shine  on  ye  yet  in  your  ain  countrie. 

Hame,  hame,  hame,  hame,  fain  wad  I  be  ; 

O  hame,  hame,  hame  to  my  ain  countrie  ! 

Allan  Cunningham 


19; 


DARK  ROSALEEN 

0  my  dark  Rosaleen, 

Do  not  sigh,  do  not  weep  ! 
The  priests  are  on  the  ocean  green, 

They  march  along  the  deep. 
There's  wine  from  the  royal  Pope 

Upon  the  ocean  green, 
And  Spanish  ale  shall  give  you  hope, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 
Shall  glad  your  heart,  shall  give  you  hope, 
Shall  give  you  health,  and  help,  and  hope, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 
181 


WAR 

( Kcr  lulls  and  through  dales 

1  lave  I  roamed  for  your  sake  ; 
All  yesterday  I  sailed  the  sails 

On  river  and  on  lake. 
The  Erne,  at  its  highest  flood, 

I  dashed  across  unseen, 
For  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 

My  dark  Rosalcen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 
Oh  !  there  was  lightning  in  my  blood, 
Red  lightning  lightened  through  my  blood, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 

All  day  long,  in  unrest, 

To  and  fro  do  I  move. 
The  very  soul  within  my  breast 

Is  wasted  for  you,  love  ! 
The  heart  in  my  bosom  faints 

To  think  of  you,  my  Queen, 
My  life  of  life,  my  saint  of  saints, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 
To  hear  your  sweet  and  sad  complaints, 
My  life,  my  love,  my  saint  of  saints, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 

Woe  and  pain,  pain  and  woe, 

Are  my  lot,  night  and  noon, 
To  see  your  bright  face  clouded  so, 

Like  to  the  mournful  moon. 
But  yet  will  I  rear  your  throne 

Again  in  golden  sheen  ; 
'Tis  you  shall  reign,  shall  reign  alone 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 
'Tis  you  shall  have  the  golden  throne, 
'Tis  you  shall  reign,  and  reign  alone, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 
182 


DARK  ROSALEEN 

Over  dews,  over  sands, 

Will  I  fly  for  your  weal  : 
Your  holy  delicate  white  hands 

Shall  girdle  me  with  steel. 
At  home,  in  your  emerald  bowers, 

From  morning's  dawn  till  e'en, 
You'll  pray  for  me,  my  flower  of  flowers, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  fond  Rosaleen  ! 
You'll  think  of  me  through  daylight  hours, 
My  virgin  flower,  my  flower  of  flowers, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 

I  could  scale  the  blue  air, 

I  could  plough  the  high  hills, 
Oh,  I  could  kneel  all  night  in  prayer, 

To  heal  your  many  ills  ! 
And  one  beamy  smile  from  you 

Would  float  like  light  between 
My  toils  and  me,  my  own,  my  true, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  fond  Rosaleen  ! 
Would  give  me  life  and  soul  anew, 
A  second  life,  a  soul  anew, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 

Oh  !  the  Erne  shall  run  red 

With  redundance  of  blood, 
The  earth  shall  rock  beneath  our  tread, 

And  flames  wrap  hill  and  wood, 
And  gun-peal  and  slogan-cry 

Wake  many  a  glen  serene, 
Ere  you  shall  fade,  ere  you  shall  die, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 

My  own  Rosaleen  ! 
The  Judgment  Hour  must  first  be  nigh, 
Ere  you  shall  fade,  ere  you  can  die, 

My  dark  Rosaleen  ! 

James  Clarence  Mangan 
183 


WAR 

193  MY  LUVE'S  IN  GERMANY 

"  Mv  Luve's  in  Germany  ; 

Send  him  harae,  send  him  hame ; 
Mv  Luve's  in  Germany, 

Send  him  hame  : 
Mv  Luve's  in  Germany, 

Fighting  for  Royalty  ; 
He  may  ne'er  his  Jeanie  see  ; 

Send  him  hame,  send  him  hame  ; 
He  may  ne'er  his  Jeanie  see, 

Send  him  hame. 

"  He's  brave  as  brave  can  be, 

Send  him  hame,  send  him  hame  ; 
He's  brave  as  brave  can  be, 

Send  him  hame. 
He's  brave  as  brave  can  be, 
He  wad  rather  fa'  than  flee  ; 
But  his  life  is  dear  to  me, 

Send  him  hame,  send  him  hame  ; 
Oh  !  his  life  is  dear  to  me, 

Send  him  hame. 

"  Our  faes  are  ten  to  three, 

Send  him  hame,  send  him  hame  ; 
Our  faes  are  ten  to  three, 

Send  him  hame. 
Our  faes  are  ten  to  three, 
He  maun  either  fa'  or  flee, 
In  the  cause  o'  Loyalty  ; 

Send  him  hame,  send  him  hame  ; 
In  the  cause  o'  Loyalty, 

Send  him  hame." 

"  Your  luve  ne'er  learnt  to  flee, 
Bonnie  Dame,  winsome  Dame  ; 
Your  luve  ne'er  learnt  to  flee, 
Winsome  Dame. 
184 


MY  LUVE'S  IN  GERMANY 

Your  luve  ne'er  learnt  to  flee, 
But  he  fell  in  Germany, 
Fighting  brave  for  Loyalty, 

Mournfu'  Dame,  bonnie  Dame, 
Fighting  brave  for  Loyalty, 

Mournfu'  Dame  !" 

"  He'll  ne'er  come  owre  the  sea, 

Willie's  slain,  Willie's  slain  ; 
He'll  ne'er  come  owre  the  sea, 

Willie's  gane  ! 
He'll  ne'er  come  owre  the  sea, 
To  his  Love  and  ain  Countrie — 
This  warld's  nae  mair  for  me, 

Willie's  gane,  Willie's  gane  ! 
This  warld's  nae  mair  for  me 

Willie's  slain  !" 


194  A  WEARY  LOT  IS  THINE 

"  A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid, 

A  weary  lot  is  thine  ! 
To  pull  the  thorn  thy  brow  to  braid, 

And  press  the  rue  for  wine. 
A  lightsome  eye,  a  soldier's  mien, 

A  feather  of  the  blue, 
A  doubtlet  of  the  Lincoln  green — 

No  more  of  me  you  knew, 
My  love  ! 
No  more  of  me  you  knew. 

"  This  morn  is  merry  June,  I  trow, 
The  rose  is  budding  fain  ; 
But  she  shall  bloom  in  winter  snow 

Ere  we  two  meet  again." 
He  turned  his  charger  as  he  spake 
Upon  the  river  shore, 
185 


WAR 

lit-  gave  the  bridle-reins  a  shake, 
Said,  "  Adieu  tor  evermore, 
Mv  love  I 

And  adieu  for  evermore." 

Sir  Walter  Scott 


195  CHARLIE   HE'S   MY   DARLING 

An'  Charlie  he's  my  darling, 
My  darling,  my  darling  ! 
Charlie  he's  my  darling, 
The  young  Chevalier  ! 

'Twas  on  a  Monday  morning, 
Right  early  in  the  year, 

That  Charlie  cam'  to  our  town, 
The  young  Chevalier  ! 

As  he  was  walking  up  the  street, 

The  city  for  to  view, 
0,  there  he  spied  a  bonnie  lass 

The  window  lookin'  through. 

Sae  light's  he  jimped  up  the  stair, 

An'  tirled  at  the  pin  ; 
An'  wha  sae  ready  as  hersel 

To  let  the  laddie  in  ? 

He  set  Jenny  on  his  knee, 
A'  in  his  Highland  dress  ; 

For  brawlie  weel  he  kenned  the  way 
To  please  a  lassie  best. 

It's  up  yon  heathery  mountain, 
An'  down  yon  scroggy  glen, 

We  daur  na  gang  a-milking 
For  Charlie  an'  his  men  ! 

An'  Charlie  he's  my  darling, 
My  darling,  my  darling  ! 
Charlie  he's  my  darling, 
The  young  Chevalier  ! 
186 


THE  FAREWELL 


196  THE  FAREWELL 

It  was  a'  for  our  rightfu'  king 
We  left  fair  Scotland's  strand  ; 

It  was  a'  for  our  rightfu'  king 
We  e'er  saw  Irish  land, 

My  dear, 
We  e'er  saw  Irish  land. 

Now  a'  is  done  that  man  can  do, 

And  a'  is  done  in  vain  ; 
My  love,  and  native  land,  farewell, 

For  I  maun  cross  the  main, 
My  dear, 

For  I  maun  cross  the  main. 

He  turned  him  right  and  round  about 

Upon  the  Irish  shore  ; 
And  gae  his  bridle-reins  a  shake, 

With  Adieu  for  evermore, 
My  dear, 

Adieu  for  evermore. 

The  sodger  frae  the  wars  returns, 

The  sailor  frae  the  main  ; 
But  I  hae  parted  frae  my  love, 

Never  to  meet  again, 
My  dear, 

Never  to  meet  again. 

When  day  is  gane,  and  night  is  come, 

And  a'  folks  bound  to  sleep  ; 
I  think  on  him  that's  far  awa', 
The  lee-lang  night,  and  weep, 

My  dear, 
The  lee-lang  night,  and  weep. 

Robert  Burns 


187 


WAR 

THE  1  I  o\\  irs  OF  THE  FOREST 

I've  heard  them  lilting  al  our  ewe-milking, 
Lasses  a-lilting  before  the  dawn  of  day  ; 

But  now  they  are  moaning  on  ilka  green  loaning  : — 
The  Elowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

At  bughts  in  the  morning  nae  blythe  lads  are  scorning  ; 
The  lasses  are  lanely,  and  dowie,  and  wae  ; 
Xae  daffing,  nae  gabbing,  but  sighing  and  sabbing, 
Ilk  ane  lifts  her  leglin,  and  hies  her  away. 

In  hairst,  at  the  shearing,  nae  youths  now  are  jeering  : 
The  bandsters  are  lyart,  and  runklcd,  and  gray. 
At  fair  or  at  preaching,  nae  wooing,  nae  fleeching — 
The  Elowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

At  e'en,  in  the  gloaming,  nae  swankies  are  roaming 
'Bout  stacks  wi*  the  lasses  at  bogle  to  play  ; 
But  ilk  ane  sits  drearie,  lamenting  her  dearie — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

Dool  and  wae  for  the  order  sent  our  lads  to  the  Border  ! 
The  English,  for  ance,  be  guile  wan  the  day  ; 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest,  that  fought  aye  the  foremost, 
The  prime  of  our  land,  lie  cauld  in  the  clay. 

We'll  hear  nae  mair  lilting  at  our  ewe-milking  ; 
Women  and  bairns  are  heartless  and  wae  ; 
Sighing  and  moaning  on  ilka  green  loaning  : 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

Jean  Elliot 


198  "AS  I  WAS  GOING" 

As  I  was  going  by  Charing  Cross, 
I  saw  a  black  man  upon  a  black  horse  ; 
They  told  me  it  was  King  Charles  the  First 
Oh  dear,  my  heart  was  ready  to  buist  ! 
188 


THE  GREAT  AND  FAMOUS  SIR  FRANCIS  DRAKE 

199  OF  THE  GREAT  AND  FAMOUS 

Ever  to  be  honoured  Knight,  Sir  Francis  Drake, 
and  of  my  little-little  selfe. 

The  Dragon  that  our  Seas  did  raise  his  Crest 

And  brought  back  heapes  of  gold  unto  his  nest, 

Unto  his  Foes  more  terrible  than  Thunder, 

Glory  of  his  age,  After-ages'  wonder, 

Excelling  all  those  that  excelled  before  ; 

It's  feared  we  shall  have  none  such  any  more  ; 

Effecting  all  he  sole  did  undertake, 

Valiant,  just,  wise,  milde,  honest,  Godly  Drake. 

This  man  when  I  was  little  I  did  meete 

As  he  was  walking  up  Totnes'  long  street. 

He  asked  me  whose  I  was  ?      I  answered  him. 

He  asked  me  if  his  good  friend  were  within  ? 

A  faire  red  Orange  in  his  hand  he  had, 

He  gave  it  me  whereof  I  was  right  glad, 

Takes  and  kist  me,  and  prayes  God  blesse  my  boy  : 

Which  I  record  with  comfort  to  this  day. 

Could  he  on  me  have  breathed  with  his  breath, 

His  gifts,  Elias-like,  after  his  death, 

Then  had  I  beene  enabled  for  to  doe 

Many  brave  things  I  have  a  heart  unto. 

I  have  as  great  desire  as  e're  had  hee 

To  joy,  annoy,  friends,  foes  ;  but  'twill  not  be. 

Robert  Hayman 


200  A  LAMENTATION 

All  looks  be  pale,  hearts  cold  as  stone, 
For  Hally  now  is  dead  and  gone. 
Hally  in  whose  sight, 
Most  sweet  sight, 
All  the  earth  late  took  delight. 
Every  eye,  weep  with  me, 
Joys  drowned  in  tears  must  be. 
189 


WAR 

His  ivory  skin,  his  comely  hair, 
His  rosy  cheeks  so  clear  and  fair, 

Eyo  that  once  did  grace 
His  bright  face, 
Now  in  him  all  want  their  place. 

Eyes  and  hearts,  weep  with  me, 

For  who  so  kind  as  he  ? 

His  youth  was  like  an  April  flower, 
Adorned  with  beauty,  love,  and  power. 

Glory  strewed  his  way, 
Whose  wreaths  gay 
Xow  are  all  turned  to  decay. 

Then,  again,  weep  with  me, 

None  feel  more  cause  than  we. 

No  more  may  his  wished  sight  return. 
His  golden  lamp  no  more  can  burn. 
Quenched  is  all  his  flame, 
His  hoped  fame 
Now  hath  left  him  nought  but  name. 
For  him  all  weep  with  me, 
Since  more  him  none  shall  see. 

Thomas  Campion 


201     WHAT  IF  SOME  LITTLE  PAIN  THE  PASSAGE 

HAVE 

.  .  .  What  if  some  little  paine  the  passage  have, 
That  makes  fraile  flesh  to  feare  the  bitter  wave  ? 
Is  not  short  paine  well  borne,  that  brings  long  ease, 
And  layes  the  soule  to  sleepe  in  quiet  grave  ? 
Sleep  after  toyle,  port  after  stormie  seas, 
Ease  after  warre,  death  after  live  does  greatly  please.  .  . 

Edmund  Spenser 


190 


HENRY  BEFORE  AGINCOURT 

202      HENRY  BEFORE  AGINCOURT:  October  25, 

1415 

.  .  .  Our  King  went  up  upon  a  hill  high 

And  looked  down  to  the  valleys  low  : 

He  saw  where  the  Frenchmen  came  hastily 

As  thick  as  ever  did  hail  or  snow. 

Then  kneeled  our  King  down,  in  that  stound,1 

And  all  his  men  on  every  side  : 

Every  man  made  a  cross  and  kissed  the  ground, 

And  on  their  feet  fast  gan  abide. 

Our  King  said,  "  Sirs,  what  time  of  the  day  ?" 

"  My  Liege,"  they  said,  "  it  is  nigh  Prime." 

"  Then  go  we  to  our  journey, 

By  the  grace  of  Jesu,  it  is  good  time  : 

For  saints  that  lie  in  their  shrine 

To  God  for  us  be  praying. 

All  the  Religious  of  England,  in  this  time, 

Ora  pro  nobis  for  us  they  sing." 

St.  George  was  seen  over  the  host : 

Of  very  truth  this  sight  men  did  see. 

Down  was  he  sent  by  the  Holy  Ghost, 

To  give  our  King  the  victory.  .  .  . 

John  Lydgate 


203  ALEXANDER  THE  GREAT 

Four  men  stood  by  the  grave  of  a  man, 
The  grave  of  Alexander  the  Proud  : 
They  sang  words  without  falsehood 
Over  the  prince  from  fair  Greece. 

Said  the  first  man  of  them  : 
"  Yesterday  there  were  around  the  king 
The  men  of  the  world — a  sad  gathering  ! 
Though  to-day  he  is  alone." 

1  For  a  moment 

191 


WAR 

"  Yesterday  the  king  of  the  brown  world 
Rode  upon  the  heavy  earth  : 

Though  to-<].iv  it  is  the  earth 

That  rides  upon  his  neck." 

"  Yesterday,"  said  the  third  wise  author, 
"  Philip's  son  owned  the  whole  world  : 
To-day  he  has  nought 
Save  seven  feet  of  earth." 

"  Alexander  the  liberal  and  great 
Was  wont  to  bestow  silver  and  gold  : 
To-day,"  said  the  fourth  man, 
"  The  gold  is  here,  and  it  is  nought." 

Thus  truly  spoke  the  wise  men 
Around  the  grave  of  the  high-king  : 
It  was  not  foolish  women's  talk 
What  those  four  sans. 


204  THE  MYRTLE  BUSH  GREW  SHADY 

"  The  myrtle  bush  grew  shady 

Down  by  the  ford." — 
"  Is  it  even  so  ?"  said  my  lady. 

"  Even  so  !"  said  my  lord. 
"  The  leaves  are  set  too  thick  together 

For  the  point  of  a  sword." 

"  The  arras  in  your  room  hangs  close, 
No  light  between  ! 
You  wedded  one  of  those 
That  see  unseen." — 
"  Is  it  even  so  ?"  said  the  King's  Majesty. 
"  Even  so  !"  said  the  Queen. 

Mary  Coleridge 


192 


THE  FORT  OF  RATHANGAN 

205       THE  FORT  OF  RATHANGAN 

The  fort  over  against  the  oak-wood, 

Once  it  was  Bruidge's,  it  was  Cathal's, 

It  was  Aed's,  it  was  Ailill's, 

It  was  Conaing's,  it  was  Cuiline's, 

And  it  was  Maelduin's  ; 

The  fort  remains  after  each  in  his  turn- 

And  the  kings  asleep  in  the  ground. 


193  n 


DANCE,   ®     ®     ®     ® 
MUSIC  AND  BELLS. 


206  A  PIPER 

A  piper  in  the  streets  to-day 

Set  up,  and  tuned,  and  started  to  play, 

And  away,  away,  away  on  the  tide 

Of  his  music  we  started  ;    on  every  side 

Doors  and  windows  were  opened  wide, 

And  men  left  down  their  work  and  came, 

And  women  with  petticoats  coloured  like  flame. 

And  little  bare  feet  that  were  blue  with  cold, 

Went  dancing  back  to  the  age  of  gold, 

And  all  the  world  went  gay,  went  gay, 

For  half  an  hour  in  the  street  to-day. 

Seumas  O'Sullivan 


207  THE  LITTLE  DANCERS 

Lonely,  save  for  a  few  faint  stars,  the  sky 

Dreams  ;   and  lonely,  below,  the  little  street 

Into  its  gloom  retires,  secluded  and  shy. 

Scarcely  the  dumb  roar  enters  this  soft  retreat ; 

And  all  is  dark,  save  where  come  flooding  rays 

From  a  tavern  window  :    there,  to  the  brisk  measure 

Of  an  organ  that  down  in  an  alley  merrily  plays, 

Two  children,  all  alone  and  no  one  by, 

Holding  their  tattered  frocks,  through  an  airy  maze 

Of  motion,  lightly  threaded  with  nimble  feet, 

Dance  sedately  :   face  to  face  they  gaze, 

Their  eyes  shining,  grave  with  a  perfect  pleasure. 

Laurence  Binyon 
197 


DANCE,  MUSIC  AND  BELLS 

TWO  NUT  TRKKS 


1  had  a  little  nut  trei , 

Nothing  would  it  bear, 
But  a  silver  nutmeg, 

And  a  golden  pear. 

The  King  of  Spain's  daughter 

Came  to  visit  me, 
And  all  was  because  of 

My  little  nut  tree. 
I  skipped  over  water 

I  danced  over  sea, 
And  all  the  birds  in  the  air 

Could  not  catch  me. 

Thomas  Anon 

ii 

The  King  of  China's  daughter 

So  beautiful  to  see 

With  her  face  like  vellow  water,  left 

Her  nutmeg  tree. 

Her  little  rope  for  skipping 

She  kissed  and  gave  it  me — 

Made  of  painted  notes  of  singing-birds 

Among  the  fields  of  tea. 

I  skipped  across  the  nutmeg  grove, — 

I  skipped  across  the  sea  ; 

But  neither  sun  nor  moon,  my  dear, 

Has  yet  caught  me. 

Edith  Sitwell 


209  WHEN  THE  GREEN  WOODS  LAUGH 

When  the  green  woods  laugh  with  the  voice  of  joy, 
And  the  dimpling  stream  runs  laughing  by  ; 
When  the  air  does  laugh  with  our  merry  wit, 
And  the  green  hill  laughs  with  the  noise  of  it ; 

198 


WHEN  THE  GREEN  WOODS  LAUGH 

When  the  meadows  laugh  with  lively  green, 

And  the  grasshopper  laughs  in  the  merry  scene, 

When  Mary  and  Susan  and  Emily 

With  their  sweet  round  mouths  sing  "  Ha,  Ha,  He  !" 

When  the  painted  birds  laugh  in  the  shade, 
Where  our  table  with  cherries  and  nuts  is  spread, 
Come  live,  and  be  merry,  and  join  with  me, 
To  sing  the  sweet  chorus  of  "  Ha,  Ha,  He  !" 

William  Blake 


210  FA  LA  LA 

My  mistress  frowns  when  she  should  play  ; 
I'll  please  her  with  a  Fa  la  la. 
Sometimes  she  chides,  but  I  straightway 
Present  her  with  a  Fa  la  la. 

You  lovers  that  have  loves  astray 
May  win  them  with  a  Fa  la  la. 
Quick  music's  best,  for  still  they  say 
None  pleaseth  like  your  Fa  la  la. 


211  IT  WAS  A  LOVER 

It  was  a  Lover,  and  his  lasse, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 

That  ore  the  greene  corne-field  did  passe, 
In  spring  time,  the  onely  pretty  ring  time, 

When  Birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding  : 

Sweet  Lovers  love  the  spring. 

Between  the  acres  of  the  Rie, 

With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 

These  prettie  Country  folks  would  lie, 

In  spring  time,  the  onely  pretty  ring  time, 

When  Birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding  : 

Sweet  Lovers  love  the  spring. 
199 


DANCE,  MUSIC  AM)  BELLS 

This  Carroll  they  began  that  houre, 
With  <?  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino, 

How  that  a  life  was  but  a  Flower, 
In  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  ring  time, 

When  Birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding  : 

Sweet  Lovers  love  the  spring. 

Anil  therefore  take  the  present  time, 
With  a  hey,  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino  ; 

For  love  is  crowned  with  the  prime 

In  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  ring  time, 

When  birds  do  sing,  hey  ding  a  ding,  ding  : 

Sweet  lovers  love  the  spring. 

William  Shakespeare 


212  HEY,  NONNY  NO! 

Hey,  nonny  no  ! 

Men  are  fools  that  wish  to  die  ! 

Is't  not  fine  to  dance  and  sing 

When  the  bells  of  death  do  ring  ? 

Is't  not  fine  to  swim  in  wine, 

And  turn  upon  the  toe, 

And  sing  Hey  nonny  no  ! 

When  the  winds  blow     and  the  seas  flow  ? 
Hey,  nonny  no  ! 


213  TARANTELLA 

Do  you  remember  an  Inn, 
Miranda  ? 

Do  you  remember  an  Inn  ? 
And  the  tedding  and  the  spreading 
Of  the  straw  for  a  bedding, 
And  the  fleas  that  tease  in  the  High  Pyrenees, 
And  the  wine  that  tasted  of  the  tar  ? 
And  the  cheers  and  the  jeers  of  the  young  muleteers 
(Under  the  dark  of  the  vine  verandah)  ? 

200 


TARANTELLA 

Do  you  remember  an  Inn,  Miranda, 
Do  you  remember  an  Inn  ? 

And  the  cheers  and  the  jeers  of  the  young  muleteers 
Who  hadn't  got  a  penny, 
And  who  weren't  paying  any, 
And  the  hammer  at  the  doors  and  the  Din  ? 
And  the  Hip  !     Hop  !     Hap  ! 
Of  the  clap 

Of  the  hands  to  the  twirl  and  the  swirl 
Of  the  girl  gone  chancing, 
Glancing, 
Dancing, 

Backing  and  advancing, 
.Snapping  of  the  clapper  to  the  spin 
Out  and  in — 

And  the  Ting,  Tong,  Tang  of  the  guitar  ! 
Do  you  remember  an  Inn, 
Miranda  ? 
Do  you  remember  an  Inn  ? 

Never  more  ; 

Miranda, 

Never  more. 

Only  the  high  peaks  hoar  : 

And  Aragon  a  torrent  at  the  door. 

No  sound 

In  the  walls  of  the  Halls  where  falls 

The  tread 

Of  the  feet  of  the  dead  to  the  ground. 

No  sound  : 

Only  the  boom 

Of  the  far  Waterfall  like  Doom. 

Hilaire  Belloc 


201 


DANCE,  MUSIC  AND  HELLS 

214  "I  LOVED  A  LASS" 

I  LOVED  a  lass,  a  fair  on<-, 

As  fair  as  e'er  was  seen  ; 
She  was  indeed  a  ran'  one, 

Another  Sheba  Queen  : 
But,  fool  as  then  I  was, 

I  thought  she  loved  me  too  : 
But  now,  alas  !   she  has  left  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo  !  .  .  . 

And  as  abroad  we  walked 

As  lovers'  fashion  is, 
Oft  as  we  sweetly  talked 

The  sun  would  steal  a  kiss. 
The  wind  upon  her  lips 

Likewise  most  sweetly  blew  ; 
But  now,  alas  !  she  has  left  me 

Falero,  lero,  loo  ! 

Many  a  merry  meeting 

My  love  and  I  have  had  ; 
She  was  my  only  sweeting, 

She  made  my  heart  full  glad  ; 
The  tears  stood  in  her  eyes 

Like  to  the  morning  dew  : 
But  now,  alas  !   she  has  left  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo  ! 

Her  cheeks  were  like  the  cherry, 

Her  skin  was  white  as  snow  ; 
When  she  was  blithe  and  merry 

She  angel-like  did  show  ; 
Her  waist  exceeding  small, 

The  fives  did  fit  her  shoe  : 
But  now,  alas  !   she  has  left  me, 

Falero,  lero,  loo  ! 

In  summer  time  or  winter 
She  had  her  heart's  desire  ; 
202 


"  I  LOVED  A  LASS  " 

I  still  did  scorn  to  stint  her 
From  sugar,  sack,  or  fire  ; 

The  world  went  round  about, 
No  cares  we  ever  knew  : 

But  now,  alas  !   she  has  left  me, 
Falero,  lero,  loo  !  .  .  . 

No  riches  now  can  raise  me, 
No  want  make  me  despair  ; 

No  misery  amaze  me, 
Nor  yet  for  want  I  care. 

I  have  lost  a  world  itself, 
My  earthly  heaven,  adieu, 

Since  she,  alas  !  hath  left  me, 


Falero,  lero,  loo. 


George  Wither 


215  GREEN  GRASS 

A  dis,  a  dis,  a  green  grass, 

A  dis,  a  dis,  a  dis  ; 
Come  all  you  pretty  fair  maids 

And  dance  along  with  us. 

For  we  are  going  roving, 

A  roving  in  this  land  ; 
We  take  this  pretty  fair  maid, 

We  take  her  by  the  hand. 

She  shall  get  a  duke,  my  dear, 

As  duck  do  get  a  drake  ; 
And  she  shall  have  a  young  prince, 

For  her  own  fair  sake. 

And  if  this  young  prince  chance  to  die, 

She  shall  get  another  ; 
The  bells  will  ring,  and  the  birds  will  sing, 

And  we  clap  hands  together. 
203 


DANCE,  MUSIC  AND  BELLS 

216  THE  LINCOLNSHIRE  POACHER 

When  I  was  hound  apprentice  in  famous  Lincolnshire, 
Full  well  I  served  my  master  for  more  than  seven  year, 
Till  I  took  up  to  poaching — as  you  shall  quickly  hear  : 

Oh,  'tis  my  delight  on  a  shining  night 

In  the  season  of  the  year  ! 

As  me  and  my  comrade  were  setting  of  a  snare, 
Twas  then  we  spied  the  gamekeeper,  for  him  we  did  not  care, 
For  we  can  wrestle  and  fight,  my  boys,  and  jump  o'er  any- 
where : 

Oh,  'tis  my  delight  on  a  shining  night 

In  the  season  of  the  year  ! 

As  me  and  my  comrade  were  setting  four  or  five, 
And  taking  on  'em  up  again  we  caught  a  hare  alive, 
We  took  the  hare  alive,  my  boys,  and  through  the  woods  did 
steer  : 

Oh,  'tis  my  delight  on  a  shining  night 

In  the  season  of  the  year  ! 

I  threw  him  on  my  shoulder,  and  then  we  trudged  home, 
We  took  him  to  a  neighbour's  house  and  sold  him  for  a 

crown 
We  sold  him  for  a  crown,  my  boys,  but  I  did  not  tell  you 
where  : 

Oh,  'tis  my  delight  on  a  shining  night 
In  the  season  of  the  year  ! 

Success  to  every  gentleman  that  lives  in  Lincolnshire, 

Success  to  every  poacher  that  wants  to  sell  a  hare, 

Bad  luck  to  every  gamekeeper  that  will  not  sell  his  deer :  1 

Oh,  'tis  my  delight  on  a  shining  night 

In  the  season  of  the  year  ! 


1  Game 

204 


THE  MEN  OF  GOTHAM 

217    .     THE  MEN  OF  GOTHAM 

Seamen  three  !  What  men  be  ye  ? 

Gotham's  three  wise  men  we  be. 

Whither  in  your  bowl  so  free  ? 

To  rake  the  moon  from  out  the  sea. 

The  bowl  goes  trim.     The  moon  doth  shine. 

And  our  ballast  is  old  wine — 

And  your  ballast  is  old  wine. 

Who  art  thou,  so  fast  adrift  ? 
I  am  he  they  call  Old  Care. 
Here  on  board  we  will  thee  lift. 
No  :    I  may  not  enter  there. 
Wherefore  so  ?     'Tis  Jove's  decree, 
In  a  bowl  Care  may  not  be — 
In  a  bowl  Care  may  not  be. 

Fear  ye  not  the  waves  that  roll  ? 

No  ;   in  charmed  bowl  we  swim. 

What  the  charm  that  floats  the  bowl  ? 

Water  may  not  pass  the  brim. 

The  bowl  goes  trim.     The  moon  doth  shine. 

And  our  ballast  is  old  wine — 

And  your  ballast  is  old  wine. 

Thomas  Love  Peacock 


218  EARLY  MORNING  MEADOW  SONG 

Now  some  may  drink  old  vintage  wine 

To  ladies  gowned  with  rustling  silk, 
But  we  will  drink  to  dairymaids, 

And  drink  to  them  in  rum  and  milk — 
0,  it's  up  in  the  morning  early, 

When  the  dew  is  on  the  grass, 
And  St.  John's  bell  rings  for  matins, 

And  St.  Mary's  rings  for  mass  ! 
205 


DANCE,  MUSIC  AND  HELLS 

The  merry  skylarks  soar  and  sing, 

And  seem  to  I  leaven  very  near 
Who  knows  wli.it  blessed  inns  they  see, 

What  holy  drinking  songs  they  hear? 

i  \  it's  up  in  the  morning  «.-.i rly, 

When  the  dew  is  on  the  grass, 
And  St.  John's  bell  rings  for  matins, 

And  St.  Mary's  rings  for  mass  ! 

The  mushrooms  may  be  priceless  pearls 

A  queen  has  lost  beside  the  stream  ; 
But  rum  is  melted  rubies  when 

It  turns  the  milk  to  golden  cream  ! 
O,  it's  up  in  the  morning  early, 

When  the  dew  is  on  the  grass, 
And  St.  John's  bell  rings  for  matins, 

And  St.  Mary's  rings  for  mass  ! 

Charles  Dalmon 


219  DABBLING  IN  THE  DEW 

Oh,  where  are  you  going  to,  my  pretty  little  dear, 
With  your  red  rosy  cheeks  and  your  coal-black  hair  ? 
I'm  going  a-milking,  kind  sir,  she  answered  me  : 
And  it's  dabbling  in  the  dew  makes  the  milkmaids  fair  ! 

Suppose  I  were  to  clothe  you,  my  pretty  little  dear, 

In  a  green  silken  gown  and  the  amethyst  rare  ? 

0  no,  sir,  O  no,  sir,  kind  sir,  she  answered  me, 

For  it's  dabbling  in  the  dew  makes  the  milkmaids  fair  ! 

Suppose  I  were  to  carry  you,  my  pretty  little  dear, 

In  a  chariot  with  horses,  a  grey  gallant  pair  ? 

0  no,  sir,  0  no,  sir,  kind  sir,  she  answered  me, 

For  it's  dabbling  in  the  dew  makes  the  milkmaids  fair  ! 

Suppose  I  were  to  feast  you,  my  pretty  little  dear, 
With  dainties  on  silver,  the  whole  of  the  year  ? 
O  no,  sir,  0  no,  sir,  kind  sir,  she  answered  me, 
For  it's  dabbling  in  the  dew  makes  the  milkmaids  fair  ! 

206 


DABBLING  IN  THE  DEW 

0  but  London's  a  city,  my  pretty  little  dear, 

And  all  men  are  gallant  and  brave  that  are  there — 

0  no,  sir,  O  no,  sir,  kind  sir,  she  answered  me, 

For  it's  dabbling  in  the  dew  makes  the  milkmaids  fair  ! 

0  fine  clothes  and  dainties  and  carriages  so  rare 
Bring  grey  to  the  cheeks  and  silver  to  the  hair  ; 
What's  a  ring  on  the  finger  if  rings  are  round  the  eye  ? 
But  it's  dabbling  in  the  dew  makes  the  milkmaids  fair  ! 


220  BONNY  LASSIE  O  ! 

0  the  evening's  for  the  fair,  bonny  lassie  0  ! 
To  meet  the  cooler  air  and  walk  an  angel  there, 
With  the  dark  dishevelled  hair, 
Bonny  lassie  O  ! 

The  bloom's  on  the  brere,  bonny  lassie  O  ! 
Oak  apples  on  the  tree  ;   and  wilt  thou  gang  to  see 
The  shed  I've  made  for  thee, 
Bonny  lassie  0  ! 

'Tis  agen  the  running  brook,  bonny  lassie  0  ! 
In  a  grassy  nook  hard  by,  with  a  little  patch  of  sky, 
And  a  bush  to  keep  us  dry, 
Bonny  lassie  0  ! 

There's  the  daisy  all  the  year,  bonny  lassie  0  ! 
There's  the  king-cup  bright  as  gold,  and  the  speedwell  never 
cold, 

And  the  arum  leaves  unrolled, 
Bonny  lassie  0  ! 

0  meet  me  at  the  shed,  bonny  lassie  0  ! 
With  the  woodbine  peeping  in,  and  the  roses  like  thy  skin 
Blushing,  thy  praise  to  win, 
Bonny  lassie  O  ! 

207 


DANCE,  MUSIC  AM)  BELLS 

I  will  meet  thee  there  at  e'en,  bonny  lassie  0  ! 
When  the  bee  sips  in  the  bean,  and  grey  willow  branches  lean, 
And  the  moonbeam  looks  between, 
Bonny  lassie  0  ! 

John  Clare 


!2j  THE  MAD  MAID'S  SONG 

Good-morrow  to  the  Day  so  fair, 
Good-morning,  Sir,  to  you  : 

Good-morrow  to  mine  own  torn  hair, 
Bedabbled  with  the  dew. 

Good-morning  to  this  Prim-rose  too, 
Good-morrow  to  each  maid, 

That  will  with  flowers  the  Tomb  bestrew 
Wherein  my  Love  is  laid. 

Ah  !   woe  is  me,  woe,  woe  is  me, 

Alack  and  welladay  ! 
For  pitty,  Sir,  find  out  that  Bee 

Which  bore  my  Love  away. 

He  seek  him  in  your  Bonnet  brave, 

He  seek  him  in  your  eyes  ; 
Nay,  now,  I  think  they've  made  his  grave 

I'  the  bed  of  strawburies. 

He  seek  him  there  ;    I  know,  ere  this, 
The  cold,  cold  Earth  doth  shake  him  ; 

But  I  will  go,  or  send  a  kiss 
By  you,  Sir,  to  awake  him. 

Pray  hurt  him  not,  though  he  be  dead, 
He  knowes  well  who  do  love  him, 

And  who  with  green-turfes  reare  his  head, 
And  who  do  rudely  move  him. 
208 


THE  MAD  MAID'S  SONG 

He's  soft  and  tender  (Pray  take  heed)  ; 

With  bands  of  Cowslips  bind  him, 
And  bring  him  home — but  't  is  decreed 

That  I  shall  never  find  him. 

Robert  Herrick 


222  TELL  ME  WHERE  IS  FANCIE  BRED 

Tell  me  where  is  Fancie  bred, 
Or  in  the  heart  or  in  the  head  ? 
How  begot,  how  nourished  ? 

Replie,  replie  ! 
It  is  engendered  in  the  eyes, 
With  gazing  fed  ;   and  Fancie  dies 
In  the  cradle  where  it  lies. 
Let  us  all  ring  Fancie's  knell : 
He  begin  it : 

Ding,  dong,  bell. 
All.  Ding,  dong,  bell. 

William  Shakespeare 


223  MUSIC 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 
Vibrates  in  the  memory — 
Odours,  when  sweet  violets  sicken, 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 
Rose  leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 
Are  heaped  for  the  beloved's  bed  ; 
And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  thou  art  gone, 
Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


209 


DANCE,  MUSIC  AND  BELLS 


\2A  THE  BELLS  OF  SHANDON 

With  deep  affection  and  recollection 

1  often  think  ol  the  Shandon  bells, 

Whose  sounds  so  wild  would,  in  the  days  of  childhood, 

Fling  around  my  cradle  their  magic  spells. 

On  this  I  ponder  where'er  1  wander, 

And  thus  grow  louder,  sunt  Cork,  of  thee; 

With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 

That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  I 

I've  heard  bells  chiming  full  many  a  clime  in, 
Tolling  sublime  in  cathedral  shrine, 
While  at  a  glib  rate  brass  tongues  would  vibrate  ; 
But  all  their  music  spoke  naught  to  thine  ; 
For  memory,  dwelling  on  each  proud  swelling 
Of  thy  belfry,  knelling  its  bold  notes  free, 

Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 

Sound  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 

I've  heard  bells  tolling  old  "  Adrian's  Mole  "  in, 

Their  thunder  rolling  from  the  Vatican, 

And  cymbals  glorious,  swinging  uproarious 

In  the  gorgeous  turrets  of  Notre  Dame  ; 

But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter  than  the  dome  of  Peter 

Flings  o'er  the  Tiber,  pealing  solemnly. 

0  !   the  bells  of  Shandon 

Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 

There's    a   bell    in    Moscow  ;    while    on    Tower    and 

Kiosk,  0  ! 
In  St.  Sophia  the  Turkman  gets, 
And  loud  in  air,  calls  men  to  prayer, 
From  the  tapering  summit  of  tall  minarets. 
Such  empty  phantom  I  freely  grant  them  ; 

210 


THE  BELLS  OF  SHANDON 

But  there  is  an  anthem  more  dear  to  me, — 

'Tis  the  bells  of  Shandon, 

That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters  of  the  river  Lee. 

Francis  Mahony  (Father  Prout) 

225  UPON  A  RING  OF  BELLS 

Bells  have  wide  mouths  and  tongues,  but  are  too  weak, 

Have  they  not  help,  to  sing,  or  talk  or  speak. 
But  if  you  move  them  they  will  mak't  appear, 
By  speaking  they'l  make  all  the  Town  to  hear. 

When  Ringers  handle  them  with  Art  and  Skill, 
They  then  the  ears  of  their  Observers  fill, 
With  such  brave  Notes,  they  ting  and  tang  so  well 
As  to  out  strip  all  with  their  ding,  dong,  Bell. 

Comparison 

These  Bells  are  like  the  Powers  of  my  Soul  ; 
Their  Clappers  to  the  Passions  of  my  mind  ; 
The  Ropes  by  which  my  Bells  are  made  to  tole, 
Are  Promises  (I  by  experience  find.) 

My  body  is  the  Staple  where  they  hang, 
My  graces  they  which  do  ring  ev'ry  Bell : 
Nor  is  there  any  thing  gives  such  a  tang, 
When  by  these  Ropes  these  Ringers  ring  them  well. 

Let  not  my  Bells  these  Ringers  want,  nor  Ropes  ; 
Yea  let  them  have  room  for  to  swing  and  sway  : 
To  toss  themselves  deny  them  not  their  Scopes. 
Lord  !   in  my  Steeple  give  them  room  to  play. 
If  they  do  tole,  ring  out,  or  chime  all  in, 
They  drown  the  tempting  tinckling  Voice  of  Vice  : 
Lord  !  when  my  Bells  have  gone,  my  Soul  has  bin 
As  'twere  a  tumbling  in  this  Paradice  ! 

Or  if  these  Ringers  do  the  Changes  ring, 
Upon  my  Bells,  they  do  such  Musick  make, 
My  Soul  then  (Lord)  cannot  but  bounce  and  sing, 
So  greatly  her  they  with  their  Musick  take. 

211 


DANCE,  Ml  SIC  AND  HELLS 

But  Boys  (my  Lusts)  into  my  Belfry 
And  pull  these  Ropes,  but  do  no  Musiek  make 
They  rather  turn  my  Bells  by  wh.it  they  do, 
Or  by  disorder  make  my  Steeple  shake. 

Then,  Lord  !    I  pray  thee  keep  my  Belfry  Key, 
Let  none  but  Graces  meddle  with  these  Ropes  : 
And  when  these  naughty  Boys  come,  say  them  Nay. 
From  such  Ringers  of  Musiek  there's  no  hopes. 

0  Lord  !      If  thy  poor  Child  might  have  his  will, 
And  might  his  meaning  freely  to  thee  tell  ; 
He  never  of  this  Musiek  has  his  fill, 
There's  nothing  to  him  like  thy  ding,  dong,  Bell. 

John  Bunyan 

226  THE  BELFRY 

Dark  is  the  stair,  and  humid  the  old  walls 
Wherein  it  winds,  on  worn  stones,  up  the  tower. 
Only  by  loophole  chinks  at  intervals 
Pierces  the  late  glow  of  this  August  hour. 

Two  truant  children  climb  the  stairway  dark, 
With  joined  hands,  half  in  glee  and  half  in  fear, 
The  boy  mounts  brisk,  the  girl  hangs  back  to  hark 
If  the  gruff  sexton  their  light  footsteps  hear. 

Dazzled  at  last  they  gain  the  belfry-room. 
Barred  rays  through  shutters  hover  across  the  floor 
Dancing  in  dust ;   so  fresh  they  come  from  gloom 
That  breathless  they  pause  wondering  at  the  door. 

How  hushed  it  is  !   what  smell  of  timbers  old 

From  cobwebbed  beams  !     The  warm  light  here  and  there 

Edging  a  darkness,  sleeps  in  pools  of  gold, 

Or  weaves  fantastic  shadows  through  the  air. 

How  motionless  the  huge  bell  !     Straight  and  stiff, 
Ropes  through  the  floor  rise  to  the  rafters  dim. 
The  shadowy  round  of  metal  hangs,  as  if 
No  force  could  ever  lift  its  gleamy  rim. 

212 


THE  BELFRY 

A  child's  awe,  a  child's  wonder,  who  shall  trace 
What  dumb  thoughts  on  its  waxen  softness  write 
In  such  a  spell-brimmed,  time-forgotten  place, 
Bright  in  that  strangeness  of  approaching  night  ? 

As  these  two  gaze,  their  fingers  tighter  press  ; 
For  suddenly  the  slow  bell  upward  heaves 
Its  vast  mouth,  the  cords  quiver  at  the  stress, 
And  ere  the  heart  prepare,  the  ear  receives 

Full  on  its  delicate  sense  the  plangent  stroke 

Of  violent,  iron,  reverberating  sound. 

As  if  the  tower  in  all  its  stones  awoke, 

Deep  echoes  tremble,  again  in  clangour  drowned, 

That  starts  without  a  whir  of  frighted  wings 

And  holds  these  young  hearts  shaken,  hushed,  and  thrilled, 

Like  frail  reeds  in  a  rushing  stream,  like  strings 

Of  music,  or  like  trees  with  tempest  filled, 

And  rolls  in  wide  waves  out  o'er  the  lone  land, 
Tone  following  tone  toward  the  far-setting  sun, 
Till  where  in  fields  long  shadowed  reapers  stand 
Bowed  heads  look  up,  and  lo,  the  day  is  done.  .  .  . 

Laurence  Binyon 


227  IL  PENSEROSO 

.  .  .  Sweet  bird  that  shunn'st  the  noise  of  folly, 
Most  musicall,  most  melancholy  ! 
Thee  chauntress  of  the  Woods  among 
I  woo  to  hear  thy  eeven-song  ; 
And  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 
On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green, 
To  behold  the  wandering  moon 
Riding  near  her  highest  noon, 
Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 
Through  the  Heaven's  wide  pathles  way, 
And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed, 
Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 

213 


DANCE,  MUSIC  AND  BELLS 

Oft  on  a  Plat  of  rising  ground, 
1  hoar  the  far-off  Curfeu  sound 
Over  some  wide-watered  shoar, 

Swinging  Slow  With  sullen  roar  : 

Or  if  the  Ayr  will  not  permit, 

Som  still  removed  place  will  fit, 

Where  glowing  Embers  through  the  room 

Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom, 

Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 

Save  the  Cricket  on  the  hearth, 

Or  the  Belman's  drousie  charm 

To  bless  the  dores  from  nightly  harm.  .  .  . 

John  Milton 


228  CHIMES 

Brief,  on  a  flying  night, 

From  the  shaken  tower, 
A  flock  of  bells  take  flight, 

And  go  with  the  hour. 

Like  birds  from  the  cote  to  the  gales, 

Abrupt — 0  hark  ! 
A  fleet  of  bells  set  sails, 

And  go  to  the  dark. 

Sudden  the  cold  airs  swing, 

Alone,  aloud, 
A  verse  of  bells  takes  wing 

And  flies  with  the  cloud. 

Alice  Meynell 


229  CITIES  DROWNED 

Cities  drowned  in  olden  time 
Keep,  they  say,  a  magic  chime 
Rolling  up  from  far  below 
WThen  the  moon-led  waters  flow. 
214 


CITIES  DROWNED 

So  within  me,  ocean  deep, 
Lies  a  sunken  world  asleep. 
Lest  its  bells  forget  to  ring, 
Memory  !   set  the  tide  a-swing  ! 

Henry  Newbolt 

230  THE  BELL-MAN 

From  noise  of  Scare-fires  rest  ye  free, 
From  Murders — Benedicite. 
From  all  mischances,  that  may  fright 
Your  pleasing  slumbers  in  the  night : 
Mercie  secure  ye  all,  and  keep 
The  Goblin  from  ye,  while  ye  sleep. 
Past  one  aclock,  and  almost  two, 
My  Masters  all,  Good  day  to  you  ! 

Robert  Herrick 


215 


AUTUMN  LEAVES  : 
WINTER  SNOW.  *  * 


231  TO  MEADOWS 

Ye  have  been  fresh  and  green, 
Ye  have  been  filled  with  flowers  : 

And  ye  the  Walks  have  been 

Where  Maids  have  spent  their  houres. 

You  have  beheld,  how  they 

With  Wicker  Arks  did  come 
To  kisse,  and  beare  away 

The  richer  Couslips  home. 

Ye  have  heard  them  sweetly  sing 

And  seen  them  in  a  Round  : 
Each  Virgin,  like  a  Spring, 

With  Hony-succles  crowned. 

But  now,  we  see,  none  here, 
Whose  silverie  feet  did  tread, 

And  with  dishevelled  Haire, 
Adorned  this  smoother  Mead. 

Like  Unthrifts,  having  spent, 
Your  stock,  and  needy  grown, 

Ye  are  left  here  to  lament 
Your  poore  estates,  alone. 

Robert  Herrick 


219 


AUTUMN  LEAVES:   WINTER  SNOW 

23a  THE  COTTAGER  TO  1IKK   INFANT 

The  days  arc  cold,  the  nights  are  long, 
The  North  wind  sings  a  doleful  song  ; 
Then  hush  again  upon  my  breast ; 
All  merry  things  arc  now  at  rest, 
Save  thee,  my  pretty  love  ! 

The  kitten  sleeps  upon  the  hearth, 
The  crickets  long  have  ceased  their  mirth  ; 
There's  nothing  stirring  in  the  house 
Save  one  wee,  hungry,  nibbling  mouse, 

Then  why  so  busy  thou  ? 
Nay  !   start  not  at  the  sparkling  light ; 
'Tis  but  the  moon  that  shines  so  bright 

On  the  window-pane 

Bedropped  with  rain  : 
Then,  little  darling  !   sleep  again, 

And  wake  when  it  is  day. 

Dorothy  Wordsworth 


233  TO  AUTUMN 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness, 
Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun  ; 

Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eaves  run  : 

To  bend  with  apples  the  mossed  cottage-trees, 
And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core  ; 

To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 
With  a  sweet  kernel ;    to  set  budding  more, 
And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease, 

For  Summer  has  o'er-brimmed  their  clammy  cells — 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  ? 

Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind  ; 

220 


TO  AUTUMN 

Or  on  a  half-reaped  furrow  sound  asleep, 

Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers  : 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 
Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook  ; 
Or  by  a  cyder-press,  with  patient  look, 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring  ?     Ay,  where  are  they  ? 

Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too, — 
While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day, 
And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue  ; 
Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 
Among  the  river-sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies  ; 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn  ; 
Hedge-crickets  sing  ;   and  now  with  treble  soft 
The  red-breast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft  ; 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 

John  Keats 


234  THE  SOLITARY  REAPER 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field, 
Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass  ! 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself  ; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass  ! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain  ; 
O  listen  !   for  the  vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  nightingale  did  ever  chaunt 
More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands 
'  Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt, 
Among  Arabian  sands  : 
A  voice  so  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard 
In  spring-time  from  the  cuckoo  bird. 
221 


AUTUMN  LEAVES:  WINTER  SNOW 

Breaking  the  silence  of  the  sr.is 
Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings  ?  — 
Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unhappy,  far-ofl  I  hings, 

And  battles  long  ago  ; 

Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 

Familiar  matter  of  to-day  ? 

Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 

That  has  been,  and  may  be  again  ? 

Whate'er  the  theme,  the  maiden  sang 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending  ; 
I  saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 
And  o'er  the  sickle  bending  ; — 
I  listened,  motionless  and  still ; 
And,  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill, 
The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore 
Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 

William  Wordsworth 


235      "  THE  HEAVING  ROSES  OF  THE  HEDGE 

ARE  STIRRED  " 

The  heaving  roses  of  the  hedge  are  stirred 
By  the  sweet  breath  of  summer,  and  the  bird 
Makes  from  within  his  jocund  voice  be  heard. 

The  winds  that  kiss  the  roses  swieep  the  sea 
Of  uncut  grass,  whose  billows  rolling  free 
Half  drown  the  hedges  which  part  lea  from  lea. 

But  soon  shall  look  the  wondering  roses  down 
Upon  an  empty  field  cut  close  and  brown, 
That  lifts  no  more  its  height  against  their  own. 

And  in  a  little  while  those  roses  bright, 
Leaf  after  leaf,  shall  flutter  from  their  height, 
And  on  the  reaped  fields  lie  pink  and  white. 

■122 


"  THE  ROSES  OF  THE  HEDGE  ARE  STIRRED  " 

And  yet  again  the  bird  that  sings  so  high 
Shall  ask  the  snow  for  alms  with  piteous  cry  ; 
Take  fright  in  his  bewildering  bower,  and  die. 

Canon  Dixon 


236  AUTUMN 

A  Dirge 

The  warm  sun  is  failing,  the  bleak  wind  is  wailing, 

The  bare  boughs  are  sighing,  the  pale  flowers  are  dying  ; 

And  the  year 
On  the  earth  her  death-bed,  in  a  shroud  of  leaves  dead, 
Is  lying. 

Come,  months,  come  away, 

From  November  to  May, 

In  your  saddest  array  ; 

Follow  the  bier 

Of  the  dead  cold  year, 
And  like  dim  shadows  watch  by  her  sepulchre. 

The  chill  rain  is  falling,  the  nipped  worm  is  crawling, 
The  rivers  are  swelling,  the  thunder  is  knelling 

For  the  year  ; 
The  blithe  swallows  are  flown,  and  the  lizards  each  gone 
To  his  dwelling. 
Come,  months,  come  away  ; 
Put  on  white,  black,  and  grey  ; 
Let  your  light  sisters  play — 
Ye,  follow  the  bier 
Of  the  dead  cold  year, 
And  make  her  grave  green  with  tear  on  tear. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


223 


AUTUMN  LEAVES:    WINTEB  SNOW 

237  "  WHEN  THAT   I  WAS  AND  A  LITTLE  TINY 

BOY  " 

Whkn  that  I  was  and  a  little  tinie  boy, 
With  hey,  ho,  the  winde  and  the  raine : 

A  foolish  thing  was  but  a  toy, 
For  the  raine  it  raineth  every  day. 

But  when  I  came  to  man's  estate, 
With  hey,  ho,  the  winde  and  the  raine : 

'Gainst  Knaves  and  Theeves  men  shut  their  gate, 
For  the  raine  it  raineth  every  day. 

But  when  I  came,  alas,  to  wive, 

With  hey,  ho,  the  winde  and  the  raine  : 

By  swaggering  could  I  never  thrive, 
For  the  raine  it  raineth  every  day. 

But  when  I  came  unto  my  beds, 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  raine, 

With  tos-pottes  still  had  drunken  heades, — 
For  the  raine  it  raineth  every  day. 

A  great  while  ago  the  world  begon, 
With  hey,  ho,  the  winde  and  the  raine, 

But  that's  all  one,  our  Play  is  done, 
And  we'll  strive  to  please  you  every  day. 

William  Shakespeare 


238  SONG 

The  feathers  of  the  willow 
Are  half  of  them  grown  yellow 

Above  the  swelling  stream  ; 
And  ragged  are  the  bushes, 
And  rusty  are  the  rushes 

And  wild  the  clouded  gleam. 
224 


SONG 

The  thistle  now  is  older, 
His  stalk  begins  to  moulder, 

His  head  is  white  as  snow  ; 
The  branches  all  are  barer, 
The  linnet's  song  is  rarer 

The  robin  pipeth  now. 

Canon  Dixon 


239  FALL,  LEAVES,  FALL 

Fall,  leaves,  fall ;   die,  flowers,  away  ; 
Lengthen  night  and  shorten  day  ; 
Every  leaf  speaks  bliss  to  me, 
Fluttering  from  the  autumn  tree. 

I  shall  smile  when  wreaths  of  snow 
Blossom  where  the  rose  should  grow  ; 
I  shall  sing  when  night's  decay 
Ushers  in  a  drearier  day. 

Emily  Bronte 


240  THE  SANDS  OF  DEE 

"  0  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee  ;  " 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  with  foam, 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  western  tide  crept  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand, 
And  round  and  round  the  sand, 
As  far  as  eye  could  see. 
The  rolling  mist  came  down  and  hid  the  land  : 
And  never  home  came  she. 
225 


AUTUMN  LEAVES:  WINTKK  SNOW 

"  Oh  !    is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  lloating  hair — 
A  tress  of  golden  hair, 

A  drowned  maiden's  h.iir 
Above  the  nets  at  sea  ? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee." 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam, 
The  cruel  craw  ling  foam, 
The  cruel  hungry  foam, 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea  : 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee. 

Charles  Kingsley 


241         BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK 

Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  grey  stones,  0  Sea  ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

0  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play  ! 

0  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay  1 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 
But  0  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still  ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea  ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson 


226 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 

242  ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 


0,  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being, 
Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red, 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes  :   O,  thou, 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low, 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  spring  shall  blow 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odours  plain  and  hill : 

Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere  ; 
Destroyer  and  preserver  ;   hear,  0  hear  ! 

11 

Thou  on  whose  stream,  mid  the  steep  sky's  commotion, 
Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed, 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  Heaven  and  Ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning  :    there  are  spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the  dim  verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height 

The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre, 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapours,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 
Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail  will  burst :    O  hear  ! 

227 


AUTUMN  LKAVKS:    WINTER  SNOW 

in 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer  dreams 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay, 
Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams, 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flowers 

So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them  !  Thou 

For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  grey  with  fear, 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves  :   0  hear  ! 

IV 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear  ; 

If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee  ; 

A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  0,  uncontrollable  !     If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven, 

As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skiey  speed 

Scarce  seemed  a  vision  ;    I  would  ne'er  have  striven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
Oh  !   lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud  ! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life  !    I  bleed  ! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and  bowed 
One  too  like  thee  :   tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud. 

228 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 


Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is  : 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own  ! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep,  autumnal  tone, 
Sweet  though  in  sadness.     Be  thou,  spirit  fierce, 
My  spirit !     Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one  ! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 
Like  withered  leaves  to  quicken  a  new  birth  ! 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind  ! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy  !   0,  wind, 

If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind  ? 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


243  THAT  WIND 

That  wind,  I  used  to  hear  it  swelling  ; 
With  joy  divinely  deep  ; 
You  might  have  seen  my  hot  tears  welling, 
But  rapture  made  me  weep. 

I  used  to  love  on  winter  nights 
To  lie  and  dream  alone 
Of  all  the  rare  and  real  delights 
My  lonely  years  had  known  ; 

And  oh  ! — above  the  best — of  those 
That  coming  time  should  bear, 
Like  heaven's  own  glorious  stars  they  rose, 
Still  beaming  bright  and  fair. 

Emily  Bronte 

229 


Al'Tl'MN  LKAVKS:   WINTER  SNOW 

244  A  FROSTY  NIGHT 

Mother.         \\  in,  dear,  wh.it  ails  you, 

Dazed  and  white  and  shaken  ? 
Has  the  chill  night  numbed  you  ? 
Is  it  fright  you  have  taken  ? 

Alice.  Mother  I  am  very  well, 

I  felt  never  better  ; 
Mother,  do  not  hold  me  so, 
Let  me  write  my  letter. 

Mother.        Sweet,  my  dear,  what  ails  you  ? 

Alice.  No,  but  I  am  well. 

The  night  was  cold  and  frosty, 
There's  no  more  to  tell. 

Mother.        Ay,  the  night  was  frosty, 
Coldly  gaped  the  moon, 
Yet  the  birds  seemed  twittering 
Through  green  boughs  of  June. 

Soft  and  thick  the  snow  lay, 
Stars  danced  in  the  sky, 
Not  all  the  lambs  of  May-day 
Skip  so  bold  and  high. 

Your  feet  were  dancing,  Alice, 
Seemed  to  dance  on  air, 
You  looked  a  ghost  or  angel 
In  the  starlight  there. 


■  .->' 


Your  eyes  were  frosted  starlight, 
Your  heart,  fire,  and  snow. 
Who  was  it  said  "  I  love  you  ?" 
Alice.  Mother,  let  me  go  ! 

Robert  Graves 


230 


IN  A  DREAR-NIGHTED  DECEMBER 

245  IN  A  DREAR-NIGHTED  DECEMBER 

In  a  drear-nighted  December, 

Too  happy,  happy  tree, 
Thy  branches  ne'er  remember 

Their  green  felicity  : 
The  north  cannot  undo  them 
With  a  sleety  whistle  through  them  ; 
Nor  frozen  thawings  glue  them 
From  budding  at  the  prime. 

In  a  drear-nighted  December, 

Too  happy,  happy  brook, 
Thy  bubblings  ne'er  remember 

Apollo's  summer  look  ; 
But  with  a  sweet  forgetting, 
They  stay  their  crystal  fretting, 
Never,  never  petting 

About  the  frozen  time. 

Ah  !  would  'twere  so  with  many 

A  gentle  girl  and  boy  ! 
But  were  there  ever  any 

Writhed  not  at  passed  joy  ? 
To  know  the  change  and  feel  it, 
When  there  is  none  to  heal  it 
Nor  numbed  sense  to  steal  it, 
Was  never  said  in  rhyme. 

John  Keats 


246  A  SONG  OF  WINTER 

Cold  cold  ! 

Cold  to-night  is  broad  Moylurg, 

Higher  the  snow  than  the  mountain-range, 

The  deer  cannot  get  at  their  food. 

Cold  till  Doom  ! 
The  storm  has  spread  over  all : 
231 


AUTUMN  LEAVES:   WINTER  SNOW 

A  river  i8  each  furrow  upon  the  slope, 
Each  ford  a  full  pool. 

\  great  tidal  sea  is  each  loch, 
A  full  loch  is  each  pool : 
Horses  cannot  get  over  the  ford  of  Ross, 
No  more  can  two  feet  get  there. 

The  fish  of  Ireland  arc  a-roaming, 

There  is  no  strand  which  t he  wave  does  not  pound, 

Not  a  town  there  is  in  the  land, 

Not  a  bell  is  heard,  no  crane  talks. 

The  wolves  of  Cuan-wood  get 
Neither  rest  nor  sleep  in  their  lair, 
The  little  wren  cannot  find 
Shelter  in  her  nest  on  the  slope  of  Lon. 

Keen  wind  and  cold  ice 
Has  burst  upon  the  little  company  of  birds, 
The  blackbird  cannot  get  a  lee  to  her  liking, 
Shelter  for  its  side  in  Cuan-wood. 

Cosy  our  pot  on  its  hook, 
Crazy  the  hut  on  the  slope  of  Lon  : 
The  snow  has  crushed  the  wood  here, 
Toilsome  to  climb  up  Ben-bo. 

Glenn  Rye's  ancient  bird 
From  the  bitter  wind  gets  grief ; 
Great  her  misery  and  her  pain, 
The  ice  will  get  into  her  mouth. 

From  flock  and  from  down  to  rise — 
Take  it  to  heart  ! — were  folly  for  thee  ; 
Ice  in  heaps  on  every  ford — 
That  is  why  I  say  "  cold  "  ! 


232 


COLD  BLOWS  THE  WIND 

247  COLD  BLOWS  THE  WIND 

Cauld  blows  the  wind  frae  north  to  south, 

And  drift  is  driving  sairly  ; 
The  sheep  are  couring  1  in  the  heugh,2 

Oh  sirs  !   it's  winter  fairly. 
Now  up  in  the  morning's  no'  for  me, 

Up  in  the  morning  early  ; 
I'd  rather  gae  supperless  to  my  bed, 

Than  rise  in  the  morning  early. 

Loud  rairs  the  blast  amang  the  woods, 

The  branches  tirling  barely, 
Amang  the  chimley  taps  it  thuds, 

And  frost  is  nippin  sairly. 
Now  up  in  the  morning's  no'  for  me, 

Up  in  the  morning  early  ; 
To  sit  a'  the  night  I'd  rather  agree, 

Than  rise  in  the  morning  early. 

The  sun  peeps  o'er  the  southlan'  hill, 

Like  ony  tim'rous  carlie  3  ; 
Just  blinks  a  wee,  then  sinks  again, 

And  that  we  find  severely. 
Now  up  in  the  morning's  no'  for  me, 

Up  in  the  morning  early  ; 
When  snaw  blaws  into  the  chimley  cheek, 

Wha'd  rise  in  the  morning  early. 

Nae  linties  4  lilt  on  hedge  or  bush, 

Poor  things,  they  suffer  sairly  ; 
In  cauldrife  5  quarters  a'  the  night, 

A'  day  they  feed  but  sparely. 
Now  up  in  the  morning's  no'  for  me, 

Up  in  the  morning  early  ; 
Nae  fate  can  be  waur,6  in  winter  time, 

Than  rise  in  the  morning  early. 

John  Hamilton 


1  Cowering 

2  Glen 

3  Wee  bit  lassikin 

4  No  linnets 

6  Freezing 
233 

•  Worse 

AUTUMN  LEAVES:   WINTER  SNOW 

348  SKATING 

...  So  through  the  darkness  and  the  cold  we  flew, 

And  not  a  voice  was  idle  ;   with  the  din 

Smitten,  the  precipices  rang  aloud  ; 

The  leafless  trees  and  every  icy  crag 

Tinkled  like  iron  ;    while  far  distant  hills 

Into  the  tumult  sent  an  alien  sound 

Of  melancholy  not  unnoticed,  while  the  stars 

Eastward  were  sparkling  clear,  and  in  the  west 

The  orange  sky  of  evening  died  away. 

Not  seldom  from  the  uproar  I  retired 

Into  a  silent  bay,  or  sportively 

Glanced  sideway,  leaving  the  tumultuous  throng, 

To  cut  across  the  reflex  of  a  star 

That  fled,  and,  flying  still  before  me,  gleamed 

Upon  the  glassy  plain  ;   and  oftentimes, 

When  we  had  given  our  bodies  to  the  wind, 

And  all  the  shadowy  banks  on  either  side 

Came  sweeping  through  the  darkness,  spinning  still 

In  rapid  line  of  motion,  then  at  once 

Have  I,  reclining  back  upon  my  heels, 

Stopped  short ;   yet  still  the  solitary  cliffs 

Wheeled  by  me — even  as  if  the  earth  had  rolled 

With  visible  motion  her  diurnal  round  ! 

Behind  me  did  they  stretch  in  solemn  train, 

Feebler  and  feebler,  and  I  stood  and  watched 

Till  all  was  tranquil  as  a  dreamless  sleep.  .  .  . 

William  Wordsworth 


249  LONDON  SNOW 

When  men  were  all  asleep  the  snow  came  flying, 
In  large  white  flakes  falling  on  the  city  brown, 
Stealthily  and  perpetually  settling  and  loosely  lying, 

Hushing  the  latest  traffic  of  the  drowsy  town  ; 
Deadening,  muffling,  stifling  its  murmurs  failing  ; 
Lazily  and  incessantly  floating  down  and  down  : 

234 


LONDON  SNOW 

Silently  sifting  and  veiling  road,  roof  and  railing  ; 
Hiding  difference,  making  unevenness  even, 
Into  angles  and  crevices  softly  drifting  and  sailing. 

All  night  it  fell,  and  when  full  inches  seven 
It  lay  in  the  depth  of  its  uncompacted  lightness, 
The  clouds  blew  off  from  a  high  and  frosty  heaven  ; 

And  all  woke  earlier  for  the  unaccustomed  brightness 
Of  the  winter  dawning,  the  strange  unheavenly  glare  : 
The  eye  marvelled — marvelled  at  the  dazzling  whiteness  ; 

The  ear  hearkened  to  the  stillness  of  the  solemn  air  ; 
No  sound  of  wheel  rumbling  nor  of  foot  falling, 
And  the  busy  morning  cries  came  thin  and  spare. 

Then  boys  I  heard,  as  they  went  to  school,  calling, 
They  gathered  up  the  crystal  manna  to  freeze 
Their  tongues  with  tasting,  their  hands  with  snowballing  ; 

Or  rioted  in  a  drift,  plunging  up  to  the  knees  ; 
Or  peering  up  from  under  the  white-mossed  wonder, 
"  0  look  at  the  trees  !"  they  cried,  "  0  look  at  the  trees  !" 

With  lessened  load  a  few  carts  creak  and  blunder, 
Following  along  the  white  deserted  way, 
A  country  company  long  dispersed  asunder  : 

When  now  already  the  sun,  in  pale  display 
Standing  by  Paul's  high  dome,  spread  forth  below 
His  sparkling  beams,  and  awoke  the  stir  of  the  day. 

For  now  doors  open,  and  war  is  waged  with  the  snow  ; 
And  trains  of  sombre  men,  past  tale  of  number, 
Tread  long  brown  paths,  as  toward  their  toil  they  go  : 

But  even  for  them  awhile  no  cares  encumber 
Their  minds  diverted  ;   the  daily  word  is  unspoken, 
The  daily  thoughts  of  labour  and  sorrow  slumber 
At  the  sight  of  the  beauty  that  greets  them,  for  the  charm 
they  have  broken. 

Robert  Bridges 


235 


AUTUMN  LEAVES:   WINTEB  SNOW 

250  FOR  SNOW 

On  the  falling  Snow  ! 

Oil  the  hilling  Snow  ! 

Where  does  it  all  come  from  ? 

Whither  does  it  go  ? 

Ne\  er  never  laughing, 

Never  never  weeping, 

Falling  in  its  Sleep, 

Forever  ever  sleeping — 

From  what  Sleep  of  Heaven 

Docs  it  flow,  and  go 

Into  what  Sleep  of  Earth, 

The  falling  falling  Snow  ?   „  „ 

&  &  Eleanor  Farjeon 

251  VELVET  SHOES 

Let  us  walk  in  the  white  snow 

In  a  soundless  space  ; 
With  footsteps  quiet  and  slow, 

At  a  tranquil  pace, 

Under  veils  of  white  lace. 

I  shall  go  shod  in  silk, 

And  you  in  wool, 
White  as  a  white  cow's  milk, 

More  beautiful 

Than  the  breast  of  a  gull. 

We  shall  walk  through  the  still  town 

In  a  windless  peace  ; 
We  shall  step  upon  white  down, 

Upon  silver  fleece, 

Upon  softer  than  these. 

We  shall  walk  in  velvet  shoes  : 

Wherever  we  go 
Silence  will  fall  like  dews 

On  white  silence  below. 

We  shall  walk  in  the  snow.      Elinqr  WyuE 

236 


LUCY  GRAY 

252  LUCY  GRAY 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray  : 
And  when  I  crossed  the  wild, 
I  chanced  to  see  at  break  of  day 
The  solitary  child. 

No  mate,  no  comrade  Lucy  knew  ; 
She  dwelt  on  a  wide  moor, 
The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 
Beside  a  human  door  ! 

You  yet  may  spy  the  fawn  at  play, 
The  hare  upon  the  green  ; 
But  the  sweet  face  of  Lucy  Gray 
Will  never  more  be  seen. 

"  To-night  will  be  a  stormy  night — 
You  to  the  town  must  go  ; 
And  take  a  lantern,  Child,  to  light 
Your  mother  through  the  snow." 

"  That,  Father  !  will  I  gladly  do  : 
'Tis  scarcely  afternoon — 
The  minster-clock  has  just  struck  two, 
And  yonder  is  the  moon  !" 

At  this  the  father  raised  his  hook, 
And  snapped  a  faggot-band  ; 
He  plied  his  work  ; — and  Lucy  took 
The  lantern  in  her  hand. 

Not  blither  is  the  mountain  roe  : 
With  many  a  wanton  stroke 
Her  feet  disperse  the  powdery  snow, 
That  rises  up  like  smoke. 

The  storm  came  on  before  its  time  : 
She  wandered  up  and  down  ; 
And  many  a  hill  did  Lucy  climb  : 
But  never  reached  the  town. 
237 


AUTUMN  LEAVES:   W1NTKK  SNOW 

The  wretched  parents  all  thai  night 
Went  shouting  far  and  wide  ; 
But  there  was  neither  sound  nor  sight 
To  serve  them  for  a  guide. 

At  day-break  on  a  hill  they  stood 
That  overlook'd  the  moor  ; 
And  thence  they  saw  the  bridge  of  wood 
A  furlong  from  their  door. 

They  wept — and,  turning  homeward,  cried 
"  In  heaven  we  all  shall  meet  !" 
— When  in  the  snow  the  mother  spied 
The  print  of  Lucy's  feet. 

Then  downwards  from  the  steep  hill's  edge 
They  tracked  the  footmarks  small  ; 
And  through  the  broken  hawthorn  hedge, 
And  by  the  long  stone-wall  : 

And  then  an  open  field  they  crossed, 
The  marks  were  still  the  same  ; 
They  tracked  them  on,  nor  ever  lost  ; 
And  to  the  bridge  they  came  : 

They  followed  from  the  snowy  bank 
Those  footmarks,  one  by  one, 
Into  the  middle  of  the  plank  ; 
And  further  there  were  none  ! 

— Yet  some  maintain  that  to  this  day 
She  is  a  living  child  ; 
That  you  may  see  sweet  Lucy  Gray 
Upon  the  lonesome  wild. 

O'er  rough  and  smooth  she  trips  along, 
And  never  looks  behind  ; 
And  sings  a  solitary  song 
That  whistles  in  the  wind. 

William  Wordsworth 
238 


GONE  WERE  BUT  THE  WINTER  COLD 


253   GONE  WERE  BUT  THE  WINTER  COLD 

"  Gane  were  but  the  winter  cauld, 
And  gane  were  but  the  snaw, 

I  could  sleep  in  the  wild  woods, 
Where  primroses  blaw. 

"  Cauld's  the  snaw  at  my  head, 

And  cauld  at  my  feet, 
And  the  finger  o'  death  is  at  my  e'en 

Closing  them  to  sleep, 

"  Let  nane  tell  my  father, 

Or  my  mither  sae  dear  ; 
I'll  meet  them  baith  in  heaven 

At  the  Spring  o'  the  year." 

Allan  Cunningham 


254  A  CHILD'S  WINTER  EVENING 

The  smothering  dark  engulfs  relentlessly 
With  nightmare  tread  approaching  steadfastly  ; 
All  horrors  thicken  as  the  daylight  fails 
And,  is  it  wind,  or  some  lost  ghost  that  wails  ? 

Tongue  cannot  tell  the  stories  that  beset, 

With  livid  pictures  blackness  dense  as  jet, 

Or  that  wild  questioning — -whence  we  are  ;   and  why  ; 

If  death  is  darkness  ;   and  why  I  am  I. 

The  children  look  through  the  uneven  pane 
Out  to  the  world,  to  bring  them  joy  again  ; 
But  only  snowflakes  melting  into  mire 
Without,  within  the  red  glow  of  the  fire. 

They  long  for  something  wonderful  to  break 
This  long-drawn  winter  wistfulness,  and  take 
Shape  in  the  darkness  ;   threatening  like  Fate 
There  comes  a  hell-like  crackling  from  the  grate. 

239 


AlTl'MN  LEAVES:   WINTER  SNOW 

But  hand  in  hand  they  urge  themselves  anear 
And  watch  the  cities  burning  bright  and  clear; 
Faces  diabolical  and  clilTs  and  halls 
And  strangely-pinnacled,  molten  castle  walls. 

Tall  figures  flicker  on  the  ceiling  stark 
Then  grimly  fade  into  one  ominous  dark  ; 
Dream  terrors  iron-bound  throng  on  them  apace, 
And  dusk  with  fire,  and  flames  with  shadows  race. 

Gwen  John 


255        A  CAROL  FOR  SAINT  STEPHEN'S  DAY 

Seynt  Stevene  was  a  clerk, 

In  kyng  Herowdes  halle, 
And  servyd  him  of  bred  and  cloth, 

As  every  kyng  befalle. 

Stevyn  out  of  Kechoun  cam, 
Wyth  boris  hed  on  honde, 

He  saw  a  sterr  was  fayr  and  bryght 
Over  Bedlem  stonde. 

He  kyst  adoun  the  bores  hed, 

And  went  into  the  halle  : 
"  I  forsake  the,  kyng  Herowde, 

And  thi  werkes  alle. 

"  I  forsak  the,  kyng  Herowde, 

And  thi  werkes  alle  : 
Ther  is  a  chyld,  in  Bedlem  born, 

Is  better  than  we  alle." 

"  Quhat  eylyt  the,  Stevene  ? 

Quhat  is  the  befalle  ? 
Lakkyt  the  eyther  mete  or  drynk 

In  kyng  Herowdes  halle  ?" 
240 


A  CAROL  FOR  SAINT  STEPHEN'S  DAY 

"  Lakyt  me  neyther  mete  ne  drynk 

In  kyng  Herowdes  halle  ; 
Ther  is  a  chyld,  in  Bedlem  born, 

Is  better  than  we  alle." 

"  Quhat  eylyt  the,  Stevyn,  art  thu  wod  ? 

Or  thu  gynnyst  to  brede  ? 
Lakkyt  the  eyther  gold  or  fe, 

Or  ony  ryche  wede  ?" 

"  Lakyt  me  neyther  gold  ne  fe, 

Ne  non  ryche  wede  ; 
Ther  is  a  chyld,  in  Bedlem  born, 

Shal  helpyn  us  at  our  nede." 

"  That  is  al  so  soth,  Stevyn, 

Al  so  soth,  I  wys, 
As  this  capon  crowe  schel 

That  lyth  her  in  myn  dych." 

That  word  was  not  so  sone  seyd, 

That  worde  in  that  halle, 
The  capon  crew,  Christus  natus  est ! 

Among  the  lordes  alle. 

"  Rysyt  up,  myn  turmentowres 

Be  to  and  al  be  on, 
And  ledyt  Stevyn  out  of  this  town, 

And  stonyt  hym  wyth  ston." 

Tokyn  hem  Stevene, 

And  stonyd  hym  in  the  way  : 

And  therfor  is  his  evyn 
On  Crystes  owyn  day. 


241 


AUTUMN  LEAVES:   WINTER  SNOW 


256  THE  BURNING  BABE 

As  I  in  hoary  winter's  night 

Stood  shivering  in  the  snow, 
Surprised  1  was  with  sudden  heat, 

Which  made  my  heart  to  glow  ; 
And  lifting  up  a  fearful  eye 

To  view  what  lire  was  near, 
A  pretty  babe  all  burning  bright, 

Did  in  the  air  appear  : 
Who,  scorched  with  excessive  heat, 

Such  floods  of  tears  did  shed, 
As  though  his  floods  should  quench  his  flames, 

Which  with  his  tears  were  fed  : 
"  Alas  !  "  quoth  he,  "  but  newly  born, 

In  fiery  heats  I  fry,1 
Yet  none  approach  to  warm  their  hearts 

Or  feel  my  fire,  but  I ! 

My  faultless  breast  the  furnace  is, 

The  fuel  wounding  thorns  ; 
Love  is  the  fire,  and  sighs  the  smoke, 

The  ashes  shames  and  scorns  ; 
The  fuel  Justice  layeth  on, 

And  Mercy  blows  the  coals  ; 
The  metal  in  this  furnace  wrought 

Are  men's  defiled  souls  : 
For  which,  as  now  on  fire  I  am, 

To  work  them  to  their  good, 
So  will  I  melt  into  a  bath, 

To  wash  them  in  my  blood." 
With  this  he  vanished  out  of  sight, 

And  swiftly  shrunk  away, 
And  straight  I  called  unto  my  mind 

That  it  was  Christmas  Day. 

Robert  Southwell 

1  Burn 

242 


THE  HOLLY  AND  THE  IVY 


257  THE  HOLLY  AND  THE  IVY 

The  holly  and  the  ivy, 

Now  both  are  full-well  grown, 
Of  all  the  trees  that  are  in  the  wood, 
The  holly  bears  the  crown. 
0  the  rising  of  the  sun, 

The  running  of  the  deer, 
The  playing  of  the  merry  Organ, 
Sweet  singing  in  the  quire. 
Sweet  singing  in  the  quire. 

The  holly  bears  a  blossom, 
As  white  as  lily-flower  ; 
And  Mary  bore  sweet  Jesus  Christ, 
To  be  our  sweet  Saviour. 

0  the  rising  of  the  sun,  .  .  . 

The  holly  bears  a  berry, 

As  red  as  any  blood  ; 
And  Mary  bore  sweet  Jesus  Christ, 

To  do  poor  sinners  good. 

0  the  rising  of  the  sun,  .  .  . 

The  holly  bears  a  prickle, 
As  sharp  as  any  thorn  ; 

And  Mary  bore  sweet  Jesus  Christ, 
On  Christmas  Day  in  the  morn. 

0  the  rising  of  the  sun,  .  .  . 

The  holly  bears  a  bark, 

As  bitter  as  any  gall ; 
And  Mary  bore  sweet  Jesus  Christ, 

For  to  redeem  us  all. 

0  the  rising  of  the  sun,  .  .  . 

The  holly  and  the  ivy, 

Now  both  are  full  well  grown, 
243 


AIT1  MX  LEAVES:  WINTEB  SNOW 

Of  .ill  the  trees  thai  arc  in  the  wood, 
The  holly  hears  the  crown. 

0  tlir  rising  of  the  sun, 
The  running  of  the  deer, 

The  playing  of  the  merry  Organ, 
Sweet  singing  in  the  quire. 
Sweet  singing  in  the  quire. 


258  WELCOME  YULE  ! 

.  .  .  Wolcum  be  thu,  hevene  kyng, 
Wolcum,  born  in  on  morwenyng, 
Wolcum  for  home  1  we  shal  syng, 
Wolcum  yol. 

Wolcum  be  ye  Stefne  and  Jon, 
Wolcum  Innocentes  cverychon, 
Wolcum  Thomas  martyr  on, 
Wolcum  yol. 

Wolcum  be  ye,  good  newe  yere, 
Wolcum  twelthe-day,  bothe  infer,2 
Wolcum  syentes  lef3  and  der, 
Wolcum  yol. 

Wolcum  be  ye  Candylmesse, 
Wolcum  be  ye  qwyn  of  blys, 
Wolcum  both  to  mor  and  lesse, 
Wolcum  yol. 

Wolcum  be  ye  that  arn  her,4 
Wolcum  alle  and  mak  good  cher, 
Wolcum  alle  another  yer, 
Wolcum  yol. 

1  Him  2  Together  3  Loved  *  Are  here 


244 


NAY,  IVY,  NAY 


259  NAY,  IVY,  NAY 

Nay,  Ivy,  nay, 
Hyt  shal  not  be,  I  wys  ; 

Let  Holy  hafe  the  maystry, 
As  the  maner  J  ys. 

Holy  stond  in  the  halle, 

Fayre  to  behold  ; 
Ivy  stond  wythout  the  dore, 

She  ys  ful  sore  a-cold. 
Nay,  Ivy,  nay  .  .  . 

Holy  and  hys  mery  men, 
They  dawnsyn  and  they  syng  ; 

Ivy  and  hur  maydenys, 
They  wepyn  and  they  wryng. 
Nay,  Ivy,  nay  .  .  . 

Ivy  hath  a  kybe,2 

She  kaght  yt  wyth  the  colde, 
So  mot  thay  all  haf  ae, 

That  wyth  Ivy  hold. 
Nay,  Ivy,  nay  .  .  . 

Holy  hath  berys, 
As  rede  as  any  rose, 
The  foster 3  and  the  hunter 
Kepe  hem  4  fro  the  doos. 
Nay,  Ivy,  nay  .  .  . 

Ivy  hath  berys, 

As  blake  as  any  slo, 
Ther  com  the  oule, 

And  ete  hym  as  she  goo. 
Nay,  Ivy,  nay  .  .  . 

1  Custom  2  Chilblain  3  Forester  4  Them 

245 


AUTUMN  LEAVES:   WINTER  SNOW 

Holy  hath  hyrdys, 
A  ful  fayre  tlok, 
The  nyghtyngale,  the  poppynguy, 
The  gayntyl  lavyrok, 

Nay,  Ivy,  nay  .  .  . 

Gode  Ivy  [tell  me] 

What  byrdys  ast  thu  ?  1 

Non  but  the  howlat, 
That  kreye  2  how,  how  ! 

Nay,  Ivy,  nay, 

Hyt  shal  not  be,  I  wys, 

Let  Holy  hafe  the  mays  try, 
As  the  maner  ys. 


260  TU-WHIT  TO-WHO 

When  Isicles  hang  by  the  wall, 

And  Dicke  the  shepheard  blowes  his  naile, 
And  Tom  beares  Logges  into  the  hall, 

And  Milke  comes  frozen  home  in  paile  : 
When  blood  is  nipt,  and  waies  be  fowle, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  Owle, 
Tu-whit  to-who 
A  merrie  note, 
While  greasie  Jone  doth  keele 3  the  pot. 

When  all  aloud  the  winde  doth  blow, 

And  comng  drownes  the  Parson's  saw  ; 
And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow, 

And  Marrian's  nose  lookes  red  and  raw  ; 
When  roasted  Crabs  4  hisse  in  the  bowle, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  Owle, 
Tu-whit  to-who 
A  merrie  note, 
While  greasy  Jone  doth  keele  the  pot. 

William  Shakespeare 

1  Hast  thou  2  Cries  3  Skim  4  Apples 

246 


BLOW,  BLOW,  THOU  WINTER  WIND 


261  BLOW,  BLOW,  THOU  WINTER  WIND 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  winde, 

Thou  art  not  so  unkinde 

As  man's  ingratitude  ; 

Thy  tooth,  is  not  so  keene, 

Because  thou  art  not  seene, 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Heigh  ho  !  sing  heigh  ho,  unto  the  green  holly, 
Most  friendship  is  fayning,  most  Loving  meere  folly  : 

Then  heigh  ho,  the  holly, 

This  Life  is  most  jolly. 

Freize,  freize,  thou  bitter  skie, 
That  dost  not  bight  so  nigh 
As  benefitts  forgot ; 
Though  thou  the  waters  warpe, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharpe, 

As  friend  remembered  not. 
Heigh  ho  !  sing  heigh  ho  !   unto  the  green  holly, 
Most  friendship  is  fayning,  most  Loving  meere  folly  : 
Then  heigh  ho,  the  holly, 
This  Life  is  most  jolly. 

William  Shakespeare 


247 


LIKE  STARS  UPON  SOME 
GLOOMY  GROVE"     ®     ® 


262  SPRING  QUIET 

Gone  were  but  the  Winter, 
Come  were  but  the  Spring, 

I  would  go  to  a  covert 
Where  the  birds  sing. 

Where  in  the  whitethorn 

Singeth  a  thrush, 
And  a  robin  sings 

In  the  holly-bush. 

Full  of  fresh  scents 

Are  the  budding  boughs 

Arching  high  over 
A  cool  green  house  : 

Full  of  sweet  scents, 

And  whispering  air 
Which  sayeth  softly  : 

"  We  spread  no  snare  ; 

"  Here  dwell  in  safety, 

Here  dwell  alone, 
With  a  clear  stream 

And  a  mossy  stone. 

"  Here  the  sun  shineth 

Most  shadily  ; 
Here  is  heard  an  echo 
Of  the  far  sea, 
Though  far  off  it  be." 

Christina  Rossetti 
251 


"LIKE  STARS  UPON'  SOME  GLOOMY  GROVE'1 

263  A  WIDOW  BIRD 

A  widow  bird  sat  mourning  for  her  love 

Upon  a  wintry  bough  ; 
The  frozen  wind  crept  on  above, 

The  freezing  stream  below. 

There  was  no  leaf  upon  the  forest  bare, 
No  flower  upon  the  ground, 

And  little  motion  in  the  air 

Except  the  mill-wheel's  sound. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


264  ECHO'S  LAMENT  FOR  NARCISSUS 

Slow,  slow,  fresh  fount,  keep  time  with  my  salt  tears  ; 

Yet,  slower  yet  ;  O  faintly,  gentle  springs  ; 
List  to  the  heavy  part  the  music  bears  ; 
Woe  weeps  out  her  division  when  she  sings. 
Droop  herbs  and  flowers  ; 
Fall  grief  in  showers, 
Our  beauties  are  not  ours  ; 
0,  I  could  still, 
Like  melting  snow  upon  some  craggy  hill, 

Drop,  drop,  drop,  drop, 
Since  nature's  pride  is  now  a  withered  daffodil. 

Ben  Jonson 


265  THIS  LIFE 

This  Life,  which  seems  so  fair, 
Is  like  a  bubble  blown  up  in  the  air 
By  sporting  children's  breath, 
Who  chase  it  everywhere, 
And  strive  who  can  most  motion  it  bequeath. 
And  though  it  sometimes  seem  of  its  own  might 
Like  to  an  eye  of  gold  to  be  fixed  there, 
And  firm  to  hover  in  that  empty  height, 

252 


THIS  LIFE 

That  only  is  because  it  is  so  light. 

But  in  that  pomp  it  doth  not  long  appear  ; 
For  when  'tis  most  admired — in  a  thought, 
Because  it  erst  l  was  nought,  it  turns  to  nought. 

William  Drummond 


266  SWEET  CONTENT 

Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers  ? 

0,  sweet  content  ! 
Art  thou  rich,  yet  is  thy  mind  perplexed  ? 

O,  punishment  ! 
Dost  thou  laugh  to  see  how  fools  are  vexed 
To  add  to  golden  numbers  golden  numbers  ? 
0,  sweet  content  !     O,  sweet,  0  sweet  content  ! 

Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace  ; 
Honest  labour  bears  a  lovely  face  ; 
Then  hey  nonny,  hey  nonny,  nonny  ! 

Canst  drink  the  waters  of  the  crisped  spring  ? 

0,  sweet  content  ! 
Swimm'st  thou  in  wealth,  yet  sink'st  in  thine  own  tears  ? 

0,  punishment  ! 
Then  he  that  patiently  want's  burden  bears, 
No  burden  bears,  but  is  a  king,  a  king  ! 
O,  sweet  content !     0,  sweet,  O,  sweet  content  ! 

Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace  ; 
Honest  labour  bears  a  lovely  face  ; 
Then  hey  nonny,  hey  nonny,  nonny  ! 

Thomas  Dekker 

1  Once 


253 


"LIKE  STARS  UPON  SOME  GLOOMY  GROVE" 

267  Oil,  SWEET  CONTENT 

On,  sweet  content,  that  turns  the  labourer's  sweat 
To  tears  of  joy,  and  shines  the  roughest  face  ; 

How  often  have  1  sought  you  lni;li  and  low, 
And  found  you  still  in  some  lone  quiet  place  ; 

Here,  in  my  room,  when  full  of  happy  dreams, 
With  no  life  heard  beyond  that  merry  sound 

Of  moths  that  on  my  lighted  ceiling  kiss 

Their  shadows  as  they  dance  and  dance  around  ; 

Or  in  a  garden,  on  a  summer's  night, 

When  I  have  seen  the  dark  and  solemn  air 

Blink  with  the  blind  bats'  wings,  and  heaven's  bright  face 
Twitch  with  the  stars  that  shine  in  thousands  there. 

William  H.  Davies 


268  RARELY,  RARELY,  COMEST  THOU 

Rarely,  rarely,  comest  thou, 

Spirit  of  Delight  ! 
Wherefore  hast  thou  left  me  now 

Many  a  day  and  night  ? 
Many  a  weary  night  and  day 
'Tis  since  thou  art  fled  away. 

How  shall  ever  one  like  me 
Win  thee  back  again  ? 

With  the  joyous  and  the  free 
Thou  wilt  scoff  at  pain. 

Spirit  false  !  thou  hast  forgot 

All  but  those  who  need  thee  not. 

As  a  lizard  with  the  shade 

Of  a  trembling  leaf, 
Thou  with  sorrow  art  dismayed  ; 

Even  the  sighs  of  grief 
Reproach  thee,  that  thou  art  not  near, 
And  reproach  thou  wilt  not  hear. 
254 


RARELY,  RARELY,  COMEST  THOU 

Let  me  set  my  mournful  ditty 

To  a  merry  measure, 
Thou  wilt  never  come  for  pity, 

Thou  wilt  come  for  pleasure. 
Pity  then  will  cut  away, 
Those  cruel  wings,  and  thou  wilt  stay. 

I  love  all  that  thou  lovest, 

Spirit  of  Delight  ! 
The  fresh  Earth  in  new  leaves  drest, 

And  the  starry  night, 
Autumn  evening,  and  the  morn 
When  the  golden  mists  are  born. 

I  love  snow,  and  all  the  forms 

Of  the  radiant  frost  ; 
I  love  waves,  and  winds,  and  storms, 

Everything  almost 
Which  is  Nature's,  and  may  be 
Untainted  by  man's  misery. 

I  love  tranquil  solitude 

And  such  society 
As  is  quiet,  wise,  and  good  ; 

Between  thee  and  me 
What  difference  ?  but  thou  dost  possess 
The  things  I  seek,  not  love  them  less. 


■  &■- 


I  love  Love — though  he  has  wings, 

And  like  light  can  flee, 
But  above  all  other  things, 

Spirit,  I  love  thee — 
Thou  art  love  and  life  !     0  come, 
Make  once  more  my  heart  thy  home  ! 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


255 


•  LIKE  STARS  UPON  SOME  GLOOMY  GROVE" 

BIRTHRIGHT 

Lord  Rameses  of  Egypt  sighed 
Because  a  summer  evening  passed  ; 

And  little  Ariadne  cried 
That  summer  fancy  fell  at  last 
To  dust  ;  and  young  Verona  died 
When  beauty's  hour  was  overcast. 

Theirs  w.i^  the  bitterness  we  know 
Because  the  clouds  of  hawthorn  keep 
So  short  a  state,  and  kisses  go 
To  tombs  unfathomably  deep, 
While  Rameses  and  Romeo 
And  little  Ariadne  sleep. 

John  Drinkwater 


270  0  SORROW  ! 

..."  0  Sorrow, 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  natural  hue  of  health,  from  vermeil  lips  ?  — 

To  give  maiden  blushes 

To  the  white  rose  bushes  ? 
Or  is't  thy  dewy  hand  the  daisy  tips  ? 

"  0  Sorrow, 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  lustrous  passion  from  a  falcon-eye  ?  — 

To  give  the  glow-worm  light  ? 

Or,  on  a  moonless  night, 
To  tinge,  on  siren  shores,  the  salt  sea-spry  ? 

"  0  Sorrow, 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  mellow  ditties  from  a  mourning  tongue  ?  — 

To  give  at  evening  pale 

Unto  the  nightingale, 
That  thou  mayst  listen  the  cold  dews  among  ? 

256 


O  SORROW  ! 

"  O  sorrow, 

Why  dost  borrow 
Heart's  lightness  from  the  merriment  of  May  ?  — 

A  lover  would  not  tread 

A  cowslip  on  the  head, 
Though  he  should  dance  from  eve  till  peep  of  day — 

Nor  any  drooping  flower 

Held  sacred  for  thy  bower, 
Wherever  he  may  sport  himself  and  play. 

"To  Sorrow, 

I  bade  good-morrow, 
And  thought  to  leave  her  far  away  behind  ; 

But  cheerly,  cheerly, 

She  loves  me  dearly  ; 
She  is  so  constant,  to  me,  and  so  kind  : 

I  could  deceive  her 

And  so  leave  her, 
But  oh  !  she  is  so  constant  and  so  kind.  .  .  . 

"  Come  then,  Sorrow  ! 

Sweetest  Sorrow  ! 
Like  an  own  babe  I  nurse  thee  on  my  breast  : 

I  thought  to  leave  thee 

And  deceive  thee, 
But  now  of  all  the  world  I  love  thee  best. 

"  There  is  not  one, 

No,  no,  not  one 
But  thee  to  comfort  a  poor  lonely  maid  ; 

Thou  art  her  mother, 

And  her  brother, 
Her  playmate,  and  her  wooer  in  the  shade.".  .  . 

John  Keats 


257 


"LIKE  STARS  UPON  SOME  GLOOMY  GROVE" 

7]  WHEN    I'HK  LAMP  IS  SHATTERED 

Win  n  tin-  [amp  is  shattered, 

The  light  in  the  dust  lies  ilr.ul  — 

\\  Inn  i  he  cloud  is  scat  tered 
The  rainbow's  glory  is  shed. 

\\  Inn  tin'  lute  is  broken, 
Sweet  tones  are  remembered  not  ; 

Wh<  n  t  lie  lips  have  spoken, 
Loved  accents  are  soon  forgot. 

As  music  and  splendour 
Survive  not  the  lamp  and  the  lute, 

The  heart's  echoes  render 
No  song  when  the  spirit  is  mute  : — 

No  song  but  sad  dirges, 
Like  the  wind  through  a  ruined  cell, 

Or  the  mournful  surges 
That  ring  the  dead  seaman's  knell. 

When  hearts  have  once  mingled 
Love  first  leaves  the  well-built  nest  ; 

The  weak  one  is  singled 
To  endure  what  it  once  possest. 

0  Love,  who  bewailest 
The  frailty  of  all  things  here, 

Why  choose  you  the  frailest 
For  your  cradle,  your  home,  and  your  bier  ? 

Its  passions  will  rock  thee 
As  the  storm  rocks  the  ravens  on  high  : 

Bright  reason  will  mock  thee, 
Like  the  sun  from  a  wintry  sky. 

From  thy  nest  every  rafter 
Will  rot,  and  thine  eagle  home 

Leave  thee  to  naked  laughter, 
When  leaves  fall  and  cold  winds  come. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

258 


ONCE 

272  ONCE 

He  sees  them  pass 

As  the  light  is  graying, 
Each  lad  and  lass 

In  their  beauty  gaying 
And  a  voice  in  his  aching  heart  is  saying  : 

"  Once — once  even  I 

Was  straight  as  these, 
As  clear  of  eye, 

And  as  apt  to  please 
When  I  tuned  my  voice  to  balladries. 

Now  my  eyes  are  dim, 

Their  old  fires  forsaking, 
And  each  wasted  limb 
As  a  branch  is  shaking, 
And  my  grief-bowed  heart  will  soon  be  breaking. 

— Ah,  if  One  comes  not 


Beckoning  nigh 


To  that  land  where  hums  not 
One  small  fly, 
These  Strong  and  Fair  shall  be  as  I." 

Eric  N.  Batterham 


273  UPON  THE  IMAGE  OF  DEATH 

Before  my  face  the  picture  hangs 

That  dailie  should  put  me  in  minde 
Of  those  cold  qualms  and  bitter  pangs 
That  shortly  I  am  like  to  finde  : 
But  yet,  alas  !  full  little  I 
Do  think  hereon,  that  I  must  die. 

I  often  look  upon  a  face 

Most  uglie,  grislie,  bare,  and  thin  ; 

I  often  view  the  hollow  place 
Where  eyes  and  nose  have  sometime  been  ; 
259 


LIKE  STARS  UPON  SOME  GLOOMY  GROVE" 

I    i  e  the  bones  across  thai  Lie  ; 

\\  t  little  think,  that  I  must  die. 

1  read  the  label  underneathe, 

That   telleth  me  whereto   I  must: 

I  see  the  sentence  eke  that  saithe 

"  Remember,  man,  that  thou  art  duste ;  " 
But  yet,  alas,  but  seldom  I 
Do  think  indeed,  that  I  must  die  ! 

Continually  at  my  bed's  head 

An  hearse  doth  hang,  which  doth  me  tell 
That  I,  ere  morning,  may  be  dead, 
Though  now  I  feel  myself  full  well  : 
But  yet,  alas,  for  all  this,  I 
Have  little  minde  that  I  must  die  ! 

The  gowne  which  I  do  use  to  weare, 

The  knife,  wherewith  I  cut  my  meate, 
And  eke  that  old  and  ancient  chair 
Which  is  my  only  usual  seate, 
All  these  do  tell  me  I  must  die  ; 
And  yet  my  life  amende  not  I  ! 

My  ancestors  are  turned  to  clay, 

And  many  of  my  mates  are  gone  ; 
My  youngers  daily  drop  away  ; — 
And  can  I  think  to  'scape  alone  ? 
No,  no,  I  know  that  I  must  die  ; 
And  yet  my  life  amende  not  I  ! 

Not  Solomon,  for  all  his  wit, 

Nor  Samson,  though  he  were  so  strong, 
No  king,  nor  ever  person  yet, 

Could  'scape,  but  Death  laid  him  along  ! 
Wherefore  I  know  that  I  must  die  ; 
And  yet  my  life  amende  not  I  ! 

Though  all  the  east  did  quake  to  hear 

Of  Alexander's  dreadful  name, 
And  all  the  west  did  likewise  fear 

The  sound  of  Julius  Caesar's  fame, 
2G0 


UPON  THE  IMAGE  OF  DEATH 

Yet  both  by  death  in  duste  now  lie  ; 
Who  then  can  'scape,  but  he  must  die  ? 

If  none  can  'scape  Death's  dreadful  darte, 

If  rich  and  poor  his  beck  obey, 
If  strong,  if  wise,  if  all  do  smarte, 
Then  I  to  'scape  shall  have  no  way. 
0  grant  me  grace,  0  God,  that  I 
My  life  may  mende,  sith  I  must  die  ! 

Robert  Southwell 


274         ADIEU  !  FAREWELL  EARTH'S  BLISS  ! 

Adieu  !  farewell  earth's  bliss  ! 
This  world  uncertain  is  : 
Fond  are  life's  lustful  joys, 
Death  proves  them  all  but  toys. 
None  from  his  darts  can  fly  : 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die — 
Lord,  have  mercy  on  us  ! 

Rich  men,  trust  not  in  wealth, 
Gold  cannot  buy  you  health  ; 
Physic  himself  must  fade  ; 
All  things  to  end  are  made  ; 
The  plague  full  swift  goes  by  : 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die — 
Lord,  have  mercv  on  us  ! 

Beauty  is  but  a  flower 
Which  wrinkles  will  devour  : 
Brightness  falls  from  the  air  ; 
Queens  have  died  young  and  fair 
Dust  hath  closed  Helen's  eye  : 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die — 
Lord,  have  mercy  on  us  ! 

Strength  stoops  unto  the  grave 
Worms  feed  on  Hector  brave  ; 

261 


"LIKE  STARS  UPON  SOME  GLOOMY  GROVE" 

Swonls  may  not  fight  with  fate  ; 
Earth  still  holds  ope  her  gate  ; 
Come  !  come  !  the  bells  do  cry  ; 

I  run  sick,  1  must  die — 
Lord,  have  mercy  on  us  ! 

Wit  with  his  wantonness, 
Tasteth  death's  bitterness  ■ 
1  [ell's  executioner 
Hath  no  cars  for  to  hear 
What  vain  art  can  reply. 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die — 
Lord,  have  mercy  on  us  ! 

Haste,  therefore,  each  degree 
To  welcome  destiny  ! 
1  [eaven  is  our  heritage  ; 
Earth  but  a  player's  stage. 
Mount  we  unto  the  sky  ! 
I  am  sick,  I  must  die — 
Lord,  have  mercy  on  us  ! 

Thomas  Nash 


73 


MESSAGES 

What  shall  I  your  true-love  tell, 

Earth-forsaking  maid  ? 
What  shall  I  your  true-love  tell, 

When  life's  spectre's  laid  ? 

"  Tell  him  that,  our  side  the  grave, 

Maid  may  not  conceive 
Life  should  be  so  sad  to  have, 

That's  so  sad  to  leave  !" 

What  shall  I  your  true-love  tell, 

When  I  come  to  him  ? 
What  shall  I  your  true-love  tell — 

Eyes  growing  dim  ! 
262 


MESSAGES 

"  Tell  him  this,  when  you  shall  part 

From  a  maiden  pined  ; 
That  I  see  him  with  my  heart, 

Now  my  eyes  are  blind." 

What  shall  I  your  true-love  tell  ? 

Speaking-while  is  scant. 
What  shall  I  your  true-love  tell, 

Death's  white  postulant  ? 

"  Tell  him — love,  with  speech  at  strife, 

For  last  utterance  saith  : 
I,  who  loved  with  all  my  life, 

Love  with  all  my  death." 

Francis  Thompson 


276  DOUBTS 

When  she  sleeps,  her  soul,  I  know, 
Goes  a  wanderer  on  the  air, 
Wings  where  I  may  never  go, 
Leaves  her  lying,  still  and  fair, 
Waiting,  empty,  laid  aside, 
Like  a  dress  upon  a  chair.  .  .  . 
This  I  know,  and  yet  I  know 
Doubts  that  will  not  be  denied. 

For  if  the  soul  be  not  in  place, 
What  has  laid  trouble  in  her  face  ? 
And,  sits  there  nothing  ware  and  wise 
Behind  the  curtains  of  her  eyes, 
What  is  it,  in  the  self's  eclipse, 
Shadows,  soft  and  passingly, 
About  the  corners  of  her  lips, 
The  smile  that  is  essential  she  ? 

And  if  the  spirit  be  not  there, 
Why  is  fragrance  in  the  hair  ? 

Rupert  Brooke 
263 


"LIKE  STARS  UPON  SOME  (il.ooMV  GROVE;' 

HARK 

1 1  \kk  !  now  everything  is  still, 

The  screech-owl  and  the  whistler  shrill 

Call  upon  our  dame  aloud, 

And  bid  her  quickly  don  her  shroud. 

Much  you  had  of  land  and  rent  ; 
Your  length  in  clay's  now  competent. 

A  long  war  disturbed  your  mind  ; 

Here  your  perfect  peace  is  signed. 

Of  what  is't  fools  make  such  vain  keeping  ?  — 

Sin  their  conception,  their  birth  weeping, 

Their  life  a  general  mist  of  error, 

Their  death  a  hideous  storm  of  terror. 

Strew  your  hair  with  powders  sweet, 

Don  clean  linen,  bathe  your  feet, 

And  (the  foul  fiend  more  to  check) 

A  crucifix  let  bless  your  neck  : 

'Tis  now  full  tide  'tween  night  and  day  ; 

End  your  groan,  and  come  away. 

John  Webster 


278  A  LYKE-WAKE  DIRGE 

This  ae  nighte,  this  ae  nighte, 

Every  nighte  and  alle, 
Fire  and  sleet  and  candle-lighte, 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 

When  thou  from  hence  away  art  past, 

Every  nighte  and  alle, 
To  Whinny-muir  thou  comest  at  last ; 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 

If  ever  thou  gavest  hosen  and  shoon, 

Every  nighte  and  alle, 
Sit  thee  down  and  put  them  on  ; 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 
264 


A  LYKE-WAKE  DIRGE 

If  hosen  and  shoon  thou  ne'er  gav'st  nane, 

Every  nighte  and  alle, 
The  whinnes  sail  prick  thee  to  the  bare  bane  ; 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 

From  Whinny-muir  that  thou  may'st  pass, 

Every  nighte  and  alle, 
To  Brig  o'  Dread  thou  comest  at  last, 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 

From  Brig  o'  Dread  that  thou  may'st  pass, 

Every  nighte  and  alle, 
To  Purgatory  fire  thou  com'st  at  last, 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 

If  ever  thou  gavest  meat  or  drink, 

Every  nighte  and  alle, 
The  fire  sail  never  make  thee  shrink  ; 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 

If  meat  and  drink  thou  ne'er  gav'st  nane 

Every  nighte  and  alle, 
The  fire  will  burn  thee  to  the  bare  bane, 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 

This  ae  nighte,  this  ae  nighte, 

Every  nighte  and  alle, 
Fire  and  sleet  and  candle-lighte, 

And  Christe  receive  thy  saule. 

279  HE  IS  THE  LONELY  GREATNESS 

He  is  the  lonely  greatness  of  the  world — 

(His  eyes  are  dim), 
His  power  it  is  holds  up  the  Cross 

That  holds  up  Him. 

He  takes  the  sorrow  of  the  threefold  hour — 

(His  eyelids  close), 
Round  Him  and  round,  the  wind — His  Spirit — where 

It  listeth  blows. 
265 


"UKE  STARS  UPON  SOME  GLOOMY  GROVE" 

And  so  the  wounded  greatness  of  the  World 

In  silence  lies — 
And  death  is  shattered  by  the  lighl  from  out 
rhose  darkened  eyes, 

M  \i>i  i.i  ink  Caron  Rock 


280  "0  SING  UNTO  MY  ROUNDELAY" 

0  sing  unto  my  roundel. iy, 

0  drop  the  briny  tear  with  me, 
Dance  no  more  at  holyday 
Like  a  running  river  be  ! 
.My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death -bed, 

All  under  the  willow-tree. 

Black  his  crync  *  as  the  winter  night, 

White  his  rode  2  as  the  summer  snow, 
Red  his  face  as  the  morning  light, 
Cold  he  lies  in  the  grave  below  : 
My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death-bed, 

All  under  the  willow-tree.  .  .  . 

See,  the  white  moon  shines  on  high  ; 

Winter  is  my  true-love's  shroud, 
Whiter  than  the  morning  sky, 
Whiter  than  the  evening  cloud. 
My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death-bed, 

All  under  the  willow-tree.  .  .  . 

With  my  hands  I'll  dent  3  the  briars 

Round  his  holy  corse  to  gre  ;  4 
Ouph  5  and  fairy,  light  your  fires, 
Here  my  body  still  shall  be. 
My  love  is  dead, 

Gone  to  his  death-bed, 

All  under  the  willow-tree.  .  .  . 

Thomas  Chatterton 

1  Locks         2  Skin         3  Set         4  Grow         6  Elf 

26G 


FEAR  NO  MORE 

281  FEAR  NO  MORE 

Feare  no  more  the  heate  o'  th'  Sun, 
Nor  the  fureous  Winters  rages, 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  don, 
Home  art  gon,  and  tane  thy  wages. 
Golden  Lads  and  Girles  all  must, 
As  Chimney-Sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

Feare  no  more  the  frowne  o'  th'  Great, 
Thou  art  past  the  Tirants  stroake, 
Care  no  more  to  cloath,  and  eate, 
To  thee  the  Reede  is  as  the  Oake  : 
The  Scepter,  Learning,  Physicke  must, 
All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

Feare  no  more  the  Lightning  flash, 
Nor  the  all-dreaded  Thunder-stone, 
Feare  not  Slander,  Censure  rash, 
Thou  hast  finished  joy  and  mone. 
All  Lovers  young,  all  Lovers  must, 
Consigne  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust.  .  .  . 

William  Shakespeare 


282  A  LAND  DIRGE 

Call  for  the  robin-redbreast  and  the  wren, 

Since  o'er  shady  groves  they  hover, 

And  with  leaves  and  flowers  do  cover 

The  friendless  bodies  of  unburied  men. 

Call  unto  his  funeral  dole 

The  ant,  the  field-mouse,  and  the  mole, 

To  rear  him  hillocks  that  shall  keep  him  warm, 

And  (when  gay  tombs  are  robbed)  sustain  no  harm  ; 

But  keep  the  wolf  far  thence,  that's  foe  to  men, 

For  with  his  nails  he'll  dig  them  up  again. 

John  Webster 


267 


LIKE  STARS  ITON  SOME  (JL()()M\    (iKOVK 


{83  THE  GRAVE  OF  LOVE 

1  DUO,  bcno.it  h  t he  cypress  shade, 
What  well  mighl  seem  an  elfin's  grave  ; 

And  every  pledge  in  earth  I  laid, 
That  erst  thy  false  affection  gave. 

I  pressed  them  down  the  sod  beneath  ; 

I  placed  one  mossy  stone  above  ; 
And  twined  the  rose's  fading  wreath 

Around  the  sepulchre  of  love. 

Frail  as  thy  love,  the  flowers  were  dead 
Ere  yet  the  evening  sun  was  set : 

But  years  shall  see  the  cypress  spread, 
Immutable  as  my  regret. 

Thomas  Love  Peacock 


284  THE  BURIAL 

All  the  flowers  of  the  spring 

Meet  to  perfume  our  burying  ; 

These  have  but  their  growing  prime, 

And  man  does  flourish  but  his  time. 

Survey  our  progress  from  our  birth — 

We  are  set,  we  grow,  we  turn  to  earth, 

Courts  adieu,  and  all  delights, 

All  bewitching  appetites  ! 

Sweetest  breath  and  clearest  eye, 

Like  perfumes  go  out  and  die  ; 

And  consequently  this  is  done 

As  shadows  wait  upon  the  sun. 

Vain  the  ambition  of  kings 

Who  seek  by  trophies  and  dead  things 

To  leave  a  living  name  behind, 

And  weave  but  nets  to  catch  the  wind. 

John  Webster 

268 


ON  THE  TOMBS   IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

285     ON  THE  TOMBS  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 

Mortality,  behold  and  fear  ! 

What  a  change  of  flesh  is  here  ! 

Think  how  many  royal  bones 

Sleep  within  these  heaps  of  stones  ; 

Here  they  lie  had  realms  and  lands, 

Who  now  want  strength  to  stir  their  hands  ; 

Where  from  their  pulpits  sealed  with  dust 

They  preach: — "  In  greatness  is  no  trust." 

Here's  an  acre  sown  indeed 

With  the  richest  royallest  seed 

That  the  Earth  did  e'er  suck  in 

Since  the  first  man  died  for  sin  : 

Here  the  bones  of  birth  have  cried  : — 

"  Though  gods  they  were,  as  men  they  died  !" 

Here  are  sands,  ignoble  things, 

Dropt  from  the  ruined  sides  of  Kings  : 

Here's  a  world  of  pomp  and  state 

Buried  in  dust,  once  dead  by  fate. 

Francis  Beaumont 


286  A  FUNERALL  SONG 

(Lamenting  Syr  Phillip  Sidney) 

Come  to  me,  grief,  for  ever  ; 
Come  to  me,  tears,  day  and  night ; 
Come  to  me,  plaint,  ah,  helpless  ; 
Just  grief,  heart  tears,  plaint  worthy. 

Go  from  me  dread  to  die  now  ; 
Go  from  me  care  to  live  more  ; 
Go  from  me  joys  all  on  earth  ; 
Sidney,  O  Sidney  is  dead. 


He  whom  the  court  adorned, 
He  whom  the  country  courtesied, 
He  who  made  happy  his  friends, 
He  that  did  good  to  all  men. 
269 


LIKE  STABS  UPON  SOME  GLOOMY  GROVE" 

Sidney,  the  hope  of  land  strati 
Sidney,  the  Sower  of  England, 
Sidney,  the  spirit  heroic, 
Sidney  is  dead,  ( )  dead. 

Dead  ?  no,  no,  but  renowned, 
With  the  Anointed  oned  ;  ' 
Honour  on  earth  at  his  feet, 
Bliss  everlasting  his  seat. 

Come  to  me,  grief,  for  ever  ; 
Come  to  me,  tears,  day  and  night ; 
Come  to  me,  plaint,  ah,  helpless  ; 
Just  grief,  heart  tears,  plaint  worthy. 


ON  JOHN  DONNE'S  BOOK  OF  POEMS 

I  see  in  his  last  preached  and  printed  Booke, 

His  Picture  in  a  sheet.      In  Pauls  I  looke, 

And  see  his  Statue  in  a  sheete  of  stone, 

And  sure  his  body  in  the  grave  hath  one. 

Those  sheetes  present  him  dead  ;  these,  if  you  buy, 

You  have  him  living  to  Eternity. 

John  Marriot 


288  0,  LIFT  ONE  THOUGHT 

Stop,  Christian  passer-by  !— Stop,  child  of  God, 
And  read  with  gentle  breast.     Beneath  this  sod 
A  poet  lies,  or  that  which  once  seemed  he. 
O,  lift  one  thought  in  prayer  for  S.T.C.  ; 
That  he  who  many  a  year  with  toil  of  breath 
Found  death  in  life,  may  here  find  life  in  death. 
Mercy  for  praise — to  be  forgiven  for  fame 
He  asked,  and  hoped,  through  Christ.     Do  thou  the  same  1 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 

1  Made  one 

270 


ELEGY 

289  ELEGY 

To  the  Memory  of  an  unfortunate  Lady. 
.  .  .  Most  souls,  'tis  true,  but  peep  out  once  an  age, 
Dull,  sullen  prisoners  in  the  body's  cage  ; 
Dim  lights  of  life,  that  burn  a  length  of  years, 
Useless,  unseen,  as  lamps  in  sepulchres  ; 
Like  eastern  kings,  a  lazy  state  they  keep, 
And  close  confined  to  their  own  palace,  sleep.  .  .  . 
Yet  shall  thy  grave  with  rising  flowers  be  dressed, 
And  the  green  turf  lie  lightly  on  thy  breast : 
There  shall  the  morn  her  earliest  tears  bestow, 
There  the  first  roses  of  the  year  shall  blow  ; 
While  angels  with  their  silver  wings  o'ershade 
The  ground,  now  sacred  by  thy  relics  made. 

So  peaceful  rests,  without  a  stone,  a  name, 
What  once  had  beauty,  titles,  wealth  and  fame. 
How  loved,  how  honoured  once,  avails  thee  not 
To  whom  related,  or  by  whom  begot ; 
A  heap  of  dust  alone  remains  of  thee  : 
'Tis  all  thou  art,  and  all  the  proud  shall  be  ! 

Poets  themselves  must  fall,  like  those  they  sung, 
Deaf  the  praised  ear,  and  mute  the  tuneful  tongue. 
Ev'n  he  whose  soul  now  melts  in  mournful  lays 
Shall  shortly  want  the  generous  tear  he  pays  ; 
Then  from  his  closing  eyes  thy  form  shall  part, 
And  the  last  pang  shall  tear  thee  from  his  heart : 
Life's  idle  business  at  one  gasp  be  o'er, 
The  Muse  forgot,  and  thou  beloved  no  more  ! 

Alexander  Pope 

290  UPON  A  CHILD  THAT  DIED 

Here  she  lies,  a  pretty  bud, 

Lately  made  of  flesh  and  blood  : 

Who,  as  soone,  fell  fast  asleep, 

As  her  little  eyes  did  peep. 

Give  her  strewings  ;  but  not  stir 

The  earth,  that  lightly  covers  her. 

Robert  Herrick 
2/1 


"LIKE  STABS  UPON  SOME  GLOOMY  GROVE" 

191  l  HE  TURNSTILE 

An  !  sad  wer  we  as  we  did  pcii.ce 
The  wold  church  road,  wi1  downcast  feace, 
llu-  while  the  bells,  tint  mwoaned  so  deep 
Above  our  child  a-left  asleep, 
Wer  now  a-zingen  all  alive 
Wi'  tother  bells  to  mcakc  the  vive. 
But  up  at  woonc  pleace  we  come  by, 
'Twer  hard  to  keep  woone's  two  eyes  dry  ; 
On  Stean-cliff  road,  'ithin  the  drong, 
Up  where,  as  vo'k  do  pass  along, 
The  turncn  stile,  a-pa'inted  white, 
Do  sheen  by  day  an'  show  by  night. 

Yor  always  there,  as  we  did  goo 

To  church,  thik  stile  did  let  us  drough, 

Wi'  spreaden  earms  that  wheeled  to  guide 

Us  each  in  turn  to  tother  zide. 

An'  vu'st  ov  all  the  train  he  took 

My  wife,  wi'  winsome  gait  an'  look  ; 

An'  then  zent  on  my  little  maid, 

A-skippen  onward,  over-jay'd 

To  reach  agean  the  pleace  o'  pride, 

Her  comely  mother's  left  han'  zide. 

An'  then,  a-wheelen  roun',  he  took 

On  me,  'ithin  his  third  white  nook. 

An'  in  the  fourth,  a-sheaken  wild, 

He  zent  us  on  our  giddy  child. 

But  eesterday  he  guided  slow 

My  downcast  Jenny,  vull  o'  woe, 

An'  then  my  little  maid  in  black, 

A-walken  softly  on  her  track  ; 

An'  after  he'd  a-turned  agean, 

To  let  me  goo  along  the  leane, 

He  had  noo  little  bwoy  to  vill 

His  last  white  earms,  an'  they  stood  still. 

William  Barnes 
272 


THE  EXEQUY 

292  THE  EXEQUY 

.  .  .  Sleep  on,  my  Love,  in  thy  cold  bed 

Never  to  be  disquieted  ! 

My  last  good-night !     Thou  wilt  not  wake 

Till  I  thy  fate  shall  overtake  : 

Till  age,  or  grief,  or  sickness  must 

Marry  my  body  to  that  dust 

It  so  much  loves  ;   and  fill  the  room 

My  heart  keeps  empty  in  that  tomb. 

Stay  for  me  there  :    I  will  not  fail 

To  meet  thee  in  that  hollow  vale. 

And  think  not  much  of  my  delay  : 

I  am  already  on  the  way, 

And  follow  thee  with  all  the  speed 

Desire  can  make,  or  sorrows  breed. 

Each  minute  is  a  short  degree 

And  every  hour  a  step  towards  thee.  .  .  . 

Henry  King 

293  "  I  FOUND  HER  OUT  THERE  " 

I  found  her  out  there 
On  a  slope  few  see, 
That  falls  westwardly 
To  the  salt-edged  air, 
Where  the  ocean  breaks 
On  the  purple  strand, 
And  the  hurricane  shakes 
The  solid  land. 

I  brought  her  here, 

And  have  laid  her  to  rest 

In  a  noiseless  nest 

No  sea  beats  near. 

She  will  never  be  stirred 

In  her  loamy  cell 

By  the  waves  long  heard 

And  loved  so  well. 

273  8 


"LIKE  STARS  UPON  SOME  GLOOMY  GROVE  " 

So  she  docs  not  sleep 
By  those  haunted  heights 

The  Atlantic  smites 

And   the  Mind  gales  s\\  re|), 

Whence  she  often  would  gaze 
At  Dundagcl's  famed  head, 
While  the  dipping  blaze 
Dyed  her  face  fire-red  ; 

And  would  sigh  at  the  tale 
Of  sunk  Lyonnesse, 
As  a  wind-tugged  tress 
Flapped  her  cheek  like  a  flail  ; 
Or  listen  at  whiles 
With  a  thought-bound  brow 
To  the  murmuring  miles 
She  is  far  from  now. 

Yet  her  shade,  maybe, 

Will  creep  underground 

Till  it  catch  the  sound 

Of  that  western  sea 

As  it  swells  and  sobs 

Where  she  once  domiciled, 

And  joys  in  its  throbs 

With  the  heart  of  a  child.    _ 

Ihomas  Hardy 

294     I  NEVER  SHALL  LOVE  THE  SNOW  AGAIN 

I  never  shall  love  the  snow  again 

Since  Maurice  died  : 
With  corniced  drift  it  blocked  the  lane 
And  sheeted  in  a  desolate  plain 

The  country  side. 

The  trees  with  silvery  rime  bedight 

Their  branches  bare. 
By  day  no  sun  appeared  ;  by  night 
The  hidden  moon  shed  thievish  light 

In  the  misty  air. 
274 


I  NEVER  SHALL  LOVE  THE  SNOW  AGAIN 

We  fed  the  birds  that  flew  around 

In  flocks  to  be  fed  : 
No  shelter  in  holly  or  brake  they  found. 
The  speckled  thrush  on  the  frozen  ground 

Lay  frozen  and  dead. 

We  skated  on  stream  and  pond  ;  we  cut 

The  crinching  snow 
To  Doric  temple  or  Arctic  hut ; 
We  laughed  and  sang  at  nightfall,  shut 

By  the  fireside  glow. 

Yet  grudged  we  our  keen  delights  before 

Maurice  should  come. 
We  said,  In-door  or  out-of-door 
We  shall  love  life  for  a  month  or  more, 

When  he  is  home. 

They  brought  him  home  ;  'twas  two  days  late 

For  Christmas  day  : 
Wrapped  in  white,  in  solemn  state, 
A  flower  in  his  hand,  all  still  and  straight 

Our  Maurice  lay. 

And  two  days  ere  the  year  outgave 

We  laid  him  low. 
The  best  of  us  truly  were  not  brave, 
When  we  laid  Maurice  down  in  his  grave 
Under  the  snow. 

Robert  Bridges 


295  THE  COMFORTERS 

When  I  crept  over  the  hill,  broken  with  tears, 

When  I  crouched  down  on  the  grass,  dumb  in  despair, 

I  heard  the  soft  croon  of  the  wind  bend  to  my  ears, 
I  felt  the  light  kiss  of  the  wind  touching  my  hair. 

When  I  stood  lone  on  the  height  my  sorrow  did  speak, 
As  I  went  down  the  hill,  I  cried  and  I  cried, 

275 


"LIKE  STARS  UPON  SOME  GLOOMY  GROVE" 

The  soft  little  hands  of  the  rain  stroking  my  cheek, 
The  kind  little  feet  of  the  rain  ran  by  my  side. 

When  I  went  to  thy  grave,  broken  with  tears, 

When  I  crouched  down  in  the  grass,  dumb  in  despair, 

I  heard  the  sweet  croon  of  the  wind  soft  in  my  ears, 
I  felt  the  kind  lips  of  the  wind  touching  my  hair. 

When  I  stood  lone  by  thy  cross,  sorrow  did  speak, 
When  I  went  down  the  long  hill,  I  cried  and  I  cried, 

The  soft  little  hands  of  the  rain  stroked  my  pale  cheek, 
The  kind  little  feet  of  the  rain  ran  by  my  side. 

Dora  Sigerson  Shorter 


296  THE  CHILDLESS  FATHER 

"  Up,  Timothy,  up  with  your  staff  and  away  ! 
Not  a  soul  in  the  village  this  morning  will  stay  ; 
The  hare  has  just  started  from  Hamilton's  grounds, 
And  Skiddaw  is  glad  with  the  cry  of  the  hounds." 

— Of  coats  and  of  jackets  grey,  scarlet,  and  green, 
On  the  slopes  of  the  pastures  all  colours  were  seen  ; 
With  their  comely  blue  aprons,  and  caps  white  as  snow, 
The  girls  on  the  hills  made  a  holiday  show. 

Fresh  sprigs  of  green  boxwood,  not  six  months  before, 
Filled  the  funeral  basin  at  Timothy's  door  ; 
A  coffin  through  Timothy's  threshold  had  passed  ; 
One  child  did  it  bear,  and  that  child  was  his  last. 

Now  fast  up  the  dell  came  the  noise  and  the  fray, 
The  horse  and  the  horn,  and  the  "  hark  !  hark  away  ! " 
Old  Timothy  took  up  his  staff,  and  he  shut, 
With  a  leisurely  motion,  the  door  of  his  hut. 

Perhaps  to  himself  at  that  moment  he  said, 
"  The  key  I  must  take,  for  my  Helen  is  dead." 
But  of  this  in  my  ears  not  a  word  did  he  speak, 
And  he  went  to  the  chase  with  a  tear  on  his  cheek. 

William  Wordsworth 
276 


"LYDIA  IS  GONE  THIS  MANY  A  YEAR" 


297     "  LYDIA  IS  GONE  THIS  MANY  A  YEAR  " 

Lydia  is  gone  this  many  a  year, 

Yet  when  the  lilacs  stir, 
In  the  old  gardens  far  or  near, 

This  house  is  full  of  her. 

They  climb  the  twisted  chamber  stair  ; 

Her  picture  haunts  the  room  ; 
On  the  carved  shelf  beneath  it  there, 

They  heap  the  purple  bloom. 

A  ghost  so  long  has  Lydia  been, 

Her  cloak  upon  the  wall, 
Broidered,  and  gilt,  and  faded  green, 

Seems  not  her  cloak  at  all. 

The  book,  the  box  on  mantle  laid, 

The  shells  in  a  pale  row, 
Are  those  of  some  dim  little  maid, 

A  thousand  years  ago. 

And  yet  the  house  is  full  of  her, 

She  goes  and  comes  again  ; 
And  longings  thrill,  and  memories  stir, 

Like  lilacs  in  the  rain. 

Out  in  their  yards  the  neighbours  walk, 

Among  the  blossoms  tall ; 
Of  Anne,  of  Phyllis  do  they  talk, 

Of  Lydia  not  at  all. 

LlZETTE    WOODWORTH    REESE 


298  REMEMBRANCE 

Cold  in  the  earth — and  the  deep  snow  piled  above  thee, 
Far,  far  removed,  cold  in  the  dreary  grave  ! 

Have  I  forgot,  my  only  Love,  to  love  thee, 
Severed  at  last  by  Time's  all-severing  wave  ? 

277 


"LIKE  STARS  I  TON  SOME  GLOOMY  CliOVE  " 

Now — when  alone — do  my  thoughts  no  longer  hover 
I  K  cr  the  mountains,  on  that  aorthern  shore, 

Resting  their  wings  where  heath  and  fern-leaves  cover 
Thy  noble  heart  for  ever,  ever  more  ? 

Cold  in  the  earth — and  fifteen  wild  Decembers, 
From  those  brown  hills,  have  melted  into  spring  : 

Faithful,  indeed,  is  the  spirit  that  remembers 
After  such  years  of  change  and  suffering  ! 

Sweet  Love  of  youth,  forgive,  if  I  forget  thee, 
While  the  world's  tide  is  bearing  me  along  ; 

Other  desires  and  other  hopes  beset  me, 

Hopes  which  obscure,  but  cannot  do  thee  wrong  ! 

No  later  light  has  lightened  up  my  heaven, 
No  second  morn  has  ever  shone  for  me  ; 

All  my  life's  bliss  from  thy  dear  life  was  given, 
All  my  life's  bliss  is  in  the  grave  with  thee. 

But,  when  the  days  of  golden  dreams  had  perished, 
And  even  Despair  was  powerless  to  destroy  ; 

Then  did  I  learn  how  existence  could  be  cherished, 
Strengthened,  and  fed,  without  the  aid  of  joy. 

Then  did  I  check  the  tears  of  useless  passion — 
Weaned  my  young  soul  from  yearning  after  thine  ; 

Sternly  denied  its  burning  wish  to  hasten 
Down  to  that  tomb  already  more  than  mine. 

And,  even  yet,  I  dare  not  let  it  languish, 

Dare  not  indulge  in  memory's  rapturous  pain  ; 

Once  drinking  deep  of  that  divinest  anguish, 
How  could  I  seek  the  empty  world  again  ? 

Emily  Bronte 


278 


SONG 


299  SONG 


When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest, 

Sing  no  sad  songs  for  me  ; 
Plant  thou  no  roses  at  my  head, 

Nor  shady  cypress-tree : 
Be  the  green  grass  above  me 

With  showers  and  dewdrops  wet ; 
And  if  thou  wilt,  remember, 

And  if  thou  wilt,  forget. 

I  shall  not  see  the  shadows, 

I  shall  not  feel  the  rain  ; 
I  shall  not  hear  the  nightingale 

Sing  on,  as  if  in  pain  : 
And  dreaming  through  the  twilight 

That  doth  not  rise  nor  set, 
Haply  I  may  remember 

And  haply  may  forget. 

Christina  Rossetti 


300         "  WHERE  SHALL  THE  LOVER  REST  " 

Where  shall  the  lover  rest 

Whom  the  fates  sever 
From  his  true  maiden's  breast 

Parted  for  ever  ?  — 
Where,  through  groves  deep  and  high 

Sounds  the  far  billow, 
Where  early  violets  die 

Under  the  willow. 
Eleu  loro 

Soft  shall  be  his  pillow. 

There  through  the  summer  day 
Cool  streams  are  laving  : 

There,  while  the  tempests  sway, 

Scarce  are  boughs  waving  ; 

279 


LIKE  STAKS  ITON  SOME  GLOOMY  GROVE" 

There  thy  rest  shall  thou  take, 

Parted  for  ever, 

Never  again  to  wake 

Never,  O  never  ! 

Eleu  loro 

Never,  0  never  ! 

Sir  Walter  Scott 


301  REMEMBER 

Remember  me  when  I  am  gone  away, 
Gone  far  away  into  the  silent  land  ; 
When  you  can  no  more  hold  me  by  the  hand, 

Nor  I  half  turn  to  go  yet  turning  stay. 

Remember  me  when  no  more  day  by  day 
You  tell  me  of  our  future  that  you  planned  : 
Only  remember  me  ;     you  understand 

It  will  be  late  to  counsel  then  or  pray. 

Yet  if  you  should  forget  me  for  a  while 
And  afterwards  remember,  do  not  grieve  : 
For  if  the  darkness  and  corruption  leave 
A  vestige  of  the  thoughts  that  once  I  had, 

Better  by  far  you  should  forget  and  smile 
Than  that  you  should  remember  and  be  sad. 

Christina  Rossetti 


302  READEN  OV  A  HEAD-STWONE 

As  I  wer  readen  ov  a  stwone, 
In  Grenley  church-yard,  all  alwone, 
A  little  maid  ran  up,  wi'  pride 
To  zee  me  there  ;  an'  pushed  azide 
A  bunch  o'  bennets,  that  did  hide 
A  verse  her  father,  as  she  zaid, 
Put  up  above  her  mother's  head 
To  tell  how  much  he  loved  her. 
280 


READEN  OV  A  HEAD-STWONE 

The  verse  wer  short,  but  very  good, 
I  stood  an'  larn'd  en  where  I  stood  : — 
"  Mid  x  God,  dear  Meary,  gi'e  me  greace 
"  To  vind,  lik'  thee,  a  better  pleace, 
"  Where  I,  oonce  mwore,  mid  zee  thy  feace  ; 
"  An'  bring  thy  children  up,  to  know 
"  His  word,  that  they  mid  come  an'  show 
"  Thy  soul  how  much  I  loved  thee." 

"  Where's  father,  then,"  I  zaid,  "  my  chile  ?" 

"  Dead,  too,"  she  answered  wi'  a  smile  ; 

"  An'  I  an'  brother  Jem  do  bide 

"  At  Betty  White's,  o'tother  zide 

"  0'  road."     "  Mid  He,  my  chile,"  I  cried, 
"  That's  father  to  the  fatherless, 
"  Become  thy  father  now,  an'  bless 

"  An'  keep,  an'  lead,  an'  love  thee."     - 

— Though  she've  a-lost,  I  thought,  so  much, 
Still  He  don't  let  the  thoughts  o't  touch 
Her  litsome  heart,  by  day  or  night ; 
An'  zoo,  if  we  could  teake  it  right, 
Do  show  He'll  meake  his  burdens  light 
To  weaker  souls  ;  an'  that  his  smile, 
Is  sweet  upon  a  harmless  chile, 
When  they  be  dead  that  loved  it. 

William  Barnes 

303  GOLDEN  SLUMBERS 

Golden  slumbers  kiss  your  eyes, 
Smiles  awake  you  when  you  rise. 
Sleep,  pretty  wantons,  do  not  cry, 
And  I  will  sing  a  lullaby. 
Rock  them,  rock  them,  lullaby. 

Care  is  heavy,  therefore  sleep  you  ; 
You  are  care,  and  care  must  keep  you. 
Sleep,  pretty  wantons,  do  not  cry, 
And  I  will  sing  a  lullaby  : 
Rock  them,  rock  them,  lullaby. 
lMay  2gl  Thomas  Dekker 


"I,1KK  STARS  ITON  SOME  GLOOMY  GROVE" 

304  MATER  DOLOROSA 

I'd  a  dream  to-night 

As  I  fell  asleep, 
0  !  the  touching  sight 

Makes  me  still  to  weep  : 
Of  my  little  lad, 
Gone  to  leave  me  sad, 
Ay,  the  child  I  had, 

But  was  not  to  keep. 

As  in  heaven  high, 

I  my  child  did  seek, 
There  in  train  came  by 

Children  fair  and  meek, 
Each  in  lily  white, 
With  a  lamp  alight ; 
Each  was  clear  to  sight, 

But  they  did  not  speak. 

Then,  a  little  sad, 

Came  my  child  in  turn, 
But  the  lamp  he  had 

O  it  did  not  burn  ! 

He,  to  clear  my  doubt, 

Said,  half-turned  about, 

"  Your  tears  put  it  out ; 

Mother,  never  mourn."    TTT  _ 

William  Barnes 

305  WEEP  YOU  NO  MORE 

Weep  you  no  more,  sad  fountains  ! 

What  need  you  flow  so  fast  ? 
Look  how  the  snowy  mountains 

Heaven's  sun  doth  gently  waste  ! 
But  my  sun's  heavenly  eyes 

View  not  your  weeping, 

That  now  lies  sleeping 
Softly,  now  softly  lies 

Sleeping. 
282 


WEEP  YOU  NO  MORE 

Sleep  is  a  reconciling, 

A  rest  that  peace  begets  : 
Doth  not  the  sun  rise  smiling 

When  fair  at  even  he  sets  ? 
Rest  you  then,  rest,  sad  eyes  ! 

Melt  not  in  weeping, 

While  she  lies  sleeping 
Softly,  now  softly  lies 

Sleeping. 

306  FAERY  SONG 

Shed  no  tear — O  shed  no  tear  ! 
The  flower  will  bloom  another  year. 
Weep  no  more — 0  weep  no  more  ! 
Young  buds  sleep  in  the  root's  white  core. 
Dry  your  eyes — O  dry  your  eyes  ! 
For  I  was  taught  in  Paradise 
To  ease  my  breast  of  melodies — 

Shed  no  tear. 

Overhead — look  overhead 
'Mong  the  blossoms  white  and  red — 
Look  up,  look  up — I  nutter  now 
On  this  flush  pomegranate  bough — 
See  me — 'tis  this  silvery  bill 
Ever  cures  the  good  man's  ill — 
Shed  no  tear — 0  shed  no  tear  ! 
The  flower  will  bloom  another  year. 
Adieu — Adieu — I  fly,  adieu, 
I  vanish  in  the  heaven's  blue — 

Adieu,  Adieu  ! 

John  Keats 

307  THE  WORLD  OF  LIGHT 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light ! 

And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here  ; 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 
And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear. 

283 


"LIKE  STARS  UPON  SOME  GLOOMY  GROVE" 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast 

Like  stars  upon  sonic  gloomy  grove, 
Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  this  hill  is  drest 
After  the  Sun's  remove. 

I  see  them  walking  in  an  Air  of  glory, 

Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days  ; 
My  days,  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and  hoary, 
Mere  glimmering  and  decays. 

0  holy  hope  !  and  high  humility, 

High  as  the  Heavens  above  ! 
These  are  your  walks,  and  you  have  showed  them  me, 
To  kindle  my  cold  love. 

Dear,  beauteous  Death  !  the  Jewel  of  the  Just ! 

Shining  nowhere  but  in  the  dark  ; 
What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust, 
Could  man  outlook  that  mark  ! 

He  that  hath  found  some  fledged  bird's  nest  may  know 

At  first  sight  if  the  bird  be  flown  ; 
But  what  fair  W^ell,  or  Grove  he  sings  in  now, 
That  is  to  him  unknown. 

And  yet,  as  Angels  in  some  brighter  dreams 

Call  to  the  soul,  when  man  doth  sleep, 
So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our  wonted  themes, 
And  into  glory  peep.  .  .  . 

Henry  Vaughan 


308  SILENT  IS  THE  HOUSE 

Silent  is  the  house  :  all  are  laid  asleep  : 

One  alone  looks  out  o'er  the  snow-wreaths  deep, 

Watching  every  cloud,  dreading  every  breeze 

That  whirls  the  wildering  drift,  and  bends  the  groaning  trees. 

Cheerful  is  the  hearth,  soft  the  matted  floor  ; 
Not  one  shivering  gust  creeps  through  pane  or  door  ; 
The  little  lamp  burns  straight,  its  rays  shoot  strong  and  far : 
I  trim  it  well,  to  be  the  wanderer's  guiding-star. 

284 


SILENT  IS  THE  HOUSE 

Frown,  my  haughty  sire ;  chide,  my  angry  dame  ; 
Set  your  slaves  to  spy  ;  threaten  me  with  shame  ! 
But  neither  sire,  nor  dame,  nor  prying  serf  shall  know, 
What  angel  nightly  tracks  that  waste  of  frozen  snow. 

What  I  love  shall  come  like  visitant  of  air, 
Safe  in  secret  power  from  lurking  human  snare  ; 
What  loves  me,  no  word   of  mine  shall  e'er  betray, 
Though  for  faith  unstained  my  life  must  forfeit  pay. 

Burn,  then,  little  lamp  ;  glimmer  straight  and  clear — 
Hush  !  a  rustling  wing     stirs,  methinks,  the  air  : 
He  for  whom  I  wait,  thus  ever  comes  to  me  ; 
Strange  Power  !   I  trust  thy  might ;  trust  thou  my  constancy. 

Emily  Bronte 


309  THE  MISTRESS  OF  VISION 

.  .  .  Secret  was  the  garden  ; 
Set  i'  the  pathless  awe 
Where  no  star  its  breath  can  draw. 
Life,  that  is  its  warden, 
Sits  behind  the  fosse  of  death.     Mine  eyes  saw  not,  and  I  saw. 

It  was  a  mazeful  wonder  ; 
Thrice  three  times  it  was  enwalled 
With  an  emerald — 
Sealed  so  asunder. 
All  its  birds  in  middle  air  hung  a-dream,  their  music  thralled. 

The  Lady  of  fair  weeping, 
At  the  garden's  core, 
Sang  a  song  of  sweet  and  sore 
And  the  after-sleeping  ; 
In  the  land  of  Luthany,  and  the  tracts  of  Elenore. 

With  sweet-panged  singing, 
Sang  she  through  a  dream-night's  day  ; 
That  the  bowers  might  stay, 
Birds  bate  their  winging, 
Nor  the  wall  of  emerald  float  in  wreathed  haze  away.  .  .  . 

285 


-  I. IKK  STARS  UPON  SOME  GLOOMY  GROVE" 

Her  song  said  tli.it  no  springing 
Paradise  but  evermore 
1  Iangeth  on  a  singing 
That  has  chords  of  weeping, 
And  that  sings  the  after-sleeping 
To  souls  which  wake  too  sore. 
"  But  woe  the  singer,  woe  !"  she  said  ;    "  beyond  the  dead 
his  singing-lore, 

All  its  art  of  sweet  and  sore 
He  learns,  in  Elenore  !" 
Where  is  the  land  of  Luthany, 
\\  here  is  the  tract  of  Elenore  ? 
I  am  bound  therefor. 

"  Pierce  thy  heart  to  find  the  key  ; 
With  thee  take 

Only  what  none  else  would  keep  ; 
Learn  to  dream  when  thou  dost  wake, 
Learn  to  wake  when  thou  dost  sleep. 
Learn  to  water  joy  with  tears, 
Learn  from  fears  to  vanquish  fears  ; 
To  hope,  for  thou  dar'st  not  despair, 
Exult,  for  that  thou  dar'st  not  grieve  ; 
Plough  thou  the  rock  until  it  bear  ; 
Know,  for  thou  else  couldst  not  believe  ; 
Lose,  that  the  lost  thou  may'st  receive  ; 
Die,  for  none  other  way  canst  live. 
When  earth  and  heaven  lay  down  their  veil, 
And  that  apocalypse  turns  thee  pale  ; 
When  thy  seeing  blindeth  thee 
To  what  thy  fellow-mortals  see  ; 
When  their  sight  to  thee  is  sightless  ; 
Their  living,  death  ;    their  light,  most  light- 
less  ; 
Search  no  more — 
Pass  the  gates  of  Luthany,  tread  the  region  Elenore." 

Where  is  the  land  of  Luthany  , 
And  where  the  region  Elenore  ? 
I  do  faint  therefor. 
286 


THE  MISTRESS  OF  VISION 

"  When  to  the  new  eyes  of  thee 
All  things  by  immortal  power, 
Near  or  far, 
Hiddenly 

To  each  other  linked  are, 
That  thou  canst  not  stir  a  flower 
Without  troubling  of  a  star  ; 
When  thy  song  is  shield  and  mirror 
To  the  fair  snake-curled  Pain, 
Where  thou  dar'st  affront  her  terror 
That  on  her  thou  may'st  attain 
Persean  conquest ;  seek  no  more, 
0  seek  no  more! 
Pass  the  gates  of  Luthany,  tread  the  region  Elenore." 

So  sang  she,  so  wept  she, 
Through  a  dream-night's  day  ; 
And  with  her  magic  singing  kept  she — 
Mystical  in  music — 
The  garden  of  enchanting 
In  visionary  May  ; 
Songless  from  my  spirits'  haunting, 
Thrice-threefold    walled    with    emerald    from    our    mortal 
mornings  grey.  .  .  . 

Francis  Thompson 


287 


FAR     *     *     *     * 


310  TOM  0'  BEDLAM 

The  moon's  my  constant  mistress, 
And  the  lovely  owl  my  marrow  ; 
The  flaming  drake, 
And  the  night-crow,  make 
Me  music  to  my  sorrow. 

I  know  more  than  Apollo  ; 
For  oft,  when  he  lies  sleeping, 
I  behold  the  stars 
At  mortal  wars, 
And  the  rounded  welkin  weeping. 

The  moon  embraces  her  shepherd, 
And  the  Queen  of  Love  her  warrior  ; 
While  the  first  does  horn 
The  stars  of  the  morn, 
And  the  next  the  heavenly  farrier. 

With  a  heart  of  furious  fancies, 
Whereof  I  am  commander  : 

With  a  burning  spear, 

And  a  horse  of  air, 
To  the  wilderness  I  wander  ; 

With  a  Knight  of  ghosts  and  shadows, 
I  summoned  am  to  Tourney  : 
Ten  leagues  beyond 
The  wide  world's  end  ; 
Methinks  it  is  no  journey. 

291 


FAR 

311  THE  NIGHT-PIECE 

Her  Eyes  the  Glow-worme  lend  thee, 
The  Shooting  Starres  attend  thee  ; 

And  the  Elves  also, 

Whose  little  eyes  glow, 
Like  the  sparks  of  fire,  befriend  thee. 

No  WiU-o'  tk'-Wispe  mis-light  thee  ; 
Nor  Snake,  or  Slow-worme  bite  thee  : 

But  on,  on  thy  way 

Not  making  a  stay, 
Since  Ghost  ther's  none  to  affright  thee. 

Let  not  the  darke  thee  cumber  ; 
What  though  the  Moon  does  slumber  ? 
The  Starres  of  the  night 
Will  lend  thee  their  light, 
Like  Tapers  cleare  without  number.  .  .  . 

Robert  Herrick 


312 


MY  PLAID  AWA' 

My  plaid  awa',  my  plaid  awa', 
And  ore  the  hill  and  far  awa', 
And  far  awa'  to  Norrowa, 
My  plaid  shall  not  be  blown  awa'." 

The  elphin  knight  sits  ©n  yon  hill, 

Ba,  ba,  lilli  ba, 
He  blowes  it  east,  he  blowes  it  west, 
He  blowes  it  where  he  lyketh  best  .  . 
"  My  plaid  awa',  my  plaid  awa', 
And  ore  the  hill  and  far  awa'." 


313  BUCKEE  BENE 

Buckee,  Buckee,  biddy  Bene, 
Is  the  way  now  fair  and  clean  ? 
Is  the  goose  ygone  to  nest, 
And  the  fox  ygone  to  rest  ? 
Shall  I  come  away  ? 
292 


WHAT'S  IN  THERE  ? 

314  WHAT'S  IN  THERE  ? 

Faht's  in  there  ? 

Gold  and  money. 

Fahr's  1  my  share  o't  ? 

The  moosie  ran  awa'  wi't. 

Fahr's  the  moosie  ? 

In  her  hoosie. 

Fahr's  her  hoosie  ? 

In  the  wood. 

Fahr's  the  wood  ? 

The  fire  brunt  it. 

Fahr's  the  fire  ? 

The  water  quencht  it. 

Fahr's  the  water  ? 

The  broon  bull  drank  it. 

Fahr's  the  broon  bull  ? 

Back  a  Burnie's  hill. 

Fahr's  Burnie's  hill  ? 

A'  claid  wi'  snaw. 

Fahr's  the  snaw  ? 

The  sun  meltit  it. 

Fahr's  the  sun  ? 

Heigh,  heigh  up  i'  the  air ! " 

315  THE  WEE  WEE  MAN 

As  I  was  wa'king  all  alone, 

Between  a  water  and  a  wa', 
And  there  I  spy'd  a  Wee  Wee  Man, 

And  he  was  the  least  that  ere  I  saw. 

His  legs  were  scarce  a  shathmont's  length 
And  thick  and  thimber  was  his  thigh  ; 

Between  his  brows  there  was  a  span, 

And  between  his  shoulders  there  was  three. 


He  took  up  a  meikle  stane, 

A 

1  Where's 


And  he  flang't  as  far  as  I  could  see 


293 


FAR 

Though  1  had  been  .1  Wallace  wight, 
I  couldna'  liften't  to  my  knee. 

"  O  Woe  Woo  Man,  but  thou  bo  Strang  ! 

O  toll  me  where  thy  dwelling  be  ?" 
"  My  dwelling's  down  at  yon  bonny  bower  ; 

O  will  you  go  with  me  and  see  ?" 

On  we  lap,  and  awa'  we  rade, 

Till  we  came  to  yon  bonny  green  ; 

We  lighted  down  for  to  bait  our  horse, 
And  out  there  came  a  lady  fine. 

Four  and  twenty  at  her  back, 

And  they  were  a'  clad  out  in  green  ; 

Though  the  King  of  Scotland  had  been  there, 
The  warst  o'  them  might  hae  been  his  queen. 

On  we  lap,  and  aw^a'  we  rade, 

Till  we  came  to  yon  bonny  ha', 
Whare  the  roof  was  o'  the  beaten  gould, 

And  the  floor  was  o'  the  cristal  a'. 

When  we  came  to  the  stair-foot, 

Ladies  were  dancing,  jimp  and  sma', 

But  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
My  Wee  Wee  Man  was  clean  awa'. 


316  I  SAW  A  PEACOCK 

I  saw  a  peacock  with  a  fiery  tail 
I  saw  a  blazing  comet  drop  down  hail 
I  saw  a  cloud  wrapped  with  ivy  round 
I  saw  an  oak  creep  on  along  the  ground 
I  saw  a  pismire  swallow  up  a  whale 
I  saw  the  sea    brim  full    of  ale 
I  saw  a  Venice  glass    five  fathom  deep 
I  saw  a  well  full  of  men's  tears  that  weep 

294 


I  SAW  A  PEACOCK 

I  saw  red  eyes  all  of  a  flaming  fire 

I  saw  a  house  bigger  than  the  moon  and  higher 

I  saw  the  sun  at  twelve  o'clock  at  night 

I  saw  the  Man  that  saw  this  wondrous  sight. 


317  GIRAFFE  AND  TREE 

Upon  a  dark  ball  spun  in  Time 
Stands  a  Giraffe  beside  a  Tree  : 

Of  what  immortal  stuff  can  that 
The  fading  picture  be  ? 

So,  thought  I,  standing  by  my  love 
Whose  hair,  a  small  black  flag, 

Broke  on  the  universal  air 
With  proud  and  lovely  brag : 

It  waved  among  the  silent  hills, 

A  wind  of  shining  ebony 
In  Time's  bright  glass,  where  mirrored  clear 

Stood  the  Giraffe  beside  a  Tree. 

Walter  J.  Turner 


318  THE  WATER  LADY 

Alas,  the  moon  should  ever  beam 
To  show  what  man  should  never  see  ! 
I  saw  a  maiden  on  a  stream, 
And  fair  was  she  ! 

I  stayed  awhile,  to  see  her  throw 
Her  tresses  back,  that  all  beset 
The  fair  horizon  of  her  brow 
With  clouds  of  jet 

I  stayed  a  little  while  to  view 
Her  cheek,  that  wore  in  place  of  red 
The  bloom  of  water,  tender  blue, 
Daintily  spread. 

295 


FAB 

I  Btayed  to  watch,  a  little  space, 

1  [er  parted  lips  if  she  would  sing  ; 
The  waters  closed  above  her  face 
With  many  a  ring. 

And  still  I  stayed  a  little  more, 
Alas  !  she  never  comes  again  ; 
I  throw  my  flowers  from  the  shore, 
Ami  watch  in  vain. 

1  know  my  life  will  fade  away, 
1  know  that  I  must  vainly  pine, 
For  I  am  made  of  mortal  clay, 
But  she's  divine  ! 

Thomas  Hood 


319         THE  SONG  OF  WANDERING  AENGUS 

I  went  out  to  the  hazel  wood, 
Because  a  fire  was  in  my  head, 
And  cut  and  peeled  a  hazel  wand, 
And  hooked  a  berry  to  a  thread  ; 
And  when  white  moths  were  on  the  wing, 
And  moth-like  stars  were  flickering  out, 
I  dropped  the  berry  in  a  stream 
And  caught  a  little  silver  trout. 

When  I  had  laid  it  on  the  floor 
I  went  to  blow  the  fire  a-fiame, 
But  something  rustled  on  the  floor, 
And  someone  called  me  by  my  name  : 
It  had  become  a  glimmering  girl 
With  apple  blossom  in  her  hair 
Who  called  me  by  my  name  and  ran 
And  faded  through  the  brightening  air. 

Though  I  am  old  with  wandering 
Through  hollow  lands  and  hilly  lands, 
I  will  find  out  where  she  has  gone, 
And  kiss  her  lips  and  take  her  hands  ; 
296 


THE  SONG  OF  WANDERING  AENGUS 

And  walk  among  long  dappled  grass, 
And  pluck  till  time  and  times  are  done 
The  silver  apples  of  the  moon, 
The  golden  apples  of  the  sun. 


W.  B.  Yeats 


320  THE  WAY  THROUGH  THE  WOODS 

They  shut  the  road  through  the  woods 

Seventy  years  ago. 

Weather  and  rain  have  undone  it  again, 

And  now  you  would  never  know 

There  was  once  a  road  through  the  woods 

Before  they  planted  the  trees. 

It  is  underneath  the  coppice  and  heath, 

And  the  thin  anemones. 

Only  the  keeper  sees 

That,  where  the  ring-dove  broods, 

And  the  badgers  roll  at  ease, 

There  was  once  a  road  through  the  woods. 

Yet,  if  you  enter  the  woods 

Of  a  summer  evening  late, 

When  the  night-air  cools  on  the  trout-ringed  pools 

Where  the  otter  whistles  his  mate. 

(They  fear  not  men  in  the  woods, 

Because  they  see  so  few) 

You  will  hear  the  beat  of  a  horse's  feet, 

And  the  swish  of  a  skirt  in  the  dew, 

Steadily  cantering  through 

The  misty  solitudes, 

As  though  they  perfectly  knew 

The  old  lost  road  through  the  woods  .  .  . 

But  there  is  no  road  through  the  woods  ! 

Rudyard  Kipling 


297 


FAR 


THE  FALLOW  DEER  AT  THE  LONELY  HOUSE 

One  without  looks  in  to-night 

Through  the  curtain-chink 
From  the  sheet  <>t  glistening  white ; 
One  without  looks  in  to-night 

As  we  sit  and  think 

By  the  fender-brink. 

We  do  not  discern  those  eyes 

Watching  in  the  snow  ; 
Lit  by  lamps  of  rosy  dyes 
We  do  not  discern  those  eyes 

Wondering,  aglow, 

Fourfooted,  tiptoe. 

Thomas  Hardy 


322  DEER 

Shy  in  their  herding  dwell  the  fallow  deer. 

They  are  spirits  of  wild  sense.     Nobody  near 

Comes  upon  their  pastures.     There  a  life  they  live, 

Of  sufficient  beauty,  phantom,  fugitive, 

Treading  as  in  jungles  free  leopards  do, 

Printless  as  evelight,  instant  as  dew. 

The  great  kine  are  patient,  and  home-coming  sheep 

Know  our  bidding.     The  fallow  deer  keep 

Delicate  and  far  their  counsels  wild, 

Never  to  be  folded  reconciled 

To  the  spoiling  hand  as  the  poor  flocks  are  ; 

Lightfoot,  and  swift,  and  unfamiliar, 

These  you  may  not  hinder,  unconfined 

Beautiful  flocks  of  the  mind. 

John  Drinkwater 


2<)H 


THE  TWO  SWANS 

323  THE  TWO  SWANS 

(A  Fairy  Tale) 

Immortal  Imogen,  crowned  queen  above 
The  lilies  of  thy  sex,  vouchsafe  to  hear 
A  fairy  dream  in  honour  of  true  love — 
True  above  ills,  and  frailty,  and  all  fear — 
Perchance  a  shadow  of  his  own  career 
Whose  youth  was  darkly  prisoned  and  long  twined 
By  serpent-sorrow,  till  white  Love  drew  near, 
And  sweetly  sang  him  free,  and  round  his  mind 
A  bright  horizon  threw,  wherein  no  grief  may  wind. 

I  saw  a  tower  builded  on  a  lake, 
Mocked  by  its  inverse  shadow,  dark  and  deep — 
That  seemed  a  still  intenser  night  to  make, 
Wherein  the  quiet  waters  sunk  to  sleep, — ■ 
And,  whatsoe'er  was  prisoned  in  that  keep, 
A  monstrous  Snake  was  warden  : — round  and  round 
In  sable  ringlets  I  beheld  him  creep, 
Blackest  amid  black  shadows,  to  the  ground, 
Whilst  his  enormous  head  the  topmost  turret  crowned  : 

From  whence  he  shot  fierce  light  against  the  stars, 
Making  the  pale  moon  paler  with  affright ; 
And  with  his  ruby  eye  out-threatened  Mars — 
That  blazed  in  the  mid-heavens,  hot  and  bright — ■ 
Nor  slept,  nor  winked,  but  with  a  steadfast  spite 
Watched  their  wan  looks  and  tremblings  in  the  skies  ; 
And  that  he  might  not  slumber  in  the  night, 
The  curtain-lids  were  plucked  from  his  large  eyes, 
So  he  might  never  drowse,  but  watch  his  secret  prize. 

Prince  or  princess  in  dismal  durance  pent, 
Victims  of  old  Enchantment's  love  or  hate, 
Their  lives  must  all  in  painful  sighs  be  spent, 
Watching  the  lonely  waters  soon  and  late, 
And  clouds  that  pass  and  leave  them  to  their  fate, 

299 


FAR 

Or  company  their  grief  with  heavy  tears  : — 
Meanwhile  that  Hope  can  spy  no  golden  gate 
For  sweet  escapement,  but  in  darksome  fears 
They  weep  and  pine  away  as  if  immortal  years. 

No  gentle  bird  with  gold  upon  its  wing 
Will  perch  upon  the  grate — the  gentle  bird 
Is  safe  in  leafy  dell,  and  will  not  bring 
Freedom's  sweet  keynote  and  commission-word 
Learned  of  a  fairy's  lips,  for  pity  stirred — 
Lest  while  he  trembling  sings,  untimely  guest  ! 
Watched  by  that  cruel  Snake  and  darkly  heard, 
He  leave  a  widow  on  her  lonely  nest, 
To  press  in  silent  grief  the  darlings  of  her  breast. 

No  gallant  knight,  adventurous,  in  his  bark, 
Will  seek  the  fruitful  perils  of  the  place, 
To  rouse  with  dipping  oar  the  waters  dark 
That  bear  that  serpent-image  on  their  face. 
And  Love,  brave  Love  !  though  he  attempt  the  base, 
Nerved  to  his  loyal  death,  he  may  not  win 
His  captive  lady  from  the  strict  embrace 
Of  that  foul  Serpent,  clasping  her  within 
His  sable  folds — like  Eve  enthralled  by  the  old  Sin. 

But  there  is  none — no  knight  in  panoply, 
Nor  Love,  intrenched  in  his  strong  steely  coat : 
No  little  speck — no  sail — no  helper  nigh, 
No  sign — no  whispering — no  plash  of  boat : — 
The  distant  shores  show  dimly  and  remote, 
Made  of  a  deeper  mist, — serene  and  grey, — 
And  slow  and  mute  the  cloudy  shadows  float 
Over  the  gloomy  wave,  and  pass  away, 
Chased  by  the  silver  beams  that  on  their  marges  play. 

And  bright  and  silvery  the  willows  sleep 
Over  the  shady  verge — no  mad  winds  tease 
Their  hoary  heads  ;  but  quietly  they  weep 
Their  sprinkling  leaves — half  fountains  and  half  trees  : 
There  lilies  be — and  fairer  than  all  these, 

300 


THE  TWO  SWANS 

A  solitary  Swan  her  breast  of  snow 
Launches  against  the  wave  that  seems  to  freeze 
Into  a  chaste  reflection,  still  below, 
Twin-shadow  of  herself  wherever  she  may  go. 

And  forth  she  paddles  in  the  very  noon 
Of  solemn  midnight,  like  an  elfin  thing 
Charmed  into  being  by  the  argent  moon — 
Whose  silver  light  for  love  of  her  fair  wing 
Goes  with  her  in  the  shade,  still  worshipping 
Her  dainty  plumage  : — all  around  her  grew 
A  radiant  circlet,  like  a  fairy  ring  ; 
And  all  behind,  a  tiny  little  clue 
Of  light,  to  guide  her  back  across  the  waters  blue. 

And  sure  she  is  no  meaner  than  a  fay 
Redeemed  from  sleepy  death,  for  beauty's  sake, 
By  old  ordainment : — silent  as  she  lay, 
Touched  by  a  moonlight  wand  I  saw  her  wake, 
And  cut  her  leafy  slough  and  so  forsake 
The  verdant  prison  of  her  lily  peers, 
That  slept  amidst  the  stars  upon  the  lake — 
A  breathing  shape — restored  to  human  fears, 
And  new-born  love  and  grief — self-conscious  of  her  tears. 

And  now  she  clasps  her  wings  around  her  heart, 
And  near  that  lonely  isle  begins  to  glide, 
Pale  as  her  fears,  and  oft-times  with  a  start 
Turns  her  impatient  head  from  side  to  side 
In  universal  terrors — all  too  wide 
To  watch  ;  and  often  to  that  marble  keep 
Upturns  her  pearly  eyes,  as  if  she  spied 
Some  foe,  and  crouches  in  the  shadows  steep 
That  in  the  gloomy  wave  go  diving  fathoms  deep. 

And  well  she  may,  to  spy  that  fearful  thing 
All  down  the  dusky  walls  in  circlets  wound  ; 
Alas  !  for  what  rare  prize,  with  many  a  ring 
Girding  the  marble  casket  round  and  round  ? 
His  folded  tail,  lost  in  the  gloom  profound, 

301 


FAR 

rerribly  darkeneth  the  rocky  base; 
But  on  the  top  his  monstrous  head  is  crowned 
With  prickly  spears,  and  on  his  doubtful  face 
Gleam  his  unwearied  eyes,  red  watchers  of  the  place. 

Alas  !  of  the  hot  fires  that  nightly  fall, 
No  one  will  scorch  him  in  those  orbs  of  spite, 
So  he  may  never  see  beneath  the  wall 
That  timid  little  creature,  all  too  bright, 
That  st ret elus  her  fair  neck,  slender  and  white, 
Invoking  the  pale  moon,  and  vainly  tries 
Her  throbbing  throat,  as  if  to  charm  the  night 
With  song — but,  hush — it  perishes  in  sighs, 
And  there  will  be  no  dirge  sad-swelling,  though  she  dies  ! 

She  droops— she  sinks — she  leans  upon  the  lake, 
Fainting  again  into  a  lifeless  flower  ; 
But  soon  the  chilly  springs  anoint  and  wake 
Her  spirit  from  its  death,  and  with  new  power 
She  sheds  her  stifled  sorrows  in  a  shower 
Of  tender  song,  timed  to  her  falling  tears — 
That  wins  the  shady  summit  of  that  tower, 
And,  trembling  all  the  sweeter  for  its  fears, 
Fills  with  imploring  moan  that  cruel  monster's  ears. 

And,  lo  !  the  scaly  beast  is  all  deprest, 
Subdued  like  Argus  by  the  might  of  sound — 
What  time  Apollo  his  sweet  lute  addrest 
To  magic  converse  with  the  air,  and  bound 
The  many  monster  eyes,  all  slumber-drowned : — 
So  on  the  turret-top  that  watchful  Snake 
Pillows  his  giant  head,  and  lists  profound, 
As  if  his  wrathful  spite  would  never  wake, 
Charmed  into  sudden  sleep  for  Love  and  Beauty's  sake  ! 

His  prickly  crest  lies  prone  upon  his  crown, 
And  thirsty  lip  from  lip  disparted  flies, 
To  drink  that  dainty  flood  of  music  down — 
His  scaly  throat  is  big  with  pent-up  sighs — 
And  whilst  his  hollow  ear  entranced  lies, 

302 


THE  TWO  SWANS 

His  looks  for  envy  of  the  charmed  sense 

Are  fain  to  listen,  till  his  steadfast  eyes, 

Stung  into  pain  by  their  own  impotence, 

Distil  enormous  tears  into  the  lake  immense. 

Oh,  tuneful  Swan  !  oh,  melancholy  bird  ! 
Sweet  was  that  midnight  miracle  of  song, 
Rich  with  ripe  sorrow,  needful  of  no  word 
To  tell  of  pain,  and  love,  and  love's  deep  wrong — 
Hinting  a  piteous  tale — perchance  how  long 
Thy  unknown  tears  were  mingled  with  the  lake, 
What  time  disguised  thy  leafy  mates  among — 
And  no  eye  knew  what  human  love  and  ache 
Dwelt  in  those  dewy  leaves,  and  heart  so  nigh  to  break. 

Therefore  no  poet  will  ungently  touch 
The  water-lily,  on  whose  eyelids  dew 
Trembles  like  tears  ;  but  ever  hold  it  such 
As  human  pain  may  wander  through  and  through, 
Turning  the  pale  leaf  paler  in  its  hue — 
Wherein  life  dwells,  transfigured,  not  entombed, 
By  magic  spells.     Alas  !  who  ever  knew 
Sorrow  in  all  its  shades,  leafy  and  plumed, 
Or  in  gross  husks  of  brutes  eternally  inhumed  ? 

And  now  the  winged  song  has  scaled  the  height 
Of  that  dark  dwelling,  builded  for  despair, 
And  soon  a  little  casement  flashing  bright 
Widens  self-opened  into  the  cool  air — 
That  music  like  a  bird  may  enter  there 
And  soothe  the  captive  in  his  stony  cage  ; 
For  there  is  nought  of  grief,  or  painful  care, 
But  plaintive  song  may  happily  engage 
From  sense  of  its  own  ill,  and  tenderly  assuage. 

And  forth  into  the  light,  small  and  remote, 
A  creature,  like  the  fair  son  of  a  king, 
Draws  to  the  lattice  in  his  jewelled  coat 
Against  the  silver  moonlight  glistening, 
And  leans  upon  his  white  hand  listening 

303 


FAR 

To  that  sweet  music  that  with  tenderer  tone 
S.dutes  him,  wondering  wli.it  kindly  tiling 
Is  come  to  soothe  him  with  so  tuneful  mo;in, 
Singing  beneath  the  walls  as  if  for  him  alone  ! 

And  while  he  listens,  the  mysterious  song, 
Woven  with  timid  particles  of  speech, 
Twines  into  passionate  words  that  grieve  along 
The  melancholy  notes,  and  softly  teach 
The  secrets  of  true  love, — that  trembling  reach 
His  earnest  ear,  and  through  the  shadows  dun 
He  missions  like  replies,  and  each  to  each 
Their  silver  voices  mingle  into  one, 
Like  blended  streams  that  make  one  music  as  they  run. 

"  Ah,  Love  !  my  hope  is  swooning  in  my  heart, — " 
"  Ay,  sweet  1  my  cage  is  strong  and  hung  full  high — " 
"  Alas  1  our  lips  are  held  so  far  apart, 
Thy  words  come  faint, — they  have  so  far  to  fly  ! — " 
"  If  I  may  only  shun  that  serpent-eye  ! — " 
"  Ah  me  !  that  serpent-eye  doth  never  sleep  ; — " 
"  Then  nearer  thee,  Love's  martyr,  I  will  die  ! — " 
"  Alas,  alas  !  that  word  has  made  me  weep  ! 
For  pity's  sake  remain  safe  in  thy  marble  keep  !" 

"  My  marble  keep  !  it  is  my  marble  tomb — " 
"  Nay,  sweet !  but  thou  hast  there  thy  living  breath— 
"  Aye  to  expend  in  sighs  for  this  hard  doom ; — " 
"  But  I  will  come  to  thee  and  sing  beneath, 
And  nightly  so  beguile  this  serpent  wreath  ; — " 
"  Nay,  I  will  find  a  path  from  these  despairs." 
"  Ah  !  needs  then  thou  must  tread  the  back  of  death, 
Making  his  stony  ribs  thy  stony  stairs. — 
Behold  his  ruby  eye,  how  fearfully  it  glares  !" 

Full  sudden  at  these  words,  the  princely  youth 
Leaps  on  the  scaly  back  that  slumbers,  still 
Unconscious  of  his  foot,  yet  not  for  ruth, 
But  numbed  to  dulness  by  the  fairy  skill 
Of  that  sweet  music  (all  more  wild  and  shrill 

304 


THE  TWO  SWANS 

For  intense  fear)  that  charmed  him  as  he  lay — 
Meanwhile  the  lover  nerves  his  desperate  will, 
Held  some  short  throbs  by  natural  dismay, 
Then  down  the  serpent-track  begins  his  darksome  way. 

Now  dimly  seen — now  toiling  out  of  sight, 
Eclipsed  and  covered  by  the  envious  wall ; 
Now  fair  and  spangled  in  the  sudden  light, 
And  clinging  with  wide  arms  for  fear  of  fall : 
Now  dark  and  sheltered  by  a  kindly  pall 
Of  dusky  shadow  from  his  wakeful  foe  ; 
Slowly  he  winds  adown — dimly  and  small, 
Watched  by  the  gentle  Swan  that  sings  below, 
Her  hope  increasing,  still,  the  larger  he  doth  grow. 

But  nine  times  nine  the  Serpent  folds  embrace 
The  marble  walls  about — which  he  must  tread 
Before  his  anxious  foot  may  touch  the  base : 
Long  is  the  dreary  path,  and  must  be  sped  ! 
But  Love,  that  holds  the  mastery  of  dread, 
Braces  his  spirit,  and  with  constant  toil 
He  wins  his  way,  and  now,  with  arms  outspread, 
Impatient  plunges  from  the  last  long  coil : 
So  may  all  gentle  Love  ungentle  Malice  foil  ! 

The  song  is  hushed,  the  charm  is  all  complete, 
And"  two  fair  Swans  are  swimming  on  the  lake  : 
But  scarce  their  tender  bills  have  time  to  meet, 
When  fiercely  drops  adown  that  cruel  Snake — 
His  steely  scales  a  fearful  rustling  make, 
Like  autumn  leaves  that  tremble  and  foretell 
The  sable  storm  ; — the  plumy  lovers  quake — 
And  feel  the  troubled  waters  pant  and  swell, 
Heaved  by  the  giant  bulk  of  their  pursuer  fell. 

His  jaws,  wide  yawning  like  the  gates  of  Death, 

His  horrible  pursuit — his  red  eyes  glare 

The  waters  into  blood — his  eager  breath 

Grows  hot  upon  their  plumes  : — now.  minstrel  fair  I 

She  drops  her  ring  into  the  waves,  and  there 

305  u 


FAR 

It  widens  all  around,  a  fairy  ring 
Wrought  of  the  silver  light — the  fearful  pair 
Swim  in  the  very  midst,  and  pant  and  cling 
The  closer  for  their  fears,  and  tremble  wing  to  wing. 

Bending  their  course  over  the  pale  grey  lake, 
Against  the  pallid  East,  wherein  light  played 
In  tender  Hushes,  still  the  baffled  Snake 
Circled  them  round  continually,  and  bayed 
Hoarsely  and  loud,  forbidden  to  invade 
The  sanctuary  ring  :  his  sable  mail 
Rolled  darkly  through  the  flood,  and  writhed  and  made 
A  shining  track  over  the  waters  pale, 
Lashed  into  boiling  foam  by  his  enormous  tail. 

And  so  they  sailed  into  the  distance  dim, 
Into  the  very  distance — small  and  white, 
Like  snowy  blossoms  of  the  spring  that  swim 
Over  the  brooklets — followed  by  the  spite 
Of  that  huge  Serpent,  that  with  wild  affright 
Worried  them  on  their  course,  and  sore  annoy, 
Till  on  the  grassy  marge  I  saw  them  'light, 
And  change,  anon,  a  gentle  girl  and  boy, 
Locked  in  embrace  of  sweet  unutterable  joy  ! 

Then  came  the  Morn,  and  with  her  pearly  showers 
Wept  on  them,  like  a  mother,  in  whose  eyes 
Tears  are  no  grief ;  and  from  his  rosy  bowers 
The  Oriental  sun  began  to  rise, 
Chasing  the  darksome  shadows  from  the  skies ; 
Wherewith  that  sable  Serpent  far  away 
Fled,  like  a  part  of  night — delicious  sighs 
From  waking  blossoms  purified  the  day, 
And  little  birds  were  singing  sweetly  from  each  spray. 

Thomas  Hood 


306 


THE  EARL  OF  MAR'S  DAUGHTER 

324  THE  EARL  OF  MAR'S  DAUGHTER 

It  was  intill  a  pleasant  time, 

Upon  a  simmer's  day, 
The  noble  Earl  of  Mar's  daughter 

Went  forth  to  sport  and  play. 

As  thus  she  did  amuse  hersell, 

Below  a  green  aik  tree, 
There  she  saw  a  sprightly  doo  x 

Set  on  a  tower  sae  hie. 

"  0  Cow-me-doo,  my  love  sae  true, 

If  ye'll  come  down  to  me, 
Ye'se  hae  a  cage  o'  guid  red  gowd 

Instead  o'  simple  tree  : 

"  I'll  put  gowd  hingers  2  roun'  your  cage, 

And  siller  roun'  your  wa' ; 
I'll  gar  3  ye  shine  as  fair  a  bird 

As  ony  o'  them  a'." 

But  she  hadnae  these  words  well  spoke, 

Nor  yet  these  words  well  said, 
Till  Cow-me-doo  flew  frae  the  tower 

And  lighted  on  her  head. 

Then  she  has  brought  this  pretty  bird 

Hame  to  her  bowers  and  ha', 
And  made  him  shine  as  fair  a  bird 

As  ony  o'  them  a'. 

When  day  was  gane,  and  night  was  come, 

About  the  evening  tide 
This  lady  spied  a  sprightly  youth 

Stand  straight  up  by  her  side. 

"  From  whence  came  ye,  young  man  ?"  she  said ; 

"  That  does  surprise  me  sair  ; 
My  door  was  bolted  right  secure, 

What  way  hae  ye  come  here  ?" 

1  Dove  2  Trappings  3  Make 

307 


FAB 

"  O  had1  your  tongue,  ye  lady  fair, 

I. .it  a'  your  folly  be  ; 
Mind  ye  not  on  your  turtle-doo 

Last  day  ye  brought  wi1  thee  ?" 

"  0  tell  me  mair,  young  man,"  she  said, 
"  This  does  surprise  me  now  ; 

What  country  hae  ye  come  frae  ? 
What  pedigree  are  you  ?" 

"  My  mither  lives  on  foreign  isles, 

She  has  nae  mair  but  me  ; 
She  is  a  queen  o'  wealth  and  state, 

And  birth  and  high  degree. 

'  Likewise  well  skilled  in  magic  spells, 

As  ye  may  plainly  see, 
And  she  transformed  me  to  yon  shape, 
To  charm  such  maids  as  thee. 

"  I  am  a  doo  the  live-lang  day, 

A  sprightly  youth  at  night ; 
This  aye  gars  me  appear  mair  fair 

In  a  fair  maiden's  sight. 

"  And  it  was  but  this  verra  day 

That  I  came  ower  the  sea  ; 
Your  lovely  face  did  me  enchant ; 

I'll  live  and  dee  wi'  thee." 

"  0  Cow-me-doo,  my  luve  sae  true, 
Nae  mair  frae  me  ye'se  gae  "; 

"  That's  never  my  intent,  my  luve, 
As  ye  said,  it  shall  be  sae.  .  .  ." 


lHold 


308 


THE  BROOMFIELD  HILL 

325  THE  BROOMFIELD  HILL 

Brome,  brome  on  hill, 

The  gentle  brome  on  hill,  hill, 

Brome,  brome  on  Hive  hill, 

The  gentle  brome  on  Hive  hill, 

The  brome  stands  on  Hive  hill-a  .  .  . 

"  O  where  were  ye,  my  milk-white  steed, 

That  I  hae  cof t x  sae  dear, 
That  wadna'  watch  and  waken  me 

When  there  was  maiden  here  ?" 

"  I  stamped  wi'  my  foot,  master, 

And  gard  my  bridle  ring, 
But  na  kin  thing  wald  waken  ye, 

Till  she  was  past  and  gane." 

"  And  wae  betide  ye,  my  gay  goss-hawk, 

That  I  did  love  sae  dear, 
That  wadna'  watch  and  waken  me 

When  there  was  maiden  here." 

"  I  clapped  wi'  my  wings,  master, 

And  aye  my  bells  I  rang, 
And  aye  cryed,  Waken,  waken,  master, 

Before  the  ladye  gang." 

"  But  haste  and  haste,  my  guide  white  steed, 

To  come  the  maiden  till, 
Or  a'  the  birds  of  gude  green  wood 

Of  your  flesh  shall  have  their  fill." 

"  Ye  need  no  burst  your  gude  white  steed 

Wi'  racing  o'er  the  howm ; 2 
Nae  bird  flies  faster  through  the  wood, 

Than  she  fled  through  the  broom." 

326  THE  CHANGELING 

Toll  no  bell  for  me,  dear  Father,  dear  Mother, 

Waste  no  sighs  ; 
There  are  my  sisters,  there  is  my  little  brother 
Who  plays  in  the  place  called  Paradise, 

1  Bought  2  The  green  margin  of  a  river 

309 


FAB 

Your  children  all,  your  children  i<>r  ever  ; 

But  I,  so  wild, 
'Sour  disgrace,  with  the  queer  brown  face,  was  never, 

Never,  1  know,  but  half  your  child  ! 

In  the  garden  at  play,  all  day,  last  summer, 

Far  and  away  I  heard 
The  sweet  "  tweet -tweet  "  of  a  strange  new-comer, 

The  dearest,  clearest  call  of  a  bird. 
It  lived  down  there  in  the  deep  green  hollow, 

My  own  old  home,  and  the  fairies  say 
The  word  of  a  bird  is  a  thing  to  follow, 

So  I  was  away  a  night  and  a  day. 

One  evening,  too,  by  the  nursery  fire, 

We  snuggled  close  and  sat  round  so  still, 
When  suddenly  as  the  wind  blew  higher, 

Something  scratched  on  the  window-sill, 
A  pinched  brown  face  peered  in — I  shivered  ; 

No  one  listened  or  seemed  to  see  ; 
The  arms  of  it  waved  and  the  wings  of  it  quivered, 

Whoo — I  knew  it  had  come  for  me  ! 

Some  are  as  bad  as  bad  can  be  ! 
All  night  long  they  danced  in  the  rain, 
Round  and  round  in  a  dripping  chain, 
Threw  their  caps  at  the  window-pane, 

Tried  to  make  me  scream  and  shout 

And  fling  the  bedclothes  all  about : 
I  meant  to  stay  in  bed  that  night, 
And  if  only  you  had  left  a  light 

They  would  never  have  got  me  out  !• 

Sometimes  I  wouldn't  speak,  you  see, 
Or  answer  when  you  spoke  to  me, 
Because  in  the  long,  still  dusks  of  Spring 
You  can  hear  the  whole  world  whispering  ; 
The  shy  green  grasses  making  love, 
The  feathers  grow  on  the  dear  grey  dove, 
The  tiny  heart  of  the  redstart  beat, 
The  patter  of  the  squirrel's  feet, 

310 


THE  CHANGELING 

The  pebbles  pushing  in  the  silver  streams, 
The  rushes  talking  in  their  dreams, 

The  swish-swish  of  the  bat's  black  wings, 
The  wild-wood  bluebell's  sweet  ting-tings, 
Humming  and  hammering  at  your  ear, 
Everything  there  is  to  hear 
In  the  heart  of  hidden  things. 
But  not  in  the  midst  of  the  nursery  riot, 
That's  why  I  wanted  to  be  quiet, 
Couldn't  do  my  sums,  or  sing, 
Or  settle  down  to  anything. 
And  when,  for  that,  I  was  sent  upstairs 
I  did  kneel  down  to  say  my  prayers  ; 
But  the  King  who  sits  on  your  high  church  steeple 
Has  nothing  to  do  with  us  fairy  people  ! 

'Times  I  pleased  you,  dear  Father,  dear  Mother, 

Learned  all  my  lessons  and  liked  to  play, 
And  dearly  I  loved  the  little  pale  brother 

Whom  some  other  bird  must  have  called  away. 
Why  did  they  bring  me  here  to  make  me 

Not  quite  bad  and  not  quite  good, 
Why,  unless  They're  wicked,  do  They  want,  in  spite,   to 
take  me 

Back  to  Their  wet,  wild  wood  ? 
Now,  every  night  I  shall  see  the  windows  shining, 
The  gold  lamp's  glow,  and  the  fire's  red  gleam, 
While  the  best  of  us  are  twining  twigs  and  the  rest  of  us 
are  whining 

In  the  hollow  by  the  stream. 
Black  and  chill  are  Their  nights  on  the  wold  ; 

And  They  live  so  long  and  They  feel  no  pain  : 
I  shall  grow  up,  but  never  grow  old, 
I  shall  always,  always  be  very  cold, 

I  shall  never  come  back  again  ! 

Charlotte  Mew 


311 


FAR 


THE  HOST  OF  Till-.  AIR 

O'Driscoll  drove  with  a  song 
The  wild  duck  and  the  drake 
From  the  tall  and  the  I  uftcd  reeds 
Of  the  drear  Hart  Lake. 

And  he  saw  how  the  reeds  grew  dark 
At  the  coming  of  night  tide, 
And  dreamed  of  the  long  dim  hair 
Of  Bridget  his  bride. 

He  heard  while  he  sang  and  dreamed 
A  piper  piping  away, 
And  never  was  piping  so  sad, 
And  never  was  piping  so  gay. 

And  he  saw  young  men  and  young  girls 
Who  danced  on  a  level  place 
And  Bridget  his  bride  among  them, 
With  a  sad  and  a  gay  face. 

The  dancers  crowded  about  him, 
And  many  a  sweet  thing  said, 
And  a  young  man  brought  him  red  wine 
And  a  young  girl  w-hite  bread. 

But  Bridget  drew  him  by  the  sleeve, 
Away  from  the  merry  bands, 
To  old  men  playing  at  cards 
With  a  twinkling  of  ancient  hands. 

The  bread  and  the  wine  had  a  doom, 
For  these  were  the  host  of  the  air  ; 
He  sat  and  played  in  a  dream 
Of  her  long  dim  hair. 

He  played  with  the  merry  old  men 
And  thought  not  of  evil  chance, 
Until  one  bore  Bridget  his  bride 
Away  from  the  merry  dance. 
312 


THE  HOST  OF  THE  AHl 

He  bore  her  away  in  his  arms, 
The  handsomest  young  man  there, 
And  his  neck  and  his  breast  and  his  arms 
Were  drowned  in  her  long  dim  hair. 

O'Driscoll  scattered  the  cards 

And  out  of  his  dream  awoke  : 

Old  men  and  young  men  and  young  girls 

Were  gone  like  a  drifting  smoke  ; 

But  he  heard  high  up  in  the  air 
A  piper  piping  away, 
And  never  was  piping  so  sad, 
And  never  was  piping  so  gay. 


W.  B.  Yeats 


328  THE  LOVE-TALKER 

I  met  the  Love-Talker  one  eve  in  the  glen, 
He  was  handsomer  than  any  of  our  handsome  young  men, 
His  eyes  were  blacker  than  the  sloe,  his  voice  sweeter  far 
Than  the  crooning  of  old  Kevin's  pipes  beyond  in  Coolnagar. 

I  was  bound  for  the  milking  with  a  heart  fair  and  free — 
My  grief  !    my  grief  !    that  bitter  hour  drained  the  life  from 

me  ; 
I  thought  him  human  lover,  though  his  lips  on  mine  were 

cold, 
And  the  breath  of  death  blew  keen  on  me  within  his  hold. 

I  know  not  what  way  he  came,  no  shadow  fell  behind, 
But  all  the  sighing  rushes  swayed  beneath  a  faery  wind, 
The  thrush  ceased  its  singing,  a  mist  crept  about, 
We  two  clung  together — with  the  world  shut  out. 

Beyond  the  ghostly  mist  I  could  hear  my  cattle  low, 
The  little  cow  from  Ballina,  clean  as  driven  snow, 
The  dun  cow  from  Kerry,  the  roan  from  Inisheer, 
Oh,  pitiful  their  calling— and  his  whispers  in  my  ear  ! 

313 


FAR 

His  eyes  were  a  fire  ;   his  words  were  .1  snare  ; 

I  cried  my  mother's  name,  but  no  help  w;is  there  ; 

I  made  the  blessed  Sign  ;   then  he  gave  .1  dreary  moan, 

A  wisp  of  cloud  went  floating  by,  and  I  stood  alone. 

Running  ever  through  my  head,  is  an  old-time  rune — 
"  Who  meets  the  Love- Talker  must  weave  her  shroud  soon." 
My  mother's  face  is  furrowed  with  the  salt  tears  that  fall, 
But  the  kind  eyes  of  my  father  are  the  saddest  sight  of  all. 

I  have  spun  the  fleecy  lint,  and  now  my  wheel  is  still, 
The  linen  length  is  woven  for  my  shroud  fine  and  chill, 
I  shall  stretch  me  on  the  bed  where  a  happy  maid  I  lay — 
Pray  for  the  soul  of  Maire  Og  at  dawning  of  the  day  ! 

Ethna  Carbery 


329  MARIANA 

With  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots 
Were  thickly  crusted,  one  and  all  : 
The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 

That  held  the  pear  to  the  garden-wall. 
The  broken  sheds  looked  sad  and  strange  : 
Unlifted  was  the  clinking  latch  ; 
Weeded  and  worn  the  ancient  thatch 
Upon  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  "  My  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  7iot,"  she  said  ; 
She  said,  "  /  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  /" 

Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even  ; 

Her  tears  fell  ere  the  dews  were  dried  ; 
She  could  not  look  on  the  sweet  heaven, 

Either  at  morn  or  eventide. 
After  the  flitting  of  the  bats, 

When  thickest  dark  did  trance  the  sky, 

She  drew  her  casement-curtain  by, 
And  glanced  athwart  the  glooming  flats. 
314 


MARIANA 

She  only  said,  "  The  night  is  dreary, 
He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 

She  said,  "  /  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  /" 

Upon  the  middle  of  the  night, 

Waking  she  heard  the  night-fowl  crow  : 
The  cock  sung  out  an  hour  ere  light : 

From  the  dark  fen  the  oxen's  low 
Came  to  her  :  without  hope  of  change, 
In  sleep  she  seemed  to  walk  forlorn, 
Till  cold  winds  woke  the  grey-eyed  morn 
About  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said,  "  The  day  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 
She  said,  "  /  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  /" 

About  a  stone-cast  from  the  wall 

A  sluice  with  blackened  waters  slept, 
And  o'er  it  many,  round  and  small, 

The  clustered  marish-mosses  crept. 
Hard  by  a  poplar  shook  alway, 
All  silver-green  with  gnarled  bark  : 
For  leagues  no  other  tree  did  mark 
The  level  waste,  the  rounding  grey. 

She  only  said,  "  My  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not"  she  said  ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  !" 

And  ever  when  the  moon  was  low, 

And  the  shrill  winds  were  up  and  away, 
In  the  white  curtain,  to  and  fro, 

She  saw  the  gusty  shadow  sway. 
But  when  the  moon  was  very  low, 

And  wild  winds  bound  within  their  cell, 

The  shadow  of  the  poplar  fell 
Upon  her  bed,  across  her  brow. 
315 


FAR 

She  only  said,  "  The  night  is  dreary , 

He  cometh  >iot>"  she  said; 
She  said,  "  /  a»i  aweary,  aweary,' 

I  would  that  1  were  dead  /" 

All  day  within  the  dreamy  house, 

The  doors  upon  their  hinges  creaked  ; 
The  blue  fly  sung  in  the  pane  ;  the  mouse 

Behind  the  mouldering  wainscot  shrieked, 
Or  from  the  crevice  peered  about. 
Old  faces  glimmered  thro'  the  doors, 
Old  footsteps  trod  the  upper  floors, 
Old  voices  called  her  from  without. 

She  only  said,  "  My  life  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not,"  she  said  ; 
She  said,  "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, 
I  would  thai  I  ivere  dead  /" 

The  sparrow's  chirrup  on  the  roof, 

The  slow  clock  ticking,  and  the  sound 
Which  to  the  wooing  wind  aloof 

The  poplar  made,  did  all  confound 
Her  sense  ;  but  most  she  loathed  the  hour 
When  the  thick-moted  sunbeam  lay 
AthwTart  the  chambers,  and  the  day 
Was  sloping  toward  his  western  bower. 
Then,  said  she,  "  /  am  very  dreary, 

He  will  not  come,"  she  said  ; 
She  wept,  "  /  am  aweary,  aweary, 
Oh  God,  that  I  were  dead  /" 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson 


330  KEITH  OF  RAVELSTON 

The  murmur  of  the  mourning  ghost 
That  keeps  the  shadowy  kine, 

"  Oh,  Keith  of  Ravelston, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  line  !" 
316 


KEITH  OF  RAVELSTON 

Ravelston,  Ravelston, 

The  merry  path  that  leads 
Down  the  golden  morning  hill, 

And  thro'  the  silver  meads  ; 

Ravelston,  Ravelston, 

The  stile  beneath  the  tree, 
The  maid  that  kept  her  mother's  kine, 

The  song  that  sang  she  ! 

She  sang  her  song,  she  kept  her  kine, 

She  sat  beneath  the  thorn 
When  Andrew  Keith  of  Ravelston 

Rode  thro'  the  Monday  morn. 

His  henchmen  sing,  his  hawk-bells  ring, 

His  belted  jewels  shine  ! 
Oh,  Keith  of  Ravelston, 

The  sorrows  of  thy  line  ! 

Year  after  year,  where  Andrew  came, 
Comes  evening  down  the  glade, 

And  still  there  sits  a  moonshine  ghost 
Where  sat  the  sunshine  maid. 

Her  misty  hair  is  faint  and  fair, 

She  keeps  the  shadowy  kine  ; 
Oh,  Keith  of  Ravelston, 

The  sorrows  of  thy  line  ! 

I  lay  my  hand  upon  the  stile, 

The  stile  is  lone  and  cold, 
The  burnie  that  goes  babbling  by 

Says  naught  that  can  be  told. 

Yet,  stranger  !  here,  from  year  to  year, 

She  keeps  her  shadowy  kine  ; 
Oh,  Keith  of  Ravelston, 

The  sorrows  of  thy  line  ! 

Step  out  three  steps,  where  Andrew  stood- 
Why  blanch  thy  cheeks  for  fear  ? 
317 


FAB 

The  ancient  stile  is  not  alone, 
'Tis  not  the  burn  I  hear  ! 

She  makes  her  immemorial  moan, 

She  keeps  her  shadowy  kine  ; 
Oh,  Keith  of  Ravelston, 

The  sorrows  of  thy  line  ! 

Sydney  Dobell 


331  UNWELCOME 

We  were  young,  we  were  merry,  we  were  very  very  wise, 

And  the  door  stood  open  at  our  feast, 
When  there  passed  us  a  woman  with  the  West  in[her  eyes, 

And  a  man  with  his  back  to  the  East. 

0,  still  grew  the  hearts  that  were  beating  so  fast, 

The  loudest  voice  was  still. 
The  jest  died  away  on  our  lips  as  they  passed, 

And  the  rays  of  July  struck  chill. 

The  cups  of  red  wine  turned  pale  on  the  board, 

The  white  bread  black  as  soot. 
The  hound  forgot  the  hand  of  her  lord, 

She  fell  down  at  his  foot. 

Low  let  me  lie,  where  the  dead  dog  lies, 

Ere  I  sit  me  down  again  at  a  feast, 
When  there  passes  a  woman  with  the  Westjn^her  eyes, 

And  a  man  with  his  back  to  the  East. 

Mary  Coleridge 


332  ON  YES  TOR 

Beneath  our  feet,  the  shuddering  bogs 
Made  earthquakes  of  their  own, 

For  greenish-grizzled  furtive  frogs 
And  lizards  lithe  and  brown  ; 
318 


ON  YES  TOR 

And  high  to  east  and  south  and  west, 

Girt  round  the  feet  with  gorse, 
Lay,  summering,  breast  by  giant  breast, 

The  titan  brood  of  tors  ; 

Golden  and  phantom-pale  they  lay, 

Calm  in  the  cloudless  light, 
Like  gods  that,  slumbering,  still  survey 

The  obsequious  infinite. 

Plod,  plod,  through  herbage  thin  or  dense  ; 

Past  chattering  rills  of  quartz  ; 
Across  brown  bramble-coverts,  whence 

The  shy  black  ouzel  darts  ; 

Through  empty  leagues  of  broad,  bare  lands, 

Beneath  the  empty  skies, 
Clutched  in  the  grip  of  those  vast  hands, 

Cowed  by  those  golden  eyes, 

We  fled  beneath  their  scornful  stare, 

Like  terror-hunted  dogs, 
More  timid  than  the  lizards  were, 

And  shyer  than  the  frogs. 

Edmund  Gosse 


333  THE  WITCHES'  SONG 

"  I  have  beene  all  day  looking  after 
A  raven  feeding  upon  a  quarter  ; 
And,  soone  as  she  turned  her  back  to  the  south, 
I  snatched  this  morsell  out  of  her  mouth.".  .  . 

"  I  last  night  lay  all  alone 
0'  the  ground,  to  heare  the  madrake  grone  ; 
And  pluckt  him  up,  though  he  grew  full  low  : 
And,  as  I  had  done,  the  cocke  did  crow.".  .  . 

"  And  I  ha'  been  plucking  (plants  among) 
Hemlock,  henbane,  adders-tongue, 

319 


FAB 

Night-shade,  moone-wort,  libbards-bane  ; 

And  twise  by  the  dogges  was  like  to  be  tane.".  .  . 

'  Yes  :   I  have  brought,  to  hclpc  your  vows, 
Horned  poppic,  cyprcsse  boughes, 
The  fig-tree  wild,  that  grows  on  tombes, 
And  juice  that  from  the  larch-tree  comes, 
The  basiliske's  bloud,  and  the  viper's  skin  ; 
And  now  our  orgies  let's  begin." 

Ben  Jonson 

334  THE  RAVEN 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered,  weak  and 

weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten  lore, — 
While    I   nodded,   nearly  napping,   suddenly   there   came   a 

tapping, 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber  door. 
"  'Tis  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  "  tapping  at  my  chamber 

door ; 
Only  this  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember  it  was  in  the  bleak  December, 
And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon  the 

floor. 
Eagerly   I  wished    the   morrow  ; — vainly    I   had   sought   to 

borrow 
From   my   books   surcease   of  sorrow — sorrow  for   the   lost 

Lenore, 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name 

Lenore : 
Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

And  the  silken  sad  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Thrilled  me — filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt  before  ; 
So    that    now,   to  still   the    beating   of   my   heart,    I  stood 

repeating, 
"  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door — 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber  door  ; 
This  it  is  and  nothing  more." 

320 


THE  RAVEN 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger  ;  hesitating  then  no  longer, 
"  Sir,"  said  I,  "  or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I  implore  ; 
But  the  fact  is   I  was  napping,   and  so  gently  you   came 

rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  chamber 

door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you  " — here  I  opened  wide 

the  door  : — 
Darkness  there  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there  wondering, 

fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortals  ever  dared  to  dream 

before  ; 
But  the  silence  was   unbroken,   and   the  stillness  gave  no 

token, 
And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered  word, 

"  Lenore  ? " 
This   I  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the  word, 

"Lenore:" 
Merely  this  and  nothing  more. 

Back    into    the    chamber    turning,   all  my  soul  within   me 

burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping  somewhat  louder  than  before. 
"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely  that  is  something  at  my  window 

lattice  ; 
Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery  explore  : 
Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment  and  this  mystery  explore  ; 
'Tis  the  wind  and  nothing  more." 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flirt  and 

flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  Raven  of  the  saintly  days  of  yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he ;    not  a  minute  stopped  or 

stayed  he ; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  chamber 

door, 
Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door  : 
Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

321  x 


FAB 

Then  this  ebony  bird'beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  Bmiling 
By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it  wore, — 
'  Though  thy  cresl  be  shorn  and  Bhaven,  thou,"  I  said,  "  art 

sure  no  craven, 
Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  Raven  wandering  from  the  Nightly 

shore  : 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plutonian 

shore  !" 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

Much    I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so 

plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning — little  relevancy  bore  ; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber 

door — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber 

door, 
With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore." 

But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  the  placid  bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did  outpour. 
Nothing   further   then   he   uttered,    not   a   feather   then    he 

fluttered, 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  muttered, — "  Other  friends  have 

flown  before  ; 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  Hopes  have  flown 

before." 
Then  the  bird  said,  "  Nevermore." 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 
"  Doubtless,"  said  I,  "  what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock  and 

store, 
Caught    from    some    unhappy    master    whom    unmerciful 

Disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his  songs  one  burden 

bore  : 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden  bore 
Of  '  Never — nevermore.'  " 

322 


THE  RAVEN 

But  the  Raven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad  soul  into  smiling, 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird  and  bust 

and  door  ; 
Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy    unto    fancy,    thinking    what   this   ominous   bird   of 

yore, 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous  bird 

of  yore 
Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore." 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  "guessing,  but  no  syllable  expressing 
To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my  bosom's 

core  ; 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamplight  gloated  o'er, 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the  lamplight  gloating 

o'er 
She  shall  press,  ah,  nevermore  ! 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from  an 

unseen  censer 
Swung  by  seraphim  whose  foot-falls  tinkled  on  the  tufted 

floor. 
"  Wretch,"    I   cried,    "  thy   God   hath   lent   thee — by   these 

angels  he  hath  sent  thee 
Respite — respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories  of  Lenore  ! 
Quaff,   oh   quaff  this   kind   nepenthe,   and   forget   this  lost 

Lenore  !" 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"Prophet!"  said  I,  "thing  of  evil!    prophet  still,  if  bird 

or  devil  ! 
Whether  Tempter  sent  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee  here 

ashore, 
Desolate,  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  enchanted, 
On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted — tell  me  truly,  I  implore  : 
Is   there — is   there   balm   in   Gilead  ? — tell   me — tell   me,    I 

implore  !  " 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

323 


FAB 

"  Prophet  I"  said    I,   "thing  of   evil     prophet   still,    if    bird 

or  devil  ! 
By  that  Heaven  thai  bends  above  us,  by  that  God  we  both 

adore, 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within  the  distant  Aidenn, 
It  shall  elasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore  : 
Clasp  a  rare  and   radiant    maiden  whom   the  angels  name 

Lenore !" 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

"  Be    that    word   our    sign   of   parting,    bird    or   fiend  !"    I 

shrieked,  upstarting 
"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  Night's  Plutonian 

shore  ! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath 

spoken  ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken  !    quit  the  bust  above  my 

door  ! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from 

off  my  door  !" 
Quoth  the  Raven,  "  Nevermore." 

And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door; 
And  his  eyes  have  all    the   seeming   of  a   demon's  that  is 

dreaming, 
And  the  lamp-light  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow 

on  the  floor  ; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the 

floor 
Shall  be  lifted — nevermore  ! 

Edgar  Allan  Poe 

335  THE  WITCH'S  BALLAD 

0,  I  hae  come  from  far  away, 
From  a  warm  land  far  away, 
A  southern  land  across  the  sea, 
With  sailor-lads  about  the  mast, 
Merry  and  canny,  and  kind  to  me. 
324 


THE  WITCH'S  BALLAD 

And  I  hae  been  to  yon  town 

To  try  my  luck  in  yon  town  ; 
Nort,  and  Mysie,  Elspie  too. 
Right  braw  we  were  to  pass  the  gate, 
Wi'  gowden-clasps  on  girdles  blue. 

Mysie  smiled  wi'  miminy  mouth, 

Innocent  mouth,  miminy  mouth  ; 
Elspie  wore  a  scarlet  gown. 
Nort's  grey  eyes  were  unco'  gleg.1 
My  Castile  comb  was  like  a  crown. 

We  walk'd  abreast  all  up  the  street, 

Into  the  market  up  the  street ; 
Our  hair  with  marigolds  was  wound, 
Our  bodices  with  love-knots  laced, 
Our  merchandise  with  tansy  bound. 

Nort  had  chickens,  I  had  cocks  ; 

Gamesome  cocks,  loud-crowing  cocks  ; 
Mysie  ducks,  and  Elspie  drakes, — 
For  a  wee  groat  or  a  pound 
We  lost  nae  time  wi'  gives  and  takes. 

— Lost  nae  time  for  well  we  knew, 
In  our  sleeves  full  well  we  knew, 
When  the  gloaming  came  that  night, 
Duck  nor  drake,  nor  hen  nor  cock 
Would  be  found  by  candle-light. 

And  when  our  chaffering  all  was  done, 

All  was  paid  for,  sold  and  done, 
We  drew  a  glove  on  ilka  hand, 
We  sweetly  curtsied,  each  to  each. 
And  deftly  danced  a  saraband. 

The  market-lassies  looked  and  laughed, 

Left  their  gear,  and  looked  and  laughed  ; 
They  made  as  they  would  join  the  game, 
But  soon  their  mithers,  wild  and  wud,2 
With  whack  and  screech  they  stopped  the  same. 
1  Wild  and  lively  *  Furious 

325 


FAR 

S  le  loud  the  tongues  o'  randies1  grew, 

The  (1  >  t  in*  -  and  the  skirlin'  grew, 
At  all  the  ■*  indowa  in  the  place, 
Wi'  spoons  or  knives,  wi1  needle  or  awl, 

Was  thrust  out  every  hand  and  face. 

And  down  each  stair  they  thronged  anon, 

Gentle,  semple,  thronged  anon  ; 
Soutcr:l  and  tailor,  frowsy  Nan, 
The  ancient  widow  young  again, 
Simpering  behind  her  fan. 

Without  a  choice,  against  their  will, 
Doited,4  dazed,  against  their  will, 
The  market  lassie  and  her  mither, 
The  farmer  and  his  husbandman, 
Hand  in  hand  dance  a'  thegither. 

Slow  at  first,  but  faster  soon, 

Still  increasing,  wild  and  fast, 
Hoods  and  mantles,  hats  and  hose, 
Blindly  doffed  and  cast  away, 
Left  them  naked,  heads  and  toes. 

They  would  have  torn  us  limb  from  limb, 

Dainty  limb  from  dainty  limb  ; 
But  never  one  of  them  could  win 
Across  the  line  that  I  had  drawn 
With  bleeding  thumb  a-widdershin. 

But  there  was  Jeff  the  provost's  son, 

Jeff  the  provost's  only  son  ; 
There  was  Father  Auld  himsel', 
The  Lombard  frae  the  hostelry, 
And  the  lawyer  Peter  Fell. 

All  goodly  men  we  singled  out, 

Waled  5  them  well,  and  singled  out, 
And  drew  them  by  the  left  hand  in  ; 

1  Carousers  2  Brawling  3  Cobbler 

*  Spellbound  5  Chose 

326 


THE  WITCH'S  BALLAD 

Mysie  the  priest,  and  Elspie  won 
The  Lombard,  Nort  the  lawyer  carle, 
I  mysel'  the  provost's  son. 

Then,  with  cantrip  x  kisses  seven, 

Three  times  round  with  kisses  seven, 
Warped  and  woven  there  spun  we 
Arms  and  legs  and  flaming  hair, 
Like  a  whirlwind  on  the  sea. 

Like  a  wind  that  sucks  the  sea, 

Over  and  in  and  on  the  sea, 
Good  sooth  it  was  a  mad  delight ; 
And  every  man  of  all  the  four 
Shut  his  eyes  and  laughed  outright. 

Laughed  as  long  as  they  had  breath, 

Laughed  while  they  had  sense  or  breath  ; 
And  close  about  us  coiled  a  mist 
Of  gnats  and  midges,  wasps  and  flies, 
Like  the  whirlwind  shaft  it  rist. 

Drawn  up  I  was  right  off  my  feet, 

Into  the  mist  and  off  my  feet ; 
And,  dancing  on  each  chimney-top, 
I  saw  a  thousand  darling  imps 
Keeping  time  with  skip  and  hop. 

And  on  the  provost's  brave  ridge-tile, 

On  the  provost's  grand  ridge-tile, 
The  Blackamoor  first  to  master  me 
I  saw,  I  saw  that  winsome  smile, 
The  mouth  that  did  my  heart  beguile, 
And  spoke  the  great  Word  over  me, 
In  the  land  beyond  the  sea. 

I  called  his  name,  I  called  aloud, 

Alas  !   I  called  on  him  aloud  ; 
And  then  he  filled  his  hand  with  stour,2 
And  threw  it  towards  me  in  the  air  ; 
My  mouse  flew  out,  I  lost  my  pow'r  ! 
1  Witching  2  Dust :  reek 

327 


FAR 

My  lusty  strength,  my  power  were  gone  ; 

Power  was  gone,  and  .ill  was  gone. 
I  [e  will  not  let  me  love  him  more  ! 
( If  bell  and  whip  and  horse's  tail 
He  cares  not  if  1  find  a  store. 

But  I  am  proud  if  he  is  fierce  ! 
I  am  as  proud  as  he  is  fierce  ; 
I'll  turn  about  and  backward  go, 
If  I  meet  again  that  Blackamoor, 
And  he'll  help  us  then,  for  he  shall  know 
I  seek  another  paramour. 

And  we'll  gang  once  more  to  yon  town, 

\Yi'  better  luck  to  yon  town  ; 
We'll  walk  in  silk  and  cramoisie, 
And  I  shall  wed  the  provost's  son 
My  lady  of  the  town  I'll  be  ! 

For  I  was  born  a  crowned  king's  child, 

Born  and  nursed  a  king's  child, 
King  o'  a  land  ayont  the  sea, 
Where  the  Blackamoor  kissed  me  first, 
And  taught  me  art  and  glamourie. 

Each  one  in  her  wame  shall  hide 

Her  hairy  mouse,  her  wary  mouse, 
Fed  on  madwort  and  agramie, — 
Wear  amber  beads  between  her  breasts, 
And  blind-worm's  skin  about  her  knee. 

The  Lombard  shall  be  Elspie's  man, 

Elspie's  gowden  husband-man  ; 
Xort  shall  take  the  lawyer's  hand  ; 
The  priest  shall  swear  another  vow  ; 
We'll  dance  again  the  saraband  ! 

William  Bell  Scott 


328 


ANNAN  WATER 

336  ANNAN  WATER 

Annan  Water's  wading  deep, 

"  And  my  Love  Annie's  wondrous  bonny  ; 
And  I  am  loath  she  should  wet  her  feet, 

Because  I  love  her  best  of  ony." 

He's  loupen  on  his  bonny  gray, 

He  rode  the  right  gate  1  and  the  ready  ;  2 

For  all  the  storm  he  wadna  stay, 
For  seeking  of  his  bonny  lady. 

And  he  has  ridden  o'er  field  and  fell, 

Through  moor,  and  moss,  and  many  a  mire  ; 

His  spurs  of  steel  were  sair  to  bide, 
And  from  her  four  feet  flew  the  fire. 

"  My  bonny  gray,  now  play  your  part  ! 

If  ye  be  the  steed  that  wins  my  dearie, 
With  corn  and  hay  ye'll  be  fed  for  aye, 

And  never  spur  shall  make  you  wearie." 

The  gray  was  a  mare,  and  a  right  gude  mare  ; 

But  when  she  wan  the  Annan  Water, 
She  should  not  have  ridden  the  ford  that  night 

Had  a  thousand  marks  been  wadded  at  her. 

"  0  boatman,  boatman,  put  off  your  boat, 
Put  off  your  boat  for  golden  money  !" 

But  for  all  the  gold  in  fair  Scotland, 

He  dared  not  take  him  through  to  Annie. 

"01  was  sworn  so  late  yestreen, 
Not  by  a  single  oath,  but  mony  ! 

I'll  cross  the  drumly  stream  to-night, 
Or  never  could  I  face  my  honey." 

The  side  was  steep,  and  the  bottom  deep, 
From  bank  to  brae  the  water  pouring  ; 

The  bonny  gray  mare  she  swat  for  fear, 
For  she  heard  the  Water-Kelpy  roaring. 

1  Road  *  Nearest 

329 


FAR 

He  spurred  her  forth  into  the  flood, 

I  wot  she  swam  both  strong  and  steady  ; 

But  the  stream  w.<-  broad,  and  her  strength  did  fail, 
And  he  never  saw  his  bonny  lady  ! 


337  SONG 

An  !  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh  : 

The  sun  has  left  the  lea, 
The  orange  flower  perfumes  the  bower, 

The  breeze  is  on  the  sea, 
The  lark,  his  lay  who  thrilled  all  day, 

Sits  hushed  his  partner  nigh  : 
Breeze,  bird,  and  flower,  confess  the  hour, 

But  where  is  County  Guy  ? — 

The  village  maid  steals  through  the  shade, 

Her  shepherd's  suit  to  hear  ; 
To  beauty  shy,  by  lattice  high, 

Sings  high-born  Cavalier  ; 
The  star  of  Love,  all  stars  above, 

Now  reigns  o'er  earth  and  sky, 
And  high  and  low  the  influence  know — 

But  where  is  County  Guy  ? 

Sir  Walter  Scott 


338  DEADMAN'S  DIRGE 

Prayer  unsaid,  and  Mass  unsung, 
Deadman's  dirge  must  still  be  rung  : 
Dingle-dong,  the  dead-bells  sound 
Mermen  chant  his  dirge  around  ! 

Wash  him  bloodless,  smooth  him  fair, 
Stretch  his  limbs,  and  sleek  his  hair  : 

Dingle-dong,  the  dead-bells  go  ! 

Mermen  swing  them  to  and  fro  ! 
330 


DEADMAN'S  DIRGE 

In  the  wormless  sand  shall  he 
Feast  for  no  foul  glutton  be  : 

Dingle-dong,  the  dead-bells  chime  ! 

Mermen  keep  the  tone  and  time  ! 

We  must  with  a  tombstone  brave 
Shut  the  shark  out  from  his  grave  : 

Dingle-dong,  the  dead-bells  toll  ! 

Mermen  dirgers  ring  his  knoll  ! 

Such  a  slab  will  we  lay  o'er  him, 
All  the  dead  shall  rise  before  him  : 

Dingle-dong,  the  dead-bells  boom  ! 

Mermen  lay  him  in  his  tomb  ! 

George  Darley 

339  BOATS  AT  NIGHT 

How  lovely  is  the  sound  of  oars  at  night 

And  unknown  voices,  borne  through  windless  air, 
From  shadowy  vessels  floating  out  of  sight 

Beyond  the  harbour  lantern's  broken  glare 
To  those  piled  rocks  that  make  on  the  dark  wave 

Only  a  darker  stain.     The  splashing  oars 
Slide  softly  on  as  in  an  echoing  cave 

And  with  the  whisper  of  the  unseen  shores 
Mingle  their  music,  till  the  bell  of  night 

Murmurs  reverberations  low  and  deep 
That  droop  towards  the  land  in  swooning  flight 

Like  whispers  from  the  lazy  lips  of  sleep. 
The  oars  grow  faint.     Below  the  cloud-dim  hill 
The  shadows  fade  and  now  the  bay  is  still. 

Edward  Shanks 

340  A  VOICE  SINGS 

Hear,  sweet  spirit,  hear  the  spell, 
Lest  a  blacker  charm  compel  ! 
So  shall  the  midnight  breezes  swell 
With  thy  deep  long-lingering  knell. 
331 


FAB 

And  .it  evening  evermore, 
In  a  chapel  on  the  shore, 
Shall  the  chaunters,  sad  and  saintly, 
Yellow  tapers  burning  faintly, 
Doleful  masses  chaunt  for  thee, 
Miserere  Dominc  ! 

Hark,  the  cadence  dies  away 

On  the  quiet  moonlight  sea  : 
The  boatmen  rest  their  oars  ;  and  say, 

Miserere  Domine  ! 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 

341  THE  WANDERING  SPECTRE 

Wae's  me,  wae's  me, 
The  acorn's  not  yet 
Fallen  from  the  tree 
That's  to  grow  the  wood, 
That's  to  make  the  cradle, 
That's  to  rock  the  bairn, 
That's  to  grow  a  man, 
That's  to  lay  me. 

542  LUCIFER  IN  STARLIGHT 

On  a  starred  night  Prince  Lucifer  uprose. 
Tired  of  his  dark  dominion  swung  the  fiend 
Above  the  rolling  ball  in  cloud  part  screened, 
Where  sinners  hugged  their  spectre  of  repose. 
Poor  prey  to  his  hot  fit  of  pride  were  those. 
And  now  upon  his  western  wing  he  leaned, 
Now  his  huge  bulk  o'er  Afric's  sands  careened, 
Now  the  black  planet  shadowed  Arctic  snows. 
Soaring  through  wider  zones  that  pricked  his  scars 
With  memory  of  the  old  revolt  from  Awe, 
He  reached  a  middle  height,  and  at  the  stars, 
Which  are  the  brain  of  heaven,  he  looked,  and  sank. 
Around  the  ancient  track  marched  rank  on  rank, 
The  army  of  unalterable  law.  George  Meredith 

332 


THERE  WAS  A  KNIGHT 


343  THERE  WAS  A  KNIGHT 

There  was  a  knicht  riding  frae  the  east, 

Jennifer  gentle  an'  rosemaree. 
Who  had  been  wooing  at  monie  a  place, 

As  the  doo  l  flies  owre  the  mulberry  tree. 

He  cam'  unto  a  widow's  door, 

And  speird  2  whare  her  three  dochters  were. 

"  The  auldest  ane's  to  a  washing  gane, 
The  second's  to  a  baking  gane." 

"  The  youngest  ane's  to  a  wedding  gane, 
And  it  will  be  nicht  or3  she  be  hame." 

He  sat  him  doun  upon  a  stane, 

Till  thir  three  lasses  cam'  tripping  hame. 

The  auldest  ane  she  let  him  in, 
And  pinned  the  door  wi'  a  siller  pin. 

The  second  ane  she  made  his  bed, 
And  laid  saft  pillows  unto  his  head. 

The  youngest  ane  was  bauld  4  and  bricht, 

And  she  tarried  for  words  wi'  this  unco  knicht. — 

"  Gin  ye  will  answer  me  questions  ten, 
The  morn  ye  sail  me  made  my  ain  : — 

"  0  what  is  higher  nor  5  the  tree  ? 
And  what  is  deeper  nor  the  sea  ? 

"  Or  what  is  heavier  nor  the  lead  ? 
And  what  is  better  nor  the  bread  ? 

"  Or  what  is  whiter  nor  the  milk  ? 
Or  what  is  safter  nor  the  silk  ? 

"  Or  what  is  sharper  nor  a  thorn  ? 
Or  what  is  louder  nor  a  horn  ? 

1  Dove  2  Asked  3  Ere  *  Bold  5  Than 

333 


FAB 

■  Or  what  is  greener  nor  the  grass  ? 

( >r  wh.it  is  w.mr  l  nor  a  woman  was  ?" 

"  0  heaven  is  higher  nor  the  tree, 
And  hell  is  deeper  nor  the  sea. 

"  0  sin  is  heavier  nor  the  lead, 
The  blessing's  better  nor  the  bread. 

"  The  snaw  is  whiter  nor  the  milk, 
And  the  down  is  safter  nor  the  silk. 

"  Hunger  is  sharper  nor  a  thorn, 
And  shame  is  louder  nor  a  horn. 

"  The  pies  are  greener  nor  the  grass, 
And  Clootie's  waur  nor  a  woman  was." 

As  sune  as  she  the  fiend  did  name, 
Jennifer  gentle  an'  rosemaree, 

He  flew  awa'  in  a  blazing  flame, 

As  the  doo  flies  owre  the  mulberry  tree. 


344      THE  FALSE  KNIGHT  UPON  THE  ROAD 

"  0  whare  are  ye  gaun  ?" 

Quo'  the  fause  knicht  upon  the  road  : 

"  I'm  gaun  to  the  scule." 

Quo'  the  wee  boy,  and  still  he  stude. 

"  What  is  that  upon  your  back  ?" 
Quo'  the  fause  knicht  upon  the  road  : 

"  Atweel2  it  is  my  bukes." 

Quo'  the  wee  boy,  and  still  he  stude. 

"  What's  that  ye've  got  in  your  arm  ?" 
Quo'  the  fause  knicht  upon  the  road  : 

"  Atweel  it  is  my  peit."  3 

Quo'  the  wee  boy,  and  still  he  stude. 

1  Worse  2  Why,  sure  8  Peat  for  school  fire 

334 


THE  FALSE  KNIGHT  UPON  THE  ROAD 

"  Wha's  aucht1  they  sheep  ?" 

Quo'  the  fause  knicht  upon  the  road  : 

"  They're  mine  and  my  mither's." 
Quo'  the  wee  boy,  and  still  he  stude. 

"  How  monie  o'  them  are  mine  ?" 
Quo'  the  fause  knicht  upon  the  road : 

"  A'  they  that  hae  blue  tails." 
Quo'  the  wee  boy,  and  still  he  stude. 

"  I  wiss  ye  were  on  yon  tree  :  " 
Quo'  the  fause  knicht  upon  the  road : 

"  And  a  gude  ladder  under  me." 
Quo'  the  wee  boy,  and  still  he  stude. 

"  And  the  ladder  for  to  break  :  " 
Quo'  the  fause  knicht  upon  the  road : 

"  And  you  for  to  fa'  down." 

Quo'  the  wee  boy,  and  still  he  stude. 

"  I  wiss  ye  were  in  yon  sie  :  " 

Quo'  the  fause  knicht  upon  the  road  : 

"  And  a  gude  bottom  2  under  me." 
Quo'  the  wee  boy,  and  still  he  stude. 

"  And  the  bottom  for  to  break  :  " 
Quo'  the  fause  knicht  upon  the  road  : 

"  And  ye  to  be  drowned." 

Quo'  the  wee  boy,  and  still  he  stude. 


345  CHRISTABEL 

'Tis  the  middle  of  night  by  the  castle  clock, 
And  the  owls  have  awakened  the  crowing  cock  ; 

Tu-whit ! Tu-  whoo  ! 

And  hark,  again  !  the  crowing  cock, 
How  drowsily  it  crew. 

Sir  Leoline,  the  Baron  rich, 
Hath  a  toothless  mastiff  bitch  ; 

1  Who  owns  2  Vessel,  ship 

335 


FAB 

From  her  kennel  beneath  the  ro<  k 

Slu"  maketh  answer  to  the  clock, 

Four  for  the  quarters,  and  twelve  for  the  hour ; 

Ever  and  aye,  by  shine  and  shower, 

Sixteen  short  howls,  not  over  loud  ; 
Some  say,  she  sees  my  lady's  shroud. 

Is  the  night  chilly  and  dark  ? 
The  night  is  chilly,  but  not  dark. 
The  thin  gray  cloud  is  spread  on  high, 
It  covers  but  not  hides  the  sky. 
The  moon  is  behind,  and  at  the  full  ; 
And  yet  she  looks  both  small  and  dull. 
The  night  is  chill,  the  cloud  is  gray  : 
'Tis  a  month  before  the  month  of  May, 
And  the  Spring  comes  slowly  up  this  way. 

The  lovely  lady,  Christabel, 

Whom  her  father  loves  so  well, 

What  makes  her  in  the  wood  so  late, 

A  furlong  from  the  castle  gate  ? 

She  had  dreams  all  yesternight 

Of  her  own  betrothed  knight ; 

And  she  in  the  midnight  wood  will  pray 

For  the  weal  of  her  lover  that's  far  away. 

She  stole  along,  she  nothing  spoke, 
The  sighs  she  heaved  were  soft  and  low, 
And  naught  was  green  upon  the  oak 
But  moss  and  rarest  mistletoe  : 
She  kneels  beneath  the  huge  oak  tree, 
And  in  silence  prayeth  she. 

The  lady  sprang  up  suddenly, 
The  lovely  lady,  Christabel  ! 
It  moaned  as  near,  as  near  can  be, 
But  what  it  is  she  cannot  tell. — 
On  the  other  side  it  seems  to  be, 
Of  the  huge,  broad-breasted,  old  oak  tree. 

33G 


CHRISTABEL 

The  night  is  chill ;  the  forest  bare  ; 

Is  it  the  wind  that  moaneth  bleak  ? 

There  is  not  wind  enough  in  the  air 

To  move  away  the  ringlet  curl 

From  the  lovely  lady's  cheek — 

There  is  not  wind  enough  to  twirl 

The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan, 

That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can, 

Hanging  so  light,  and  hanging  so  high, 

On  the  topmost  twig  that  looks  up  at  the  sky. 

Hush,  beating  heart  of  Christabel  ! 
Jesu,  Maria,  shield  her  well  ! 
She  folded  her  arms  beneath  her  cloak, 
And  stole  to  the  other  side  of  the  oak. 
What  sees  she  there  ? 

There  she  sees  a  damsel  bright, 
Drest  in  a  silken  robe  of  white, 
That  shadowy  in  the  moonlight  shone  : 
The  neck  that  made  that  white  robe  wan — 
Her  stately  neck,  and  arms  were  bare  ; 
Her  blue-veined  feet  unsandaled  were, 
And  wildly  glittered  here  and  there 
The  gems  entangled  in  her  hair.  .  .  . 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 


346  THE  FRUIT  PLUCKER 

Encinctured  with  a  twine  of  leaves, 
That  leafy  twine  his  only  dress, 
A  lovely  Boy  was  plucking  fruits, 
By  moonlight,  in  a  wilderness. 
The  moon  was  bright,  the  air  was  free, 
And  fruits  and  flowers  together  grew 
On  many  a  shrub  and  many  a  tree  : 
And  all  put  on  a  gentle  hue, 
Hanging  in  the  shadowy  air 
Like  a  picture  rich  and  rare. 
337 


FAB 

It  was  .1  climate  where,  they  say, 
lht-  night  is  more  beloved  than  day. 
But  who  thai  beauteous  Boy  beguiled, 
That  beauteous  Boy  to  linger  here? 

Alone,  by  night,  a  little  child, 

In  place  so  silent  and  so  wild — 

Has  he  no  friend,  no  loving  mother  near  ? 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 


347  THE  HAUNTED  PALACE 

In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys 
By  good  angels  tenanted, 

Once  a  fair  and  stately  palace — 
Radiant  palace — reared  its  head. 

In  the  monarch  Thought's  dominion 
It  stood  there  ! 

Never  seraph  spread  a  pinion 
Over  fabric  half  so  fair. 

Banners  yellow,  glorious,  golden, 
On  its  roof  did  float  and  flow, 
(This — all  this — was  in  the  olden 

Time  long  ago), 
And  every  gentle  air  that  dallied 

In  that  sweet  day, 
Along  the  ramparts  plumed  and  pallid 
A  winged  odour  went  away. 

Wanderers,  in  that  happy  valley, 

Through  two  luminous  windows  saw 
Spirits  moving  musically, 

To  a  lute's  well-tuned  law, 
Round  about  a  throne,  where  sitting 

(Porphyrogene), 
In  state  his  glory  well  befitting, 
The  ruler  of  the  realm  was  seen. 
338 


THE  HAUNTED  PALACE 

And  all  with  pearl  and  ruby  glowing 

Was  the  fair  palace  door, 
Through  which  came  flowing,  flowing,  flowing, 

And  sparkling  evermore, 
A  troop  of  Echoes,  whose  sweet  duty 

Was  but  to  sing, 
In  voices  of  surpassing  beauty, 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  their  king. 

But  evil  things,  in  robes  of  sorrow, 
Assailed  the  monarch's  high  estate. 

(Ah,  let  us  mourn,  for  never  morrow 
Shall  dawn  upon  him  desolate  !) 

And  round  about  his  home,  the  glory, 
That  blushed  and  bloomed, 

Is  but  a  dim-remembered  story 
Of  the  old  time  entombed. 

And  travellers,  now,  within  that  valley, 

Through  the  red-litten  windows  see 
Vast  forms,  that  move  fantastically 

To  a  discordant  melody  ; 
While,  like  a  ghastly  rapid  river, 

Through  the  pale  door 

A  hideous  throng  rush  out  for  ever, 

And  laugh — but  smile  no  more. 

Edgar  Allan  Poe 


348  THE  HOUSE  OF  RICHESSE 

NEIGHBOURING    THE   GATE    OF   HELL    INTO    WHICH  MAMMON 
LED  THE  ELFIN   KNIGHT 

.  .  .  That  houses  forme  within  was  rude  and  strong, 
Like  an  huge  cave,  hewne  out  of  rocky  clift, 
From  whose  rough  vaut  the  ragged  breaches  hong, 
Embost  with  massy  gold  of  glorious  gift, 
And  with  rich  metall  loaded  every  rift, 

339 


FAR 

That  heavy  ruinc  they  did  sccmc  to  threat  ; 
And  over  them  Arachne  high  did  lift 
Her  cunning  web,  and  spred  her  subtile  net, 
Enwrapped  in  fowle  smoke  and  clouds  more  blacke  then  jet. 

Both  roofe,  and  floore,  and  wals  were  all  of  gold, 
But  overgrowne  with  dust  and  old  decay, 
And  hid  in  darkenesse,  that  none  could  behold 
The  hew  thereof :  for  vew  of  chearefull  day 
Did  never  in  that  house  it  selfe  display, 
But  a  faint  shadow  of  uncertain  light  ; 
Such  as  a  lamp,  whose  life  does  fade  away  : 
Or  as  the  Noone  cloathed  with  clowdy  night, 

Does  shew  to  him  that  walkes  in  feare  and  sad  affright. 

In  all  that  rowme  was  nothing  to  be  seene, 
But  huge  great  yron  chests  and  coffers  strong, 
All  bard  with  double  bends,1  that  none  could  weene 
Them  to  efforce  by  violence  or  wrong  ; 
On  every  side  they  placed  were  along. 
But  all  the  ground  with  sculs  was  scattered, 
And  dead  mens  bones,  which  round  about  were  flong, 
Whose  lives,  it  seemed,  whilome  there  were  shed, 

And  their  vile  carcases  now  left  unburied.  .  .  . 

Edmund  Spenser 


349  THE  OLD  CITY 

Thou  hast  come  from  the  old  city, 

From  the  gate  and  the  tower, 

From  King  and  priest  and  serving  man 

And  burnished  bower, 

From  beggar's  whine  and  barking  dogs, 

From  prison  sealed — 

Thou  hast  come  from  the  old  city 

Into  the  field. 

1  Bands 

340 


THE  OLD  CITY 

The  gables  in  the  old  city 

Are  stooping  awry, 

They  gloom  upon  the  muddy  lanes 

And  smother  the  sky, 

And  nightly  through  those  mouldy  lanes, 

Moping  and  slow, 

They  who  builded  the  old  city 

The  cold  ghosts  go. 

There  is  plague  in  the  old  city, 
And  the  priests  are  sped 
To  graveyard  and  vault 
To  bury  the  dead  ; 
Brittle  bones  and  dusty  breath 
To  death  must  yield — 
Fly,  fly,  from  the  old  city 
Into  the  field  ! 

Ruth  Manning-Sanders 


350  THE  TWO  SPIRITS 

First  Spirit.       0  Thou,  who  plumed  with  strong  desire 
Wouldst  float  above  the  earth,  beware  ! 
A  shadow  tracks  the  flight  of  fire — 
Night  is  coming  ! 
Bright  are  the  regions  of  the  air, 
And  among  the  winds  and  beams 
It  were  delight  to  wander  there — 
Night  is  coming  ! 

Second  Spirit.    The  deathless  stars  are  bright  above ; 
If  I  would  cross  the  shade  of  night, 
Within  my  heart  is  the  lamp  of  love, 
And  that  is  day  ! 
And  the  moon  will  smile  with  gentle  light 
On  my  golden  plumes  where'er  they  move  ; 
The  meteors  will  linger  round  my  flight ; 
And  make  night  day. 
341 


FAB 

First  Spirit.        I ''lit  if  the  whirlwinds  of  darkness  waken 
Hail,  and  lightning,  and  stormy  rain  ; 
See,  the  bounds  of  the  air  are  shaken — 
Night  is  coming  ! 
The  red  swift  clouds  of  the  hurricane 
Yon  declining  sun  have  overtaken, 

The  clash  of  the  hail  sweeps  over  the  plain — 
Night  is  coming  ! 

Second  Spirit.     I  see  the  light,  and  1  hear  the  sound  ; 

I'll  sail  on  the  flood  of  the  tempests  dark, 
With  the  calm  within  and  the  light  around 
Which  makes  night  day  : 
And  then,  when  the  gloom  is  deep  and  stark, 
Look  from  thy  dull  earth,  slumber-bound  ; 
My  moon-like  flight  thou  then  may'st  mark 
On  high,  far  away. 

Some  say  there  is  a  precipice 

Where  one  vast  pine  is  frozen  to  ruin 
O'er  piles  of  snow  and  chasms  of  ice 
'Mid  Alpine  mountains  ; 
And  that  the  languid  storm  pursuing 
That  winged  shape,  for  ever  flies 

Round  those  hoar  branches,  aye  renewing 
Its  aery  fountains. 

Some  say,  when  nights  are  dry  and  clear, 

And  the  death-dews  sleep  on  the  morass, 
Sweet  whispers  are  heard  by  the  traveller, 
Which  make  night  day  ; 
And  a  silver  shape,  like  his  early  love,  doth 
pass 
Up-borne  by  her  wild  and  glittering  hair, 
And  when  he  awakes  on  the  fragrant  grass, 
He  finds  night  day. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


342 


"LILY  BRIGHT  AND  SHINE- A' 


351  SILLY  SWEETHEART 

Silly  Sweetheart,  say  not  nay, 

Come  away  : 
All  I  tell  is  sweet  and  merry  ; 
Soon  rings  evensong,  and  soon 
Where  was  blossom  hangs  a  berry  ; 
Where  was  darkness  shines  a  moon. 
Prythee,  Sweetheart,  then  I  say, 

Come,  come  away. 

0  away, 

Come  away  : 
Maids  there  are  with  cheeks  like  roses, 
Thine  are  roses  in  the  snow. 
Fie,  the  lass  whose  dainty  nose  is 
Tilted  not  as  one  I  know. 
Nought  heeds  she,  Alackaday  ! 

My,  Come,  come  away. 

O  away, 

Come  away  : 
Honeycomb  by  bees  made  sweet  is  ; 
Dew  on  apple,  bloom  on  plum  ; 
Hearken,  my  heart's  lightest  beat  is 
Drumming,  drumming  ;  haste  and  come 

Say  not  nay,  then  ; 

Make  no  stay,  then  ; 
Dance  thy  dainty  foot  and  straying 

Come,  come  away  ! 

345 


LILY   BRIGHT  AM)  SHINE  A 

35a  HERE  COMES  A  LUSTY  WOOER 

"  Here  comes  a  lusty  wooer, 
My  a  dildin,  my  a  daldin  ; 
Here  comes  a  lusty  wooer, 
Lily  bright  and  shine-a." 

"  Pray  who  do  you  woo  ? 
My  a  dildin,  my  a  daldin  ; 
Pray  who  do  you  woo  ? 
Lily  bright  and  shine-a." 

"  Woo  !  Your  fairest  daughter  ! 
My  a  dildin,  my  a  daldin  ; 
WToo  !  your  fairest  daughter  ! 
Lily  bright  and  shine-a." 

"  There  !  there  !  she  is  for  you, 
My  a  dildin,  my  a  daldin  ; 
There  !  there  !  she  is  for  you, 
Lily  bright  and  shine-a." 

353  THREE  KNIGHTS  FROM  SPAIN 

We  are  three  Brethren  come  from  Spain, 

All  in  French  garlands  ; 
We  are  come  to  court  your  daughter  Jane, 

And  adieu  to  you,  my  darlings. 

My  daughter  Jane  ! — she  is  too  young, 

All  in  French  garlands  ; 
She  cannot  bide  your  nattering  tongue, 

And  adieu  to  you,  my  darlings. 

Be  she  young,  or  be  she  old, 

All  in  French  garlands  ; 
'Tis  for  a  bride  she  must  be  sold, 

And  adieu  to  you,  my  darlings. 

A  bride,  a  bride,  she  shall  not  be 
All  in  French  garlands  ; 
346 


THREE  KNIGHTS  FROM  SPA  IN 

Till  she  go  through  this  world  with  me, 
And  adieu  to  you,  my  darlings. 

Then  shall  you  keep  your  daughter  Jane, 

All  in  French  garlands  ; 
Come  once,  we  come  not  here  again, 

And  adieu  to  you,  my  darlings. 

Turn  back,  turn  back,  you  Spanish  Knights, 

All  in  French  garlands  ; 
Scour,  scour  your  spurs,  till  they  be  bright, 

And  adieu  to  you,  my  darlings. 

Sharp  shine  our  spurs,  all  richly  wrought, 

All  in  French  garlands  ; 
In  towns  afar  our  spurs  were  bought 

And  adieu  to  you,  my  darlings. 

Smell  my  lilies,  smell  my  roses, 

All  in  French  garlands  ; 
Which  of  my  maidens  do  you  choose  ? 

And  adieu  to  you,  my  darlings. 

Not  she.     Not  she.     Thy  youngest,  Jane  ! 

All  in  French  garlands  ; 
We  ride — and  ride  not  back  again, 

And  adieu  to  you,  my  darlings. 

In  every  pocket  a  thousand  pound, 

All  in  French  garlands  ; 
On  every  finger  a  gay  gold  ring, 

And  adieu  to  you,  my  darlings. 

And  adieu  to  you,  my  darlings. 

354  THE  WHUMMIL  BORE 

Seven  lang  years  I  hae  served  the  King, 
Fa  fa  fa  fa  lilly  : 

And  I  never  got  a  sight  of  his  daughter  but  ane 
With  my  glimpy,  glimpy,  glimpy  eedle, 
Lillum  too  tee  a  la  too  a  tee  a  ta  a  tally. 

347 


LILT?  BRIGHT  AND  SIHNK-A 

I  s,iw  her  thro'  a  whummil  bore, 

Fa  fa  fa  fa  lilly  : 
And  I  ne'er  got  a  sight  of  her  no  more. 
With  my  glimpy,  glimpy,  glimpy  eedle, 
1. ilium  too  tee  a  ta  too  a  tee  a  ta  a  tally. 

Twa  was  putting  on  her  gown, 

Fa  fa  fa  fa  lilly  : 
Ami  ten  was  putting  pins  therein. 

With  my  glimpy,  glitnpy,  glimpy  eedle. 

Lillian  too  tee  a  ta  too  a  tee  a  ta  a  tally. 

Twa  was  putting  on  her  shoon, 

Fa  fa  fa  fa  lilly  : 
And  twa  was  buckling  them  again. 

With  my  glimpy,  glimpy,  glimpy  eedle. 

Lillum  too  tee  a  ta  too  a  tee  a  ta  a  tally. 

Five  was  combing  down  her  hair, 
Fa  fa  fa  fa  lilly  : 

And  I  ne'er  got  a  sight  of  her  nae  mair. 
With  my  glimpy,  glimpy,  glimpy  eedle, 
Lillum  too  tee  a  ta  too  a  tee  a  ta  a  tally. 

Her  neck  and  breast  was  like  the  snow, 
Fa  fa  fa  fa  lilly  : 

Then  from  the  bore  I  was  forced  to  go. 
With  my  glimpy,  glimpy,  glimpy  eedle, 
Lillum  too  tee  a  ta  too  a  tee  a  ta  a  tally. 

355  HEY,  WULLY  WINE 

Hey,  Wully  wine,  and  How,  Wully  wine, 
I  hope  for  hame  ye'll  no'  incline  ; 
Ye'll  better  light,  and  stay  a'  night, 
And  I'll  gie  thee  a  lady  fine. 

I  maun  ride  hame,  I  maun  gang  hame, 
And  bide  nae  langer  here  ; 

The  road  is  lang,  the  mirk  soon  on, 
And  howlets  mak'  me  fear. 
348 


HEY,  WULLY  WINE 

Light  down,  and  bide  wi'  us  a'  night, 
We'll  choose  for  ye  a  bonnie  lass, 

Ye'll  get  your  wield  and  pick  o'  them  a' 
And  the  time  it  soon  awa'  will  pass. 

Wha  will  ye  gie,  if  I  wi'  ye  bide, 
To  be  my  bonny  bonny  bride, 
And  lie  down  lovely  by  my  side  ? 

I'll  gie  thee  Kate  o'  Dinglebell, 
A  bonny  body  like  yersell. 

I'll  stick  her  high  in  yon  pear-tree 
Sweet  and  meek,  and  sae  is  she  : 
I'  lo'ed  her  ance,  but  she's  no'  for  me, 
Yet  I  thank  ye  for  your  courtesy. 

I'll  gie  thee  Rozie  o'  the  Cleugh, 

I'm  sure  she'll  please  thee  weel  eneugh. 

Up  wi'  her  on  the  bare  bane  dyke, 
She'll  be  rotten  or x  I'll  be  ripe  : 
She's  made  for  some  ither,  and  no'  me, 
Yet  I  thank  ye  for  your  courtesy. 

Then  I'll  gie  ye  Nell  o'  sweet  Sprinkell, 
Owre  Galloway  she  bears  the  bell. 

I'll  set  her  up  in  my  bed-head, 
And  feed  her  wi'  new  milk  and  bread  ; 
She's  for  nae  ither,  but  just  for  me, 
Sae  I  thank  ye  for  your  courtesy. 


356       DOWN  IN  YONDER  MEADOW 

Down  in  yonder  meadow  where  the  green  grass  grows, 
Pretty  Pollie  Pillicote  bleaches  her  clothes. 
She  sang,  she  sang,  she  sang,  oh,  so  sweet, 
She  sang,  Oh,  come  over  !  across  the  street. 

*Ere 

349 


I.ILV   BRIGHT  AM)  SHINK-A 

He  kissed  her,  he  kissed  her,  he  bought  her  a  gown, 

\  gown  of  rich  cramasie  out  of  the  town. 

He  bought  her  a  gown  and  a  guinea  gold  ring, 

A  guinea,  a  guinea,  a  guinea  gold  ring  ; 

Up  street,  and  down,  shine  the  windows  made  of  glass, 

Oh,  isn't  Pollie  Pillicotc  a  braw  young  lass  ? 

Cherries  in  her  cheeks,  and  ringlets  her  hair, 

Hear  her  singing  Handy,  Dandy  up  and  down  the  stair. 


357  QUOTH  JOHN  TO  JOAN 

Quoth  John  to  Joan,  will  thou  have  me  : 
1  prithee  now,  wilt  ?  and  I'll  marry  thec, 
My  cow,  my  calf,  my  house,  my  rents, 
And  all  my  lands  and  tenements  : 

Oh,  say,  my  Joan,  will  not  that  do  ? 

I  cannot  come  every  day  to  woo. 

I've  corn  and  hay  in  the  barn  hard-by, 
And  three  fat  hogs  pent  up  in  the  sty, 
1  have  a  mare  and  she  is  coal  black, 
I  ride  on  her  tail  to  save  my  back. 

Then,  say,  my  Joan,  will  not  that  do  ? 

I  cannot  come  every  day  to  woo. 

I  have  a  cheese  upon  the  shelf, 

And  I  cannot  eat  it  all  myself  ; 

I've  three  good  marks  that  lie  in  a  rag, 

In  a  nook  of  the  chimney,  instead  of  a  bag. 

Then,  say,  my  Joan,  will  not  that  do  ? 

I  cannot  come  every  day  to  woo. 

To  marry  I  would  have  thy  consent, 
But  faith  I  never  could  compliment ; 
I  can  say  nought  but  "  Hoy,  gee  ho  !  ' 
Words  that  belong  to  the  cart  and  the  plough. 

Oh,  say,  my  Joan,  will  not  that  do  ? 

I  cannot  come  every  day  to  woo. 
350 


MY  MISTRESS  IS  AS  FAIR  AS  FINE 

358  MY  MISTRESS  IS  AS  FAIR  AS  FINE 

My  mistress  is  as  fair  as  fine, 
Milk-white  fingers,  cherry  nose. 

Like  twinkling  day-stars  look  her  eyne, 
Lightening  all  things  where  she  goes. 

Fair  as  Phoebe,  though  not  so  fickle, 

Smooth  as  glass,  though  not  so  brickie. 

My  heart  is  like  a  ball  of  snow 
Melting  at  her  lukewarm  sight ; 

Her  fiery  lips  like  night-worms  glow, 
Shining  clear  as  candle-light. 

Neat  she  is,  no  feather  lighter  ; 

Bright  she  is,  no  daisy  whiter. 

359  DIAPHENIA 

Diaphenia,  like  the  daffdowndilly, 
White  as  the  sun,  fair  as  the  lily, 

Heigh  ho,  how  I  do  love  thee  ! 
I  do  love  thee  as  my  lambs 
Are  beloved  of  their  dams — 

How  blest  were  I  if  thou  wouldst  prove  me. 

Diaphenia,  like  the  spreading  roses, 
That  in  thy  sweets  all  sweets  encloses, 
Fair  sweet,  how  I  do  love  thee  ! 
I  do  love  thee  as  each  flower 
Loves  the  sun's  life-giving  power, 

For,  dead,  thy  breath  to  life  might  move  me. 

Diaphenia,  like  to  all  things  blessed, 
When  all  thy  praises  are  expressed, 

Dear  joy,  how  I  do  love  thee  ! 
As  the  birds  do  love  the  Spring, 
Or  the  bees  their  careful  king. 

Then  in  requite,  sweet  virgin,  love  me  ! 

Henry  Constable 
351 


lily  bright  and  shine-a 

360  \i-:glamour's  lament 

Hi 'kf,  she  was  wont  to  go,  and  hero,  and  here  ! 
Just  where  those  daisies,  pinks,  and  violets  grow  : 
The  world  may  find  the  spring  by  following  her  ; 
For  other  print  her  airy  steps  ne'er  left  : 
Her  treading  would  not  bend  a  blade  of  grass, 
Or  shake  the  downy  blow-ball  from  his  stalk  ; 
But  like  the  soft  west-wind  she  shot  along  ; 
And  where  she  went,  the  flowers  took  thickest  root 
As  she  had  sowed  them  with  her  odourous  foot. 

Ben  Jonson 

361  MY  TRUE-LOVE  HATH  MY  HEART 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his, 
By  just  exchange  one  for  the  other  given  ; 

I  hold  his  dear,  and  mine  he  cannot  miss  ; 
There  never  was  a  better  bargain  driven. 

His  heart  in  me  keeps  me  and  him  in  one, 

My  heart  in  him  his  thoughts  and  senses  guides  ; 

He  loves  my  heart,  for  once  it  was  his  own  ; 
I  cherish  his  because  in  me  it  bides. 

His  heart  his  wound  received  from  my  sight, 
My  heart  was  wounded  with  his  wounded  heart  ; 

For  as  from  me  on  him  his  heart  did  light, 
So  still  methought  in  me  his  heart  did  smart. 

Both  equal  hurt,  in  this  change  sought  our  bliss, 
My  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney 

362  A  BIRTHDAY 

My  heart  is  like  a  singing  bird 
Whose  nest  is  in  a  watered  shoot ; 

My  heart  is  like  an  apple-tree 

Whose  boughs  are  bent  with  thickest  fruit. 
352 


A  BIRTHDAY 

My  heart  is  like  a  rainbow  shell 

That  paddles  in  a  halcyon  sea  ; 
My  heart  is  gladder  than  all  these 

Because  my  love  is  come  to  me. 

Raise  me  a  dais  of  silk  and  down  ; 

Hang  it  with  vair  and  purple  dyes  ; 
Carve  it  in  doves  and  pomegranates, 

And  peacocks  with  a  hundred  eyes  ; 
Work  it  in  gold  and  silver  grapes, 

In  leaves  and  silver  fleurs-de-lys  ; 
Because  the  birthday  of  my  life 

Is  come,  my  love  is  come  to  me. 

Christina  Rossetti 


363  LIFE  OF  LIFE 

"Voice  in  the  Air,  singing" 

Life  of  Life  !  thy  lips  enkindle 

With  their  love  the  breath  between  them  ; 

And  thy  smiles  before  they  dwindle 

Make  the  cold  air  fire  ;  then  screen  them 

In  those  looks,  where  whoso  gazes 

Faints,  entangled  in  their  mazes. 

Child  of  Light  !  thy  limbs  are  burning 

Through  the  vest  which  seeks  to  hide  them  ; 

As  the  radiant  lines  of  morning 

Through  the  clouds  ere  they  divide  them  ; 

And  this  atmosphere  divinest 

Shrouds  thee  wheresoe'er  thou  shinest. 

Fair  are  others  ;  none  beholds  thee, 
But  thy  voice  sounds  low  and  tender 

Like  the  fairest,  for  it  folds  thee 

From  the  sight,  that  liquid  splendour, 

And  all  feel,  yet  see  thee  never, 

As  I  feel  now,  lost  for  ever  ! 

353  2 


LILY  BRIGHT  AND  SIIINK-A 

Lamp  of  Faith  !  where'er  thou  movest 
Its  dim  shapes  arc  clad  with  brightness, 

And  the  souls  of  whom  thou  lovest 
Walk  upon  the  winds  with  lightness, 

Till  they  fail,  as  I  am  failing, 

Dizzy,  lost,  yet  unbcwailing  ! 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


364  A  SONNET  OF  THE  MOON 

Look  how  the  pale  Queen  of  the  silent  night 
Doth  cause  the  ocean  to  attend  upon  her, 
And  he,  as  long  as  she  is  in  his  sight, 
With  his  full  tide  is  ready  her  to  honour  : 

But  when  the  silver  waggon  of  the  Moon 
Is  mounted  up  so  high  he  cannot  follow, 
The  sea  calls  home  his  crystal  waves  to  moan, 
And  with  lowr  ebb  doth  manifest  his  sorrow. 

So  you  that  are  the  sovereign  of  my  heart, 
Have  all  my  joys  attending  on  your  will, 
My  joys  low-ebbing  when  you  do  depart, 
When  you  return,  their  tide  my  heart  doth  fill. 

So  as  you  come,  and  as  you  do  depart, 
Joys  ebb  and  flow  within  my  tender  heart. 

Charles  Best 


365  THE  OUTLAW  OF  LOCH  LENE 

0  many  a  day  have  I  made  good  ale  in  the  glen, 
That  came  not  of  stream  or  malt,  like  the  brewing  of  men  : 
My  bed  wTas  the  ground  ;    my  roof,  the  green-wood  above  ; 
And  the  wealth  that  I  sought,  one  far  kind  glance  from  my 
Love. 

Alas,  on  that  night  when  the  horses  I  drove  from  the  field 
That  I  was  not  near  from  terror  my  angel  to  shield  ! 

354 


THE  OUTLAW  OF  LOCH  LENE 

She  stretched  forth  her  arms ;    her  mantle  she  flung  to  the 

wind, 
And  swam  o'er  Loch  Lene,  her  outlawed  lover  to  find. 

0  would  that  a  freezing  sleet-winged  tempest  did  sweep, 
And  I  and  my  love  were  alone,  far  off  on  the  deep  ; 

I'd  ask  not  a  ship,  or  a  bark,  or  a  pinnace,  to  save — 
With  her  hand  round  my  waist,  I'd  fear  not  the  wind  or  the 
wave. 

'Tis  down  by  the  lake  where  the  wild  tree  fringes  its  sides, 
The  maid  of  my  heart,  my  fair  one  of  Heaven  resides  : 

1  think,  as  at  eve  she  wanders  its  mazes  among, 

The  birds  go  to  sleep  by  the  sweet  wild  twist  of  her  song. 

Jeremiah  John  Callanan 

366  0  WHAT  IF  THE  FOWLER 

0  what  if  the  fowler  my  blackbird  has  taken  ? 

The  roses  of  dawn  blossom  over  the  sea  ; 
Awaken,  my  blackbird,  awaken,  awaken, 

And  sing  to  me  out  of  my  red  fuchsia  tree  ! 

0  what  if  the  fowler  my  blackbird  has  taken  ? 

The  sun  lifts  his  head  from  the  lip  of  the  sea — 
Awaken,  my  blackbird,  awaken,  awaken, 

And  sing  to  me  out  of  my  red  fuchsia  tree  ! 

0  what  if  the  fowler  my  blackbird  has  taken  ? 

The  mountain  grows  white  with  the  birds  of  the  sea  ; 
But  down  in  my  garden  forsaken,  forsaken, 

I'll  weep  all  the  day  by  my  red  fuchsia  tree  ! 

Charles  Dalmon 

367  WHITHER  AWAY? 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Master  mine  ?" 

"  Mistress  of  mine,  farewell  ! 
Pledge  me  a  cup  of  golden  wine  ! 
Light  shall  be  dark  and  darkness  shine 
Before  I  tell  !" 
355 


LILY  BRIGHT  AND  SIIINE-A 

"  O  go  you  by  the  firwoods  blue  ? 

And  by  the  Fairies'  Trysting  Tree  ?" 
"  No,  for  the  path  is  grown  with  rue 
And  nightshade's  purple  fruit,  since  you 
Walked  there  with  me  !" 

"  O  go  you  by  the  pastures  high — 
A  grassy  road  and  daisies  fair  ?" 
"  No,  for  I  saw  them  fade  and  die 
On  the  bright  evening,  love,  that  I 
Sat  with  you  there." 

Mary  Coleridge 


368  BONNY  BARBARA  ALLAN 

It  was  in  and  about  the  Martinmas  time, 
When  the  green  leaves  were  a  falling, 

That  Sir  John  Graeme,  in  the  West  Country, 
Fell  in  love  with  Barbara  Allan. 

He  sent  his  man  down  through  the  town, 
To  the  place  where  she  was  dwelling  : 

"  0  haste  and  come  to  my  master  dear, 
Gin  ye  be  Barbara  Allan." 

0  hooly,  hooly  1  rose  she  up, 

To  the  place  where  he  was  lying, 

And  when  she  drew  the  curtain  by  ; — 
"  Young  man,  I  think  you're  dying." 

"  0  it's  I'm  sick,  and  very,  very  sick, 
And  't  is  a'  for  Barbara  Allan." — 

"  0  the  better  for  me  ye's  never  be, 
Tho  your  heart's  blood  were  a  spilling. 

"  0  dinna  ye  mind,  young  man,"  said  she, 
"  When  ye  was  in  the  tavern  a-drinking, 

That  ye  made  the  healths  gae  round  and  round, 
And  slighted  Barbara  Allan  ?" 

1  Slowly,  softly 

356 


BARBARA  ALLAN 

He  turned  his  face  unto  the  wall, 
And  death  was  with  him  dealing  : 

"  Adieu,  adieu,  my  dear  friends  all, 
And  be  kind  to  Barbara  Allan." 

She  had  not  gane  a  mile  but  twa, 

When  she  heard  the  dead-bell  ringing, 

And  every  jow  that  the  dead-bell  gied, 
It  cryed,  Woe  to  Barbara  Allan  ! 

"  O  mother,  mother,  make  my  bed  ! 

0  make  it  saft  and  narrow  ! 
Since  my  love  died  for  me  to-day, 

I'll  die  for  him  to-morrow." 


369  PROUD  MAISIE 

Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood, 

Walking  so  early  ; 
Sweet  Robin  sits  on  the  bush, 

Singing  so  rarely. 

"  Tell  me,  thou  bonny  bird, 

When  shall  I  marry  me  ?" 
"  When  six  braw  gentlemen 

Kirkward  shall  carry  ye." 

"  Who  makes  the  bridal  bed, 

Birdie,  say  truly  ?" 
"  The  grey-headed  sexton 

That  delves  the  grave  duly." 

"  The  glowworm  o'er  grave  and  stone 

Shall  light  thee  steady  ; 
The  owl  from  the  steeple  sing 

Welcome,  proud  lady." 

Sir  Walter  Scott 


357 


LILY  BRIGHT  AND  S1IINK-A 

A  LEAVE  TAKING 

Let  us  go  hence,  my  songs ;  she  will  not  hear. 
Let  us  go  hence  together  \\  ithoul  tear ; 
Keep  silence  now,  for  singing-time  is  over, 
And  over  all  old  things  and  all  things  dear. 
She  loves  not  you  nor  me  as  all  we  love  her. 
Yea,  though  we  sang  as  angels  in  her  ear, 
She  would  not  hear. 

Let  us  rise  up  and  part ;  she  will  not  know. 
Let  us  go  seaward  as  the  great  winds  go, 
Full  of  blown  sand  and  foam  ;  what  help  is  here  ? 
There  is  no  help,  for  all  these  things  are  so, 
And  all  the  world  is  bitter  as  a  tear. 
And  how  these  things  are,  though  ye  strove  to  show, 
She  would  not  know. 

Let  us  go  home  and  hence  ;  she  will  not  weep. 
We  gave  love  many  dreams  and  days  to  keep, 
Flowers  without  scent,  and  fruits  that  would  not  grow, 
Saying,  "  If  thou  wilt,  thrust  in  thy  sickle  and  reap." 
All  is  reaped  now  ;  no  grass  is  left  to  mow  ; 
And  we  that  sowed,  though  all  we  fell  on  sleep, 
She  would  not  weep. 

Let  us  go  hence  and  rest ;  she  will  not  love. 
She  shall  not  hear  us  if  we  sing  hereof, 
Nor  see  love's  ways,  how  sore  they  are  and  steep. 
Come  hence,  let  be,  lie  still ;  it  is  enough. 
Love  is  a  barren  sea,  bitter  and  deep  ; 
And  though  she  saw  all  heaven  in  flower  above, 
She  would  not  love. 

Let  us  give  up,  go  down  ;  she  will  not  care. 
Though  all  the  stars  made  gold  of  all  the  air, 
And  the  sea  moving  saw  before  it  move 
One  moon-flower  making  all  the  foam-flowers  fair  ; 
Though  all  those  waves  went  over  us,  and  drove 
Deep  down  the  stifling  lips  and  drowning  hair, 
She  would  not  care. 
358 


A  LEAVE  TAKING 

Let  us  go  hence,  go  hence  ;  she  will  not  see. 
Sing  all  once  more  together  ;  surely  she, 
She,  too,  remembering  days  and  words  that  were, 
Will  turn  a  little  toward  us,  sighing  ;  but  we, 
We  are  hence,  we  are  gone,  as  though  we  had  not  been  there. 
Nay,  and  though  all  men  seeing  had  pity  on  me, 
She  would  not  see. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne 


371  THE  UNQUIET  GRAVE 

"  The  wind  doth  blow  to-day,  my  love, 
And  a  few  small  drops  of  rain  ; 

I  never  had  but  one  true  love, 
In  cold  grave  she  was  lain. 

"  I'll  do  as  much  for  my  true  love 

As  any  young  man  may  ; 
I'll  sit  and  mourn  all  at  her  grave 

For  a  twelvemonth  and  a  day." 

The  twelvemonth  and  a  day  being  up, 

The  dead  began  to  speak  : 
"  Oh  who  sits  weeping  on  my  grave, 

And  will  not  let  me  sleep  ?" 

"  'T  is  I,  my  love,  sits  on  your  grave, 

And  will  not  let  you  sleep  ; 
For  I  crave  one  kiss  of  your  clay-cold  lips, 

And  that  is  all  I  seek." 

"  You  crave  one  kiss  of  my  clay-cold  lips  ; 

But  my  breath  smells  earthy  strong  ; 
If  you  have  one  kiss  of  my  clay-cold  lips, 

Your  time  will  not  be  long. 

"  'Tis  down  in  yonder  garden  green, 
Love,  where  we  used  to  walk, 

The  finest  flower  that  ere  was  seen 
Is  withered  to  a  stalk. 
359 


LILY  BRIGHT  AND  SHINE-A 

"  The  stalk  is  withered  dry,  my  love, 

So  will  our  hearts  decay  ; 
So  make  yourself  content,  my  love, 

Till  God  calls  you  away." 


372  A  LAMENT:   1547 

"  Departe,  departe,  departe — 
Allace  !     I  most  departe 
From  hir  that  hes  my  hart, 

With  hairt  full  soir  ; 
Aganis  my  will  in  deid, 
And  can  find  no  remeid  : 
I  wait  the  pains  of  deid — 

Can  do  no  moir.  .  .  . 

"  Adew,  my  ain  sueit  thing, 
My  joy  and  comforting, 
My  mirth  and  sollesing 

Of  erdly  gloir  : 
Fair  weill,  my  lady  bricht, 
And  my  remembrance  rycht ; 
Fair  weill  and  haif  gud  nycht : 

I  say  no  moir." 

Alexander  Scott 


373  I  DIED  TRUE 

Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse 

Of  the  dismal  yew  ; 
Maidens,  willow  branches  bear  ; 

Say  I  died  true. 

My  love  was  false,  but  I  was  firm 

From  my  hour  of  birth. 
Upon  my  buried  body  lie 

Lightly,  gentle  earth  ! 

John  Fletcher 

360 


SONG 

374  SONG 

How  should  I  your  true  love  know 

From  another  one  ? 
By  his  Cockle  hat  and  staffe, 

And  his  Sandal  shoone. 

He  is  dead  and  gone  Lady, 

He  is  dead  and  done, — 
At  his  head  a  grasse-greene  Turfe, 

At  his  heeles  a  stone. 

White  his  Shrowd  as  the  Mountain  Snow, 

Larded  with  sweet  flowers  : 
Which  bewept  to  the  grave  did  not  go, 

With  true-love  showres. 

William  Shakespeare 


375  IT  WAS  THE  TIME  OF  ROSES 

It  was  not  in  the  winter 

Our  loving  lot  was  cast : 

It  was  the  time  of  roses — 

We  plucked  them  as  we  passed  ! 

That  churlish  season  never  frowned 
On  early  lovers  yet  ! 
0,  no — the  world  was  newly  crowned 
With  flowers,  when  first  we  met. 

'Twas  twilight,  and  I  bade  you  go, 

But  still  you  held  me  fast : 

It  was  the  time  of  roses — 

We  plucked  them  as  we  passed.".  .  . 

Thomas  Hood 


361 


LILY  BRIGHT  AM)  SIIINK-A 

376  AULD  ROBIN  GRAY 

When  the  sheep  arc  in  the  fauld,  and  the  kye  l  at  hame, 
And  a'  the  warld  to  rest  are  gane, 
The  waes  o'  my  heart  fa'  in  showers  frae  my  e'e, 
While  my  gndeman  2  lies  sound  by  me. 

Young  Jamie  lo'ed  me  weel,  and  sought  me  for  his  bride, 
But  saving  a  croun  he  had  naething  else  beside  : 
To  make  the  croun  a  pund,  young  Jamie  gaed  to  sea, 
And  the  croun  and  the  pund  were  baith  for  me. 

He  hadna  been  awa  a  week  but  only  twa, 
When  my  father  brak  his  arm,  and  the  cow  was  stown  awa  ; 
My  mother  she  fell  sick,  and  my  Jamie  at  the  sea — 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  came  a-courtin'  me. 

My  father  couldna  work,  and  my  mother  couldna  spin  ; 
I  toiled  day  and  night,  but  their  bread  I  couldna  win  ; 
Auld  Rob  maintained  them  baith,  and  wi'  tears  in  his  e'e 
Said  : — "  Jennie,  for  their  sakes,  O,  marry  me  !" 

My  heart  it  said  nay  ;   I  look'd  for  Jamie  back  ; 
But  the  wind  it  blew  high,  and  the  ship  it  was  a  wrack  ; 
His  ship  it  was  a  wrack.  .  .  .     Why  didna  Jamie  dee  ? 
Or  why  do  I  live  to  cry,  Wae's  me  ? 

My  father  urgit  sair  :  my  mother  didna  speak, 
But  she  looked  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like  to  break  : 
They  gi'ed  him  my  hand,  but  my  heart  was  at  the  sea, 
Sae  auld  Robin  Gray  he  was  gudeman  to  me. 

I  hadna  been  a  wife  a  week  but  only  four, 
When,  mournfu'  as  I  sat  on  the  stane  at  the  door, 
I  saw  my  Jamie's  wraith,  for  I  couldna  think  it  he — 
Till  he  said  : — "  I'm  come  hame  to  marry  thee." 

0,  sair,  sair  did  we  greet,3  and  muckle  4  did  we  say  ; 
We  took  but  ae  kiss,  and  I  bad  him  gang  away  ; 
I  wish  that  I  were  dead,  but  I'm  no  like  to  dee, 
And  why  was  I  born  to  say,  Wae's  me  ! 

1  Cows         *  Husband         3  Weep         *  Much 

362 


AULD  ROBIN  GRAY 

I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  to  spin  ; 
I  daurna  think  on  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a  sin  ; 
But  I'll  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  ay  to  be, 
For  auld  Robin  Gray,  he  is  kind  unto  me. 

Lady  Anne  Lindsay 


377  THE  LAWLANDS  0'  HOLLAND 

"  The  love  that  I  hae  chosen, 

I'll  therewith  be  content ; 
The  saut  sea  sail  be  frozen 

Before  that  I  repent. 
Repent  it  sail  I  never 

Until  the  day  I  dee  ; 
But  the  Lawlands  o'  Holland 

Hae  twinned  my  love  and  me. 

"  My  love  he  built  a  bonny  ship, 

And  set  her  to  the  main, 
Wi'  twenty-four  brave  mariners 

To  sail  her  out  and  hame. 
But  the  weary  wind  began  to  rise, 

The  sea  began  to  rout, 
And  my  love  and  his  bonny  ship 

Turned  withershins  about. 

"  There  sail  nae  mantle  cross  my  back, 

No  kaim  gae  in  my  hair, 
Neither  sail  coal  nor  candle-light 

Shine  in  my  bower  mair  ; 
Nor  sail  I  choose  anither  love, 

Until  the  day  I  dee, 
Sin'  the  Lawlands  o'  Holland, 

Hae  twinned  my  love  and  me." 

"  Noo  haud  your  tongue,  my  daughter  dear, 

Be  still,  and  bide  content ; 
There's  ither  lads  in  Galloway  ; 

Ye  needna  sair  lament." 
363 


LILY  BRIGHT  AND  SHINK-A 

"  0  there  is  nanc  in  Galloway, 
There's  nane  at  a1  for  me. 

I  never  lo'cd  a  l.id  but  ane, 
And  he's  drowned  in  the  sea." 

378  THE  CHURCHYARD  ON  THE  SANDS 

My  love  lies  in  the  gates  of  foam, 
The  last  dear  wreck  of  shore  ; 

The  naked  sea-marsh  binds  her  home, 
The  sand  her  chamber  door. 

The  gray  gull  flaps  the  written  stones, 
The  ox-birds  chase  the  tide  ; 

And  near  that  narrow  field  of  bones 
Great  ships  at  anchor  ride. 

Black  piers  with  crust  of  dripping  green, 
One  foreland,  like  a  hand, 

O'er  intervals  of  grass  between 
Dim  lonely  dunes  of  sand. 

A  church  of  silent  weathered  looks, 

A  breezy  reddish  tower, 
A  yard  whose  wounded  resting-nooks 

Are  tinged  with  sorrel  flower. 

In  peace  the  swallow's  eggs  are  laid 

Along  the  belfry  walls  ; 
The  tempest  does  not  reach  her  shade, 

The  rain  her  silent  halls. 

But  sails  are  sweet  in  summer  sky, 
The  lark  throws  down  a  lay  ; 

The  long  salt  levels  steam  and  dry, 
The  cloud-heart  melts  away. 

And  patches  of  the  sea-pink  shine, 
The  pied  crows  poise  and  come  ; 

The  mallow  hangs,  the  bind-weeds  twine, 
Where  her  sweet  lips  are  dumb. 
364 


THE  CHURCHYARD  ON  THE  SANDS 

The  passion  of  the  wave  is  mute  ; 

No  sound  or  ocean  shock  ; 
No  music  save  the  thrilling  flute 

That  marks  the  curlew  flock.  .  .  . 

Lord  de  Tabley 


379  ROSE  AYLMER 

Ah,  what  avails  the  sceptred  race, 

Ah,  what  the  form  divine  ! 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace  ! 

Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine. 
Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyes 

May  weep,  but  never  see, 
A  night  of  memories  and  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee. 

Walter  Savage  Landor 


380  TO  HELEN 

Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me 

Like  those  Nicsean  barks  of  yore, 

That  gently,  o'er  a  perfumed  sea, 
The  weary,  wayworn  wanderer  bore 
To  his  own  native  shore. 

On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam, 
Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face, 

Thy  Naiad  air,  have  brought  me  home 
To  the  glory  that  was  Greece 
And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome. 

Lo  !  in  yon  brilliant  window-niche 
How  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand, 
The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand  ! 
Ah,  Psyche,  from  the  regions  which 
Are  Holy  Land  ! 

Edgar  Allan  Poe 
365 


LILY  BRIGHT  AM)  S1IIXK-A 


(8l       "  THERE  IS  A  LADY  SWEET  AND  KIND" 

Tiiikk  is  a  Lady  sweet  and  kind, 
Was  never  face  so  pleased  my  mind  ; 
I  did  but  see  her  passing  by, 
And  yet  I  love  her  till  I  die. 

Her  gesture,  motion,  and  her  smiles, 
Her  wit,  her  voice,  my  heart  beguiles, 
Beguiles  my  heart,  I  know  not  why, 
And  yet  I  love  her  till  I  die.  .  .  . 

Cupid  is  winged  and  doth  range, 
Her  country  so  my  love  doth  change  : 
But  change  she  earth,  or  change  she  sky, 
Yet  will  I  love  her  till  I  die. 

Thomas  Ford 


382      "  LOVE  NOT  ME  FOR  COMELY  GRACE  " 

Love  not  me  for  comely  grace, 
For  my  pleasing  eye  or  face, 
Nor  for  any  outward  part : 
No,  nor  for  my  constant  heart  ! 

For  these  may  fail  or  turn  to  ill  : 
So  thou  and  I  shall  sever  : 
Keep  therefore  a  true  woman's  eye, 
And  love  me  still,  but  know  not  why  ! 

So  hast  thou  the  same  reason  still 
To  doat  upon  me  ever. 


383  NOW  WOLDE 

Now  wolde  I  faine  some  merthes  1  make, 
All  only  for  my  lady  sake, 

When  her  I  see  ; 
But  now  I  am  so  far  fro  her 

It  will  not  be. 

1  Praises 

366 


NOW  WOLDE 

Though  I  be  far  out  of  her  sight 
I  am  her  man  both  day  and  night 

And  so  will  be. 
Therefore  wolde  ;  as  I  love  her, 

She  loved  me. 

When  she  is  mery,  then  I  am  glad  ; 
When  she  is  sory,  then  I  am  sad  ; 

And  cause  why,1 
For  he  liveth  not  that  loveth  her 

As  well  as  I. 

She  saith  that  she  hath  seen  it  written 
That  "  seldom  seen  is  soon  forgotten  " 

It  is  not  so. 
For  in  good  feith,  save  only  her, 

I  love  no  mo.2 


384       EGYPT'S  MIGHT  IS  TUMBLED  DOWN 

Egypt's  might  is  tumbled  down 

Down  a-down  the  deeps  of  thought ; 
Greece  is  fallen  and  Troy  town, 
Glorious  Rome  hath  lost  her  crown, 
Venice'  pride  is  nought. 

But  the  dreams  their  children  dreamed 

Fleeting,  unsubstantial,  vain, 
Shadowy  as  the  shadows  seemed, 
Airy  nothing,  as  they  deemed, 
These  remain. 

Mary  Coleridge 


1  Good  reason  why  a  More 


367 


LILY  BRIGHT  AND  SHINK-A 

385  DREAM  LOVE 

Young  Love  lies  sleeping 

In  May-time  of  the  year. 
Among  the  lilies, 

Lapped  in  the  tender  light  : 
White  l.unbs  come  grazing, 

White  doves  come  building  there  ; 
And  round  about  him 

The  May-bushes  are  white. 

Soft  moss  the  pillow 

For  oh,  a  softer  cheek  ; 
Broad  leaves  cast  shadow 

Upon  the  heavy  eyes  : 
There  winds  and  waters 

Grow  lulled  and  scarcely  speak  ; 
There  twilight  lingers 

The  longest  in  the  skies. 

Young  Love  lies  dreaming  ; 

But  who  shall  tell  the  dream  ? 
A  perfect  sunlight 

On  rustling  forest  tips  ; 
Or  perfect  moonlight 

Upon  a  rippling  stream  ; 
Or  perfect  silence, 

Or  song  of  cherished  lips. 

Burn  odours  round  him 

To  fill  the  drowsy  air  ; 
Weave  silent  dances 

Around  him  to  and  fro  ; 
For  oh,  in  waking 

The  sights  are  not  so  fair, 
And  song  and  silence 

Are  not  like  these  below. 

Young  Love  lies  dreaming 
Till  summer  days  are  gone, — 
368 


DREAM  LOVE 

Dreaming  and  drowsing 

Away  to  perfect  sleep  : 
He  sees  the  beauty 

Sun  hath  not  looked  upon, 
And  tastes  the  fountain 

Unutterably  deep. 

Him  perfect  music 

Doth  hush  unto  his  rest, 
And  through  the  pauses 

The  perfect  silence  calms. 
Oh,  poor  the  voices 

Of  earth  from  east  to  west, 
And  poor  earth's  stillness 

Between  her  stately  palms. 

Young  Love  lies  drowsing 

Away  to  poppied  death  ; 
Cool  shadows  deepen 

Across  the  sleeping  face  : 
So  fails  the  summer 

With  warm,  delicious  breath  ; 
And  what  hath  autumn 

To  give  us  in  its  place  ? 

Draw  close  the  curtains 

Of  branched  evergreen  ; 
Change  cannot  touch  them 

With  fading  fingers  sere  : 
Here  the  first  violets 

Perhaps  will  bud  unseen, 
And  a  dove,  may  be, 

Return  to  nestle  here. 

Christina  Rossetti 

386  AT  COMMON  DAWN 

At  common  dawn  there  is  a  voice  of  bird 
So  sweet,  'tis  kin  to  pain  ; 
For  love  of  earthly  life  it  needs  be  heard, 
And  lets  not  sleep  again. 

369  2  a 


LILY  BRIGHT  AM)  SIIINE-A 

This  l>inl  1  did  one  time  at  midnight  hear 
In  wet  November  wood 
Say  to  himself  his  lyric  faint  and  clear 
As  one  at  daybreak  should. 

He  ceased  ;  the  covert  breathed  no  other  sound, 
Nor  moody  answer  made  ; 
But  all  the  world  at  beauty's  worship  found, 
Was  waking  in  the  glade. 

Vivian  Locke  Ellis 


370 


ECHO  THEN  SHALL  AGAIN 
TELL  HER  I  FOLLOW."      *> 


387  GLYCINE'S  SONG 

A  sunny  shaft  did  I  behold, 

From  sky  to  earth  it  slanted  : 
And  poised  therein  a  bird  so  bold — 

Sweet  bird,  thou  wert  enchanted  ! 

He  sank,  he  rose,  he  twinkled,  he  trolled 
Within  that  shaft  of  sunny  mist ; 

His  eyes  of  fire,  his  beak  of  gold, 
All  else  of  amethyst  ! 

And  thus  he  sang  :  "  Adieu  !  adieu  ! 
Love's  dreams  prove  seldom  true. 
The  blossoms,  they  make  no  delay  : 
The  sparkling  dew-drops  will  not  stay. 
Sweet  month  of  May, 
We  must  away  ; 
Far,  far  away  ! 

To-day  I  to-day  !" 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 


388  THE  CRYSTAL  CABINET 

The  Maiden  caught  me  in  the  wild, 
Where  I  was  dancing  merrily  ; 
She  put  me  into  her  Cabinet, 
And  locked  me  up  with  a  golden  key. 

This  Cabinet  is  formed  of  Gold 
And  Pearl  and  Crystal  shining  bright, 
373 


"  TELL  HER    I   FOLLOW  " 

Ami  within  it  opens  into  .1  World 
And  .1  little  lovely  Moony  Night. 

Another  England  there  I  saw 
Another  London  with  its  Tower, 
Another  Thames  and  other  Hills, 
And  another  pleasant  Surrey  Bower. 

Another  Maiden  like  herself, 
Translucent,  lovely,  shining  clear, 
Threefold  each  in  the  other  closed — 
O,  what  a  pleasant  trembling  fear  ! 

0,  what  a  smile  !  a  Threefold  Smile 
Filled  me,  that  like  a  flame  I  burned  ; 
I  bent  to  kiss  the  lovely  Maid, 
And  found  a  Threefold  Kiss  returned. 

I  strove  to  seize  the  inmost  form 
With  ardour  fierce  and  hands  of  flame, 
But  burst  the  Crystal  Cabinet, 
And  like  a  Weeping  Babe  became — 

A  Weeping  Babe  upon  the  wild, 
And  Weeping  Woman  pale  reclined, 
And  in  the  outward  air  again 
I  filled  with  woes  the  passing  wind. 

William  Blake 


389  THE  CHASE 

Art  thou  gone  in  haste  ? 

I'll  not  forsake  thee  ; 
Runn'st  thou  ne'er  so  fast  ? 
I'll  overtake  thee  : 
O'er  the  dales,  o'er  the  downs, 

Through  the  green  meadows, 
From  the  fields  through  the  towns, 
To  the  dim  shadows. 
374 


THE  CHASE 

All  along  the  plain, 

To  the  low  fountains, 
Up  and  down  again 

From  the  high  mountains  ; 
Echo  then  shall  again 
Tell  her  I  follow, 
And  the  floods  to  the  woods 
•     Carry  my  holla  ! 
Holla  ! 
Ce  !  la  !  ho  !  ho  !  hu  ! 

William  Rowley 

390  TONY  O  ! 

Over  the  bleak  and  barren  snow 
A  voice  there  came  a-calling  ; 
"  Where  are  you  going  to,  Tony  0  ! 
Where  are  you  going  this  morning  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  where  there  are  rivers  of  wine, 
The  mountains  bread  and  honey  ; 
There  Kings  and  Queens  do  mind  the  swine, 
And  the  poor  have  all  the  money." 

Colin  Francis 

391  ROMANCE 

When  I  was  but  thirteen  or  so 

I  went  into  a  golden  land, 
Chimborazo,  Cotopaxi 

Took  me  by  the  hand. 

My  father  died,  my  brother  too, 
They  passed  like  fleeting  dreams. 

I  stood  where  Popocatapetl 
In  the  sunlight  gleams. 

I  dimly  heard  the  master's  voice 

And  boys  far-off  at  play, 
Chimborazo,  Cotopaxi 

Had  stolen  me  away. 
375 


"TELL  HER   I  FOLLOW" 

I  walked  in  a  great  golden  dream 

To  and  fro  from  school — 
Shining  Popocatapetl 

The  dusty  streets  did  rule. 

I  walked  home  with  a  gold  dark  boy, 

And  never  a  word  I'd  say, 
Chimborazo,  Cotopaxi 

Had  taken  my  speech  away  : 

I  gazed  entranced  upon  his  face 

Fairer  than  any  flower — 
O  shining  Popocatapetl 

It  was  thy  magic  hour  : 

The  houses,  people,  traffic  seemed 

Thin  fading  dreams  by  day, 
Chimborazo,  Cotopaxi 

They  had  stolen  my  soul  away  ! 

Walter  J.  Turner 


392  HALLO  MY  FANCY 

In  melancholic  fancy, 

Out  of  myself, 

In  the  vulcan  dancy, 

All  the  world  surveying, 

Nowhere  staying, 
Just  like  a  fairy  elf  ; 
Out  o'er  the  tops  of  highest  mountains  skipping, 
Out  o'er  the  hill,  the  trees  and  valleys  tripping, 
Out  o'er  the  ocean  seas,  without  an  oar  or  shipping,- 
Ha  11 0  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

Amidst  the  misty  vapours 
Fain  would  I  know 
What  doth  cause  the  tapers  ; 
Why  the  clouds  benight  us 
And  affright  us. 
While  we  travel  here  below  ; 

376 


HALLO  MY  FANCY 

Fain  would  I  know  what  makes  the  roaring  thunder, 
And  what  these  lightnings  be  that  rend  the  clouds  asunder, 
And  what  these  comets  are  on  which  we  gaze  and  wonder — 
Hallo  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

Fain  would  I  know  the  reason, 

Why  the  little  ant, 

All  the  summer  season, 

Layeth  up  provision 

On  condition 
To  know  no  winter's  want. 
And  how  housewives,  that  are  so  good  and  painful, 
Do  unto  their  husbands  prove  so  good  and  gainful ; 
And  why  the  lazy  drones  to  them  do  prove  disdainful — 
Hallo  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? .  .  . 

Amidst  the  foamy  ocean, 

Fain  would  I  know 

What  doth  cause  the  motion, 

And  returning 

In  its  journeying, 
And  doth  so  seldom  swerve  ? 
And  how  the  little  fishes  that  swim  beneath  salt  waters, 
Do  never  blind  their  eye  ;  methinks  it  is  a  matter 
An  inch  above  the  reach  of  old  Erra  Pater  ! — 
Hallo  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

Fain  would  I  be  resolved 

How  things  are  done  ; 

And  where  the  bull  was  calved 

Of  bloody  Phalaris, 

And  where  the  tailor  is 
That  works  to  the  man  i'  the  moon  ! 
Fain  would  I  know  how  Cupid  aims  so  rightly  ; 
And  how  the  little  fairies  do  dance  and  leap  so  lightly, 
And  where  fair  Cynthia  makes  her  ambles  nightly — 
Hallo  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

In  conceit  like  Phaeton 
I'll  mount  Phoebus'  chair 
377 


"TELL  KEB  I  FOLLOW  " 

I  [aving  ne'er  a  li.it  on, 
All  my  hair  a-burning 
In  my  journeying  ; 
I  [urrying  through  the  .iir. 
lain  would  I  hear  his  fiery  horses  neighing 
And  see  how  they  on  foamy  bits  are  playing, 
All  the  stars  and  planets  I  will  be  surveying  ! — 
Hallo  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

0  from  what  ground  of  nature 

1  >oth  the  pelican, 

That  self  devouring  creature 
Prove  so  froward 
And  untoward, 
Her  vitals  for  to  strain  ! 
And  why  the  subtle  fox,  while  in  death's  wounds  a-lying, 
Do  not  lament  his  pangs  by  howling  and  by  crying, 
And  why  the  milk-swan  doth  sing  when  she's  a-dying — 
Hallo  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

Fain  would  I  conclude  this, 

At  least  make  essay  ; 

What  similitude  is  : 

Why  fowls  of  a  feather 

Flock  and  fly  together, 
And  lambs  know  beasts  of  prey  ; 
How  Nature's  alchemists,  these  small  laborious  creatures, 
Acknowledge  still  a  prince  in  ordering  their  matters, 
And  suffer  none  to  live  who  slothing  lose  their  features — 
Hallo  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? .  .  . 

To  know  this  world's  centre 
Height,  depth,  breadth  and  length, 
Fain  would  I  adventure 
To  search  the  hid  attractions 
Of  magnetic  actions 
And  adamantine  strength. 
Fain  would  I  know,  if  in  some  lofty  mountain, 
Where  the  moon  sojourns,  if  there  be  tree  or  fountain  ; 

378 


HALLO  MY  FANCY 

If  there  be  beasts  of  prey,  or  yet  be  fields  to  hunt  in — 
Hallo  my  fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? .  .  . 

Hallo  my  fancy,  hallo, 

Stay,  stay  at  home  with  me, 

I  can  no  longer  follow, 

For  thou  hast  betrayed  me, 

And  bewrayed  me  ; 
It  is  too  much  for  thee. 
Stay,  stay  at  home  with  me,  leave  off  thy  lofty  soaring  ; 
Stay  then  at  home  with  me,  and  on  thy  books  be  poring  ; 
For  he  that  goes  abroad,  lays  little  up  in  storing — 
Thou'rt  welcome  my  fancy,  welcome  home  to  me. 

William  Cleland 


393  SONNET 

There  was  an  Indian,  who  had  known  no  change, 

Who  strayed  content  along  a  sunlit  beach 
Gathering  shells.     He  heard  a  sudden  strange 

Commingled  noise  :  looked  up  ;  and  gasped  for  speech. 
For  in  the  bay,  where  nothing  was  before, 

Moved  on  the  sea,  by  magic,  huge  canoes, 
With  bellying  clothes  on  poles,  and  not  one  oar, 

And  fluttering  coloured  signs  and  clambering  crews. 

And  he,  in  fear,  this  naked  man  alone, 

His  fallen  hands  forgetting  all  their  shells, 
His  lips  gone  pale,  knelt  low  behind  a  stone, 
And  stared,  and  saw,  and  did  not  understand, 
Columbus's  doom-burdened  caravels 

Slant  to  the  shore,  and  all  their  seamen  land. 

J.  C.  Squire 


379 


"TELL  HER  I  FOLLOW" 

S94       ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN'S 

HOMER 

Much  have  I  travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold, 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen  : 
Round  in. my  western  islands  have  I  been 

Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 

Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 

That  deep-browed  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne  ; 
Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 

Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold  : 

Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken  ; 
Or  like  stout  Cortez,  when  with  eagle  eyes 

He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 

Looked  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien.  John  Keats 

395  "  TO  SEA  " 

To  sea,  to  sea  !  The  calm  is  o'er  ; 
The  wanton  water  leaps  in  sport, 
And  rattles  down  the  pebbly  shore  ; 
The  dolphin  wheels,  the  sea-cows  snort, 
And  unseen  Mermaids'  pearly  song 
Comes  bubbling  up,  the  weeds  among. 

Fling  broad  the  sail,  dip  deep  the  oar  : 
To  sea,  to  sea  !  the  calm  is  o'er. 

To  sea,  to  sea  !  our  wide-winged  bark 
Shall  billowy  cleave  its  sunny  way, 
And  with  its  shadow,  fleet  and  dark, 
Break  the  caved  Tritons'  azure  day, 
Like  mighty  eagle  soaring  light 
O'er  antelopes  on  Alpine  height. 

The  anchor  heaves,  the  ship  swings  free, 
The  sails  swell  full :  To  sea,  to  sea  ! 

Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes 
380 


BERMUDAS 

396  BERMUDAS 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride, 
In  the  Ocean's  bosom  unespied, 
From  a  small  boat,  that  rowed  along, 
The  listening  winds  received  this  song  :    . 

"  What  should  we  do  but  sing  His  praise, 
That  led  us  through  the  watery  maze, 
Unto  an  isle  so  long  unknown, 
And  yet  far  kinder  than  our  own  ? 
Where  He  the  huge  sea-monsters  wracks 
That  lift  the  deep  upon  their  backs, 
He  lands  us  on  a  grassy  stage, 
Safe  from  the  storms'  and  prelates'  rage  : 
He  gave  us  this  eternal  Spring 
Which  here  enamels  everything, 
And  sends  the  fowls  to  us  in  care 
On  daily  visits  through  the  air  : 
He  hangs  in  shades  the  orange  bright, 
Like  golden  lamps  in  a  green  night, 
And  does  in  the  pomegranates  close 
Jewels  more  rich  than  Ormus  shows  ; 
He  makes  the  figs  our  mouths  to  meet, 
And  throws  the  melons  at  our  feet ; 
But  apples  plants  of  such  a  price 
No  tree  could  ever  bear  them  twice. 
With  cedars,  chosen  by  His  hand 
From  Lebanon,  He  stores  the  land, 
And  makes  the  hollow  seas,  that  roar, 
Proclaim  the  ambergris  on  shore. 
He  cast  (of  which  we  rather  boast) 
The  Gospel's  pearl  upon  our  coast  ; 
And  in  these  rocks  for  us  did  frame 
A  temple  where  to  sound  His  name. 
Oh  !  let  our  voice  His  praise  exalt, 
Till  it  arrive  at  Heaven's  vault, 
Which,  thence  (perhaps)  rebounding,  may 
Echo  beyond  the  Mexique  bay." 
381 


"TELL  HER  I  FOLLOW  " 

Thus  sung  they,  in  the  English  boat, 
A  holy  and  a  cheerful  not*  ; 
And  all  the  way,  to  guide  their  chime. 
With  falling  oars  they  kept  the  time. 

Andrew  Marvell 


397  THE  OLD  SHIPS 

I  HAVE  seen  old  ships  sail  like  swans  asleep 
Beyond  the  village  which  men  still  call  Tyre, 
With  leaden  age  o'ercargocd,  dipping  deep 
For  Famagusta  and  the  hidden  sun 
That  rings  black  Cyprus  with  a  lake  of  fire  ; 
And  all  those  ships  were  certainly  so  old — 
Who  knows  how  oft  with  squat  and  noisy  gun 
Questing  brown  slaves  or  Syrian  oranges, 
The  pirate  Genoese 
Hell-raked  them  till  they  rolled 
Blood,  water,  fruit  and  corpses  up  the  hold. 
But  now  through  friendly  seas  they  softly  run, 
Painted  the  mid-sea  blue  or  shore-sea  green, 
Still  patterned  with  the  vine  and  grapes  in  gold. 

But  I  have  seen 

Pointing  her  shapely  shadows  from  the  dawn 

And  image  tumbled  on  a  rose-swept  bay 

A  drowsy  ship  of  some  yet  older  day  ; 

And,  wonder's  breath  indrawn, 

Thought    I — who  knows — who    knows — but   in    that 

same 
(Fished  up  beyond  Aeaea,  patched  up  new 
— Stern  painted  brighter  blue — ) 
That  talkative,  bald-headed  seaman  came 
(Twelve  patient  comrades  sweating  at  the  oar) 
From  Troy's  doom-crimson  shore, 
And  with  great  lies  about  his  wooden  horse 
Set  the  crew  laughing,  and  forgot  his  course. 

382 


THE  OLD  SHIPS 

Jt  was  so  old  a  ship — who  knows,  who  knows  ? 
— And  yet  so  beautiful,  I  watched  in  vain 
To  see  the  mast  burst  open  with  a  rose, 
And  the  whole  deck  put  on  its  leaves  again. 

James  Elroy  Flecker 


398      THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 

In  Seven  Parts 

Argument  :  How  a  Ship  having  passed  the  Line  is  driven  by  storms 
to  the  cold  Country  towards  the  South  Pole  ;  and  how  from  thence  she 
made  her  course  to  the  Tropical  Latitude  of  the  great  Pacific  Ocean  ; 
and  of  the  strange  things  that  befell;  and  in  what  manner  the  Ancient 
Mariner  came  back  to  his  own  Country. 

Part  I 

It  is  an  ancient  Mariner, 

And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three. 

"  By  thy  long  grey  beard  and  glittering  eye, 

Now  wherefore  stopp'st  thou  me  ? 

The  Bridegroom's  doors  are  opened  wide, 
And  I  am  next  of  kin  ; 
The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set : 
May'st  hear  the  merry  din." 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand, 

"  There  was  a  ship,"  quoth  he. 

"  Hold  off  !  unhand  me,  grey-beard  loon  !" 

Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  he. 

He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye — 
The  Wedding-Guest  stood  still, 
And  listens  like  a  three  years'  child  : 
The  Mariner  hath  his  will. 

The  Wedding-Guest  sat  on  a  stone  : 
He  cannot  choose  but  hear  ; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner. 

383 


"TELL  EEB  I  FOLLOW  " 

"  The  ship  was  cheered,  the  harbour  cleared, 

Merrily  did  \vc  drop 

In-low  the  kirk,  below  the  lull, 

Below  the  lighthouse  top. 

The  Sun  came  up  upon  the  left, 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he  ! 
And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 
Went  clown  into  the  sea. 

Higher  and  higher  every  day, 

Till  over  the  mast  at  noon — " 

The  Wedding-Guest  here  beat  his  breast, 

For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 

The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall, 
Red  as  a  rose  is  she  ; 
Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 
The  merry  minstrelsy. 

The  Wedding-Guest  he  beat  his  breast, 
Yet  he  cannot  choose  but  hear  ; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner. 

"  And  now  the  Storm-Blast  came,  and  he 
Was  tyrannous  and  strong  : 
He  struck  with  his  o'ertaking  wings, 
And  chased  us  south  along. 

With  sloping  masts  and  dipping  prow, 

As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 

Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe, 

And  forward  bends  his  head, 

The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roared  the  blast, 

And  southward  aye  we  fled. 

And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow, 
And  it  grew  wondrous  cold  : 
And  ice,  mast-high,  came  floating  by, 
As  green  as  emerald. 

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THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 

And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  clifts 
Did  send  a  dismal  sheen  : 
Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we  ken — 
The  ice  was  all  between. 

The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 

The  ice  was  all  around  : 

It  cracked  and  growled,  and  roared  and  howled, 

Like  noises  in  a  swound  ! 

At  length  did  cross  an  Albatross, 
Thorough  the  fog  it  came  ; 
As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul, 
We  hailed  it  in  God's  name. 

It  ate  the  food  it  ne'er  had  eat, 
And  round  and  round  it  flew. 
The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit  ; 
The  helmsman  steered  us  through  ! 

And  a  good  south  wind  sprung  up  behind  ; 

The  Albatross  did  follow, 

And  every  day,  for  food  or  play, 

Came  to  the  mariner's  hollo  ! 

In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud, 

It  perched  for  vespers  nine  ; 

Whiles  all  the  night,  through  fog-smoke  white, 

Glimmered  the  white  Moon-shine." 

"  God  save  thee,  ancient  Mariner  ! 

From  the  fiends,  that  plague  thee  thus  ! — 

Why  look'st  thou  so  ?  " 

— "  With  my  cross-bow 
I  shot  the  Albatross." 

Part  II 

The  Sun  now  rose  upon  the  right  : 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 
Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

385  2  b 


"TELL  HER   I   FOLLOW  " 

And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew  behind, 
But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow, 
Nor  any  day  for  food  or  play 
("aine  to  the  mariners'  hollo  ! 

And  I  had  done  a  hellish  thing, 

And  it  would  work  'em  woe  : 

For  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 

Ah  wretch  !  said  they,  the  bird  to  slay, 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow  ! 

Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  own  head, 

The  glorious  Sun  uprist : 

Then  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  brought  the  fog  and  mist. 

Twas  right,  said  they,  such  birds  to  slay, 

That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. 

The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew. 

The  furrow  followed  free  ; 

We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 

Into  that  silent  sea. 

Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt  down, 
'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be  ; 
And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea  ! 

All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky, 
The  bloody  Sun,  at  noon, 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand, 
No  bigger  than  the  Moon. 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day, 
We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion  ; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

Water,  water,  every  where, 
And  all  the  boards  did  shrink  ; 

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THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 

Water,  water,  every  where, 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

The  very  deep  did  rot  :  0  Christ  ! 
That  ever  this  should  be  ! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the  slimy  sea. 

About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout 
The  death-fires  danced  at  night ; 
The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils, 
Burnt  green,  and  blue,  and  white. 

And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
Of  the  Spirit  that  plagued  us  so  ; 
Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  followed  us 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 

And  every  tongue,  through  utter  drought, 
Was  withered  at  the  root ; 
We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 

Ah  !  well  a-day  !  what  evil  looks 
Had  I  from  old  and  young  ! 
Instead  of  the  cross,  the  Albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung. 

Part  III 

'  There  passed  a  weary  time.     Each  throat 
Was  parched,  and  glazed  each  eye. 
A  weary  time  !  a  weary  time  ! 
How  glazed  each  weary  eye, 
When  looking  westward,  I  beheld 
A  something  in  the  sky. 

At  first  it  seemed  a  little  speck, 
And  then  it  seemed  a  mist ; 
It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 
A  certain  shape,  I  wist. 

387 


-TELL  HER  I   FOLLOW  " 

A  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape,  I  wist  ! 
And  still  it  neared  and  neared  : 
As  if  it  dodged  a  water-sprite, 
It  plunged  and  tacked  and  veered. 

With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 

We  could  nor  laugh  nor  wail  ; 

Through  utter  drought  all  dumb  we  stood  ! 

I  bit  my  arm,  I  sucked  the  blood, 

And  cried,  A  sail  !  a  sail  ! 

With  throats  unslaked,  with  black  lips  baked, 
Agape  they  heard  me  call  : 
Gramercy  !  they  for  joy  did  grin, 
And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in, 
As  they  were  drinking  all. 

See  !  see  !  (I  cried)  she  tacks  no  more  ! 
Hither  to  work  us  weal ; 
Without  a  breeze,  without  a  tide, 
She  steadies  with  upright  keel  ! 

The  western  wave  was  all  a-flame, 

The  day  was  well  nigh  done  ! 

Almost  upon  the  western  wave 

Rested  the  broad  bright  Sun  ; 

When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 

Betwixt  us  and  the  Sun. 

And  straight  the  Sun  was  flecked  with  bars, 
(Heaven's  Mother  send  us  grace  !) 
As  if  through  a  dungeon-grate  he  peered 
With  broad  and  burning;  face. 


*& 


Alas  !  (thought  I,  and  my  heart  beat  loud) 
How  fast  she  nears  and  nears  ! 
Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the  Sun, 
Like  restless  gossameres  ? 

Are  those  her  ribs  through  which  the  Sun 
Did  peer,  as  through  a  grate  ? 
388 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 

And  is  that  Woman  all  her  crew  ? 

Is  that  a  Death  ?   and  are  there  two  ? 

Is  Death  that  woman's  mate  ? 

Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were  free, 
Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold  : 
Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy, 
The  Night-mare  Life-in-Death  was  she, 
Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 

The  naked  hulk  alongside  came, 

And  the  twain  were  casting  dice  ; 

"  The  game  is  done  !     I've  won  !     I've  won  !" 

Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

The  Sun's  rim  dips  :  the  stars  rush  out : 
At  one  stride  comes  the  dark  ; 
With  far-heard  whisper,  o'er  the  sea, 
Off  shot  the  spectre-bark. 

We  listened  and  looked  sideways  up  ! 

Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup, 

My  life-blood  seemed  to  sip  ! 

The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the  night, 

The  steersman's  face  by  his  lamp  gleamed  white  ; 

From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip — 

Till  clomb  above  the  eastern  bar 

The  horned  Moon,  with  one  bright  star 

Within  the  nether  tip. 

One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogged  Moon, 
Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigh, 
Each  turned  his  face  with  a  ghastly  pang, 
And  cursed  me  with  his  eye. 

Four  times  fifty  living  men, 
(And  I  heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan) 
With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump, 
They  dropped  down  one  by  one. 

389 


"TELL  HER   1   FOLLOW" 

The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly, — 
They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe  ! 
And  every  soul,  it  passed  me  by, 
Like  the  whizz  of  my  cross-bow  !" 

Part  IV 

"  I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner  ! 

I  fear  thy  skinny  hand  ! 

And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown, 

As  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand. 

1  fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye, 

And  thy  skinny  hand,  so  brown." — 

"  Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou  Wedding-Guest  ! 

This  body  dropt  not  down. 

Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone, 
Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea  ! 
And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 
My  soul  in  agony. 

The  many  men,  so  beautiful  ! 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie  : 

And  a  thousand  thousand  slimy  things 

Lived  on  ;  and  so  did  I. 

I  looked  upon  the  rotting  sea, 
And  drew  my  eyes  away  ; 
I  looked  upon  the  rotting  deck, 
And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

I  looked  to  heaven,  and  tried  to  pray  ; 
But  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gusht, 
A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 
My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

I  closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them  close, 
And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat ; 
For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and  the  sky 
Lay  like  a  load  on  my  weary  eye, 
And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 
390 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 

The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs, 
Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they  : 
The  look  with  which  they  looked  on  me 
Had  never  passed  away. 

An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  hell 

A  spirit  from  on  high  ; 

But  oh  !  more  horrible  than  that 

Is  the  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye  ! 

Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  that  curse, 

And  yet  I  could  not  die. 

The  moving  Moon  went  up  the  sky, 
And  no  where  did  abide  : 
Softly  she  was  going  up, 
And  a  star  or  two  beside — 

Her  beams  bemocked  the  sultry  main, 
Like  April  hoar-frost  spread  ; 
But  where  the  ship's  huge  shadow  lay, 
The  charmed  water  burnt  alway 
A  still  and  awful  red. 

Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship, 

I  watched  the  water-snakes  : 

They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white, 

And  when  they  reared,  the  elfish  light 

Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watched  their  rich  attire  : 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black, 

They  coiled  and  swam  ;  and  every  track 

Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 

0  happy  living  things  !  no  tongue 
Their  beauty  might  declare  : 
A  spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart, 
And  I  blessed  them  unaware  : 
Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me, 
And  I  blessed  them  unaware. 
391 


"  TELL  HER  I  FOLLOW  " 

The  self-same  moment  I  could  pray  ; 
And  from  my  neck  so  free 
The  Albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 
Like  lead  into  the  sea. 

Part  V 

Oh  sleep  !  it  is  a  gentle  thing, 
Beloved  from  pole  to  pole  ! 
To  Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  given  ! 
She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  Heaven, 
That  slid  into  my  soul. 

The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck, 

That  had  so  long  remained, 

I  dreamt  that  they  were  filled  with  dew  ; 

And  when  I  awoke,  it  rained. 

My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold, 
My  garments  all  were  dank  ; 
Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my  dreams, 
And  still  my  body  drank. 

I  moved,  and  could  not  feel  my  limbs  : 
I  was  so  light — almost 
I  thought  that  I  had  died  in  sleep, 
And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 

And  soon  I  heard  a  roaring  wind  : 
It  did  not  come  anear  ; 
But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails, 
That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 

The  upper  air  burst  into  life  ! 
And  a  hundred  fire-flags  sheen, 
To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about  ! 
And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 
The  wan  stars  danced  between. 

And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more  loud, 
And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge  ; 

392 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 

And  the  rain  poured  down  from  one  black  cloud  ; 
The  Moon  was  at  its  edge. 

The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  and  still 
The  Moon  was  at  its  side  : 
Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag, 
The  lightning  fell  with  never  a  jag, 
A  river  steep  and  wide. 

The  loud  wind  never  reached  the  ship, 
Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on  ! 
Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  Moon 
The  dead  men  gave  a  groan. 

They  groaned,  they  stirred,  they  all  uprose, 
Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes  ; 
It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a  dream, 
To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 

The  helmsman  steered,  the  ship  moved  on  ; 

Yet  never  a  breeze  up-blew  ; 

The  mariners  all  'gan  work  the  ropes, 

Where  they  were  wont  to  do  ; 

They  raised  their  limbs  like  lifeless  tools — 

We  were  a  ghastly  crew. 

The  body  of  my  brother's  son 
Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee  : 
The  body  and  I  pulled  at  one  rope, 
But  he  said  nought  to  me." — 

"  I  fear  thee,  ancient  Mariner  !" — 
"  Be  calm,  thou  Wedding-Guest  ! 
'Twas  not  those  souls  that  fled  in  pain, 
Which  to  their  corses  came  again, 
But  a  troop  of  spirits  blest : 

For  when  it  dawned — they  dropped  their  arms, 
And  clustered  round  the  mast ; 
Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly  through  their  mouths, 
And  from  their  bodies  passed. 

393 


"TELL  HEB  I  FOLLOW" 

Around,  around,  flew  each  sweet  sound, 
Then  darted  to  the  Sun  ; 
Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again, 
Now  mixed,  now  one  by  one. 

Sometimes  a-dropping  from  the  sky 
I  heard  the  sky-lark  sing  ; 
Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are, 
How  they  seemed  to  fill  the  sea  and  air 
With  their  sweet  jargoning  ! 

And  now  'twas  like  all  instruments, 
Now  like  a  lonely  flute  ; 
And  now  it  is  an  angel's  song, 
That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 

It  ceased  ;  yet  still  the  sails  made  on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 

A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 

Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 

Till  noon  we  silently  sailed  on, 
Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe  : 
Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the  ship, 
Moved  onward  from  beneath. 

Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep, 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 
The  spirit  slid  :  and  it  was  he 
That  made  the  ship  to  go. 
The  sails  at  noon  left  off  their  tune, 
And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

The  Sun,  right  up  above  the  mast, 
Had  fixed  her  to  the  ocean  ; 
But  in  a  minute  she  'gan  stir, 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion — 
Backwards  and  forwards  half  her  length 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion. 
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THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 

Then  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go, 
She  made  a  sudden  bound  : 
It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head, 
And  I  fell  down  in  a  swound. 

How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay, 
I  have  not  to  declare  ; 
But  ere  my  living  life  returned, 
I  heard  and  in  my  soul  discerned 
Two  voices  in  the  air. 

"  Is  it  he  ?"  quoth  one,  "  Is  this  the  man  ? 

By  him  who  died  on  cross, 

With  his  cruel  bow  he  laid  full  low 

The  harmless  Albatross. 

The  spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 
In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 
He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  the  man 
Who  shot  him  with  his  bow." 

The  other  was  a  softer  voice, 

As  soft  as  honey-dew  : 

Quoth  he,  "  The  man  hath  penance  done, 

And  penance  more  will  do." 

Part  VI 

First  Voice.     "  But  tell  me,  tell  me  !  speak  again, 
Thy  soft  response  renewing — 
What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast  ? 
What  is  the  ocean  doing  ?" 

Second  Voice.     "  Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord, 
The  ocean  hath  no  blast ; 
His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 
Up  to  the  Moon  is  cast — 

If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go  ; 
For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim. 
395 


"TELL  II KH  I  FOLLOW 

See,  brother,  see  !  how  graciously 
She  lookcth  clown  on  him." 

First  Voice.     "  But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast, 
Withouten  wave  or  wind  ?" 

Seco>nl  Voice.     "  The  air  is  cut  away  before, 
And  closes  from  behind. 

Fly,  brother,  fly  !  more  high,  more  high  ! 
Or  we  shall  be  belated  : 
For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go,  • 
When  the  Mariner's  trance  is  abated." — 

I  woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on 

As  in  a  gentle  weather  : 

'Twas  night,  calm  night,  the  moon  was  high  ; 

The  dead  men  stood  together. 

All  stood  together  on  the  deck, 
For  a  charnel-dungeon  fitter  : 
All  fixed  on  me  their  stony  eyes, 
That  in  the  Moon  did  glitter. 


to' 


The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they  died, 
Had  never  passed  away  : 
I  could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  theirs, 
Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 

And  now  this  spell  was  snapt :  once  more 

I  viewed  the  ocean  green, 

And  looked  far  forth,  yet  little  saw 

Of  what  had  else  been  seen — 

Like  one,  that  on  a  lonesome  road 
Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 
And  having  once  turned  round  walks  on, 
And  turns  no  more  his  head  ; 
Because  he  knows,  a  frightful  fiend 
Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 

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THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 

But  soon  there  breathed  a  wind  on  me, 
Nor  sound  nor  motion  made  : 
Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea, 
In  ripple  or  in  shade. 

It  raised  my  hair,  it  fanned  my  cheek 
Like  a  meadow-gale  of  spring — ■ 
It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears, 
Yet  it  felt  like  a  welcoming. 

Swiftly,  swiftly  flew  the  ship, 
Yet  she  sailed  softly  too  : 
Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze — 
On  me  alone  it  blew. 

Oh  !  dream  of  joy  !  is  this  indeed 
The  light-house  top  I  see  ? 
Is  this  the  hill  ?  is  this  the  kirk  ? 
Is  this  mine  own  countree  ? 

We  drifted  o'er  the  harbour-bar, 
And  I  with  sobs  did  pray — 
O  let  me  be  awake,  my  God  ! 
Or  let  me  sleep  alway. 

The  harbour-bay  was  clear  as  glass, 
So  smoothly  it  was  strewn  ! 
And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight  lay, 
And  the  shadow  of  the  Moon. 

The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no  less, 
That  stands  above  the  rock  : 
The  moonlight  steeped  in  silentness 
The  steady  weathercock. 

And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent  light, 
Till  rising  from  the  same, 
Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows  were, 
In  crimson  colours  came. 
397 


"TELL  HER  I   FOLLOW 

A  little  distance  from  the  prow 
Those  crimson  shadows  were  : 
1  turned  my  eyes  upon  the  deck — 
Oh,  Christ  !  what  saw  I  there  ! 

Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat, 
And,  by  the  holy  rood  ! 
A  man  all  light,  a  seraph-man, 
On  every  corse  there  stood. 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand  : 
It  was  a  heavenly  sight  ! 
They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land, 
Each  one  a  lovely  light ; 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand, 
No  voice  did  they  impart — 
No  voice  ;  but  oh  !  the  silence  sank 
Like  music  on  my  heart. 

But  soon  I  heard  the  dash  of  oars, 
I  heard  the  Pilot's  cheer  ; 
My  head  was  turned  perforce  away, 
And  I  saw  a  boat  appear. 

The  Pilot  and  the  Pilot's  boy, 
I  heard  them  coming  fast : 
Dear  Lord  in  Heaven  !  it  was  a  joy 
The  dead  men  could  not  blast. 

I  saw  a  third — I  heard  his  voice  : 

It  is  the  Hermit  good  ! 

He  singeth  loud  his  godly  hymns 

That  he  makes  in  the  wood. 

He'll  shrieve  my  soul,  he'll  wash  away 

The  Albatross's  blood. 


398 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 


Part  VII 

This  Hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood 
Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea. 
How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears  ! 
He  loves  to  talk  with  marineres 
That  come  from  a  far  countree. 

He  kneels  at  morn,  and  noon,  and  eve- 
He  hath  a  cushion  plump  : 
It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 
The  rotted  old  oak-stump. 

The  skiff-boat  neared  :   I  heard  them  talk, 
"  Why,  this  is  strange,  I  trow  ! 
Where  are  those  lights  so  many  and  fair, 
That  signal  made  but  now  ?" 

"  Strange,  by  my  faith  !"  the  Hermit  said — 

"  And  they  answered  not  our  cheer  ! 

The  planks  looked  warped  !  and  see  those  sails, 

How  thin  they  are  and  sere  ! 

I  never  saw  aught  like  to  them, 

Unless  perchance  it  were 

Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 
My  forest-brook  along  ; 
When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy  with  snow, 
And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf  below, 
That  eats  the  she-wolf's  young." 

"  Dear  Lord  !  it  hath  a  fiendish  look — 
(The  Pilot  made  reply) 
I  am  a-feared  " — "  Push  on,  push  on  !" 
Said  the  Hermit  cheerily. 

The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 
But  I  nor  spake  nor  stirred  ; 
The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship, 
And  straight  a  sound  was  heard. 

399 


"TELL  IlEIt  I  FOLLOW  " 

Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on, 

Still  louder  and  more  dread  : 

It  reached  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay  ; 

The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 

Stunned  by  that  loud  and  dreadful  sound, 

Which  sky  and  ocean  smote, 

Like  one  that  hath  been  seven  days  drowned 

My  body  lay  afloat ; 

But  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I  found 

Within  the  Pilot's  boat. 

Upon  the  whirl,  where  sank  the  ship, 
The  boat  spun  round  and  round  ; 
And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 
Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

I  moved  my  lips — the  Pilot  shrieked 
And  fell  down  in  a  fit ; 
The  holy  Hermit  raised  his  eyes, 
And  prayed  where  he  did  sit. 

I  took  the  oars  :   the  Pilot's  boy, 

Who  now  doth  crazy  go, 

Laughed  loud  and  long,  and  all  the  while 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro. 

"  Ha'l  ha  !"  quoth  he,  "  full  plain  I  see, 

The  Devil  knows  how  to  row." 

And  now',  all  in  my  own  countree, 

I  stood  on  the  firm  land  ! 

The  Hermit  stepped  forth  from  the  boat, 

And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 

"  0  shrieve  me,  shrieve  me,  holy  man  !" 
The  Hermit  crossed  his  brow. 
"  Say  quick,"  quoth  he,  "  I  bid  thee  say — 
What  manner  of  man  art  thou  ?" 

400 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER 

Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was  wrenched 

With  a  woful  agony, 

Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale  ; 

And  then  it  left  me  free. 

Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour, 
That  agony  returns  : 
And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told, 
This  heart  within  me  burns. 

I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land  ; 
I  have  strange  power  of  speech  ; 
That  moment  that  his  face  I  see, 
I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  me  : 
To  him  my  tale  I  teach. 

What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door  ! 
The  wedding-guests  are  there  : 
But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 
And  bride-maids  singing  are  : 
And  hark  the  little  vesper  bell, 
Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer  ! 

0  Wedding-Guest !  this  soul  hath  been 
Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea  : 
So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

0  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 
'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me, 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk 
With  a  goodly  company  ! — 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

And  all  together  pray, 

While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends, 

Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay  ! 

Farewell,  farewell  !  but  this  I  tell 
To  thee,  thou  Wedding-Guest ! 

401  2  c 


"TELL  HER  I  FOLLOW" 

He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 

Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small  ; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
I  le  made  .md  loveth  all." — 

The  Mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 
Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar, 
Is  gone  :  and  now  the  Wedding-Guest 
Turned  from  the  bridegroom's  door. 

He  went  like  one  that  hath  been  stunned, 
And  is  of  sense  forlorn  : 
A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man, 
He  rose  the  morrow  morn. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 


399  THE  CHILD  AND  THE  MARINER 

This  sailor  knows  of  w:ondrous  lands  afar, 
More  rich  than  Spain,  when  the  Phoenicians  shipped 
Silver  for  common  ballast,  and  they  saw 
Horses  at  silver  mangers  eating  grain  ; 
This  man  has  seen  the  wind  blow  up  a  mermaid's  hair 
Which,  like  a  golden  serpent,  reared  and  stretched 
To  feel  the  air  away  beyond  her  head.  .  .  . 
He  many  a  tale  of  wonder  told  :  of  where, 
At  Argostoli,  Cephalonia's  sea 
Ran  over  the  earth's  lip  in  heavy  floods  ; 
And  then  again  of  how  the  strange  Chinese 
Conversed  much  as  our  homely  Blackbirds  sing. 
He  told  us  how  he  sailed  in  one  old  ship 
Near  that  volcano  Martinique,  whose  power 
Shook  like  dry  leaves  the  whole  Caribbean  seas  ; 
And  made  the  sun  set  in  a  sea  of  fire 
Which  only  half  was  his  ;  and  dust  was  thick 
On  deck,  and  stones  were  pelted  at  the  mast.  .  .  . 

402 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  MARINER 

He  told  how  isles  sprang  up  and  sank  again, 

Between  short  voyages,  to  his  amaze  ; 

How  they  did  come  and  go,  and  cheated  charts  ; 

Told  how  a  crew  was  cursed  when  one  man  killed 

A  bird  that  perched  upon  a  moving  barque  ; 

And  how  the  sea's  sharp  needles,  firm  and  strong, 

Ripped  open  the  bellies  of  big,  iron  ships  ; 

Of  mighty  icebergs  in  the  Northern  seas, 

That  haunt  the  far  horizon  like  white  ghosts. 

He  told  of  waves  that  lift  a  ship  so  high. 

That  birds  could  pass  from  starboard  unto  port 

Under  her  dripping  keel. 

Oh,  it  was  sweet 
To  hear  that  seaman  tell  such  wondrous  tales.  .  .  . 

William  H.  Davies 


400  THE  PARROTS 

Somewhere,  somewhen  I've  seen, 

But  where  or  when  I'll  never  know, 

Parrots  of  shrilly  green 

With  crests  of  shriller  scarlet  flying 

Out  of  black  cedars  as  the  sun  was  dying 

Against  cold  peaks  of  snow. 

From  what  forgotten  life 

Of  other  worlds  I  cannot  tell 

Flashes  that  screeching  strife  : 

Yet  the  shrill  colour  and  shrill  crying 

Sing  through  my  blood  and  set  my  heart  replying 

And  jangling  like  a  bell. 

Wilfrid  Gibson 


403 


"TELL  HEB  I  FOLLOW  " 


401  OZYMANDIAS  OF  EGYP1 

I  met  .1  traveller  from  an  antique  land 

Who  said  :   Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of  stone 
Stand  in  the  dcsart.     Near  them,  on  the  sand, 
Half  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,  whose  frown 
And  wrinkled  lip,  and  sneer  of  cold  command 
Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 
Which  yet  survive,  stamped  on  these  lifeless  things, 
The  hand  that  mocked  them,  and  the  heart  that  fed  : 
And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear  : 
"  My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings  : 
Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  despair  !" 
Nothing  beside  remains.     Round  the  decay 
Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


402  ST.  ANTHONY'S  TOWNSHIP 

The  trees  of  the  elder  lands, 
Give  ear  to  the  march  of  Time, 
To  his  steps  that  are  heavy  and  slow 
In  the  streets  of  ruined  cities 
That  were  great  awhile  ago — 
Skeletons  bare  to  the  skies 
Or  mummies  hid  in  the  sands, 
Wasting  to  rubble  and  lime. 
Ancient  are  they  and  wise  ; 

But  the  gum-trees  down  by  the  creek, 

Gnarled,  archaic  and  grey, 

Are  even  as  wise  as  they. 

They  have  learned  in  a  score  of  years 

The  lore  that  their  brethren  know  ; 

For  they  saw  a  town  arise, 

Arise  and  pass. 

404 


ST.  ANTHONY'S  TOWNSHIP 

There  are  pits  by  the  dry,  dead  river, 
Whence  the  diggers  won  their  gold, 
A  circle  traced  in  the  grass, 
A  hearthstone  long  a-cold, 
A  path  none  come  to  seek — 
The  trail  of  the  pioneers — 
Where  the  sheep  wind  to  and  fro  ; 
And  the  rest  is  a  tale  that  is  told 
By  voices  quavering  and  weak 
Of  men  grown  old. 

Gilbert  Sheldon 

403  SILENCE 

There  is  a  silence  where  hath  been  no  sound, 
There  is  a  silence  where  no  sound  may  be, 
In  the  cold  grave — under  the  deep — deep  sea, 
Or  in  wide  desert  where  no  life  is  found, 
Which  hath  been  mute,  and  still  must  sleep  profound  ; 
No  voice  is  hushed — no  life  treads  silently, 
But  clouds  and  cloudy  shadows  wander  free, 
That  never  spoke,  over  the  idle  ground  : 
But  in  green  ruins,  in  the  desolate  walls 

Of  antique  palaces,  where  Man  hath  been, 
Though  the  dun  fox,  or  wild  hyaena,  calls, 
And  owls,  that  flit  continually  between, 
Shriek  to  the  echo,  and  the  low  winds  moan, 
There  the  true  Silence  is,  self-conscious  and  alone. 

Thomas  Hood 

404  KUBLA  KHAN 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree  : 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 
So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round  : 

405 


"TELL  1IKR  I  FOLLOW" 

And  here  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills 
Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bearing  tree  ; 
And  here  were  forests  ancienl  as  the  hills, 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  ot  greenery. 

But  oh  !  thai  deep  romantic  chasm  which  slanted 

Mown  the  green  lull  athwart  a  cedarn  cover  ! 

A  savage  place  !  as  holy  and  enchanted 

As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted 

By  woman  wailing  for  her  demondovcr  ! 

And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil  seething, 

As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breathing, 

A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced  : 

Amid  whose  swift  halfdntermitted  burst 

Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail, 

Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail  : 

And  'mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and  ever 

It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 

Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion 

Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran, 

Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless  to  man, 

And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean  : 

And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 

Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war  ! 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 

Floated  midway  on  the  waves  ; 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 

From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 
A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice  ! 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw  : 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played, 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song, 
To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  win  me, 
That  with  music  loud  and  long 

406 


KUBLA  KHAN 

I  would  build  that  dome  in  air, 
That  sunny  dome  !  those  caves  of  ice  ! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 
And  all  should  cry,  Beware  !  Beware  ! 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair  ! 
Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice, 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise.  . . 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 


405  LOST  LOVE 

His  eyes  are  quickened  so  with  grief, 
He  can  watch  a  grass  or  leaf    ■ 
Every  instant  grow  ;  he  can 
Clearly  through  a  flint  wall  see, 
Or  watch  the  startled  spirit  flee 
From  the  throat  of  a  dead  man. 

Across  two  counties  he  can  hear, 
And  catch  your  words  before  you  speak. 
The  woodlouse,  or  the  maggot's  weak 
Clamour  rings  in  his  sad  ear  ; 
And  noise  so  slight  it  would  surpass 
Credence  : — drinking  sound  of  grass, 
Worm  talk,  clashing  jaws  of  moth 
Chumbling  holes  in  cloth  : 
The  groan  of  ants  who  undertake 
Gigantic  loads  for  honour's  sake, 
Their  sinews  creak,  their  breath  comes  thin  : 
Whir  of  spiders  when  they  spin, 
And  minute  whispering,  mumbling,  sighs 
Of  idle  grubs  and  flies. 

This  man  is  quickened  so  with  grief, 
He  wanders  god-like  or  like  thief 
Inside  and  out,  below,  above, 
Without  relief  seeking  lost  love. 

Robert  Graves 
407 


"TELL  HER  1  FOLLOW" 

406  ECS1 ASY 

I  saw  a  frieze  on  whitest  marble  drawn 

Of  boys  who  sought  for  shells  along  the  shore, 

Their  white  feet  shedding  pallor  in  the  sea, 

The  shallow  sea,  the  spring-time  sea  of  green 

That  faintly  creamed  against  the  cold,  smooth  pebbles.  .  .  . 

One  held  a  shell  unto  his  shell-like  ear 

And  there  was  music  carven  in  his  face, 

His  eyes  half-closed,  his  lips  just  breaking  open 

To  catch  the  lulling,  mazy,  coralline  roar 

Of  numberless  caverns  filled  with  singing  seas. 

And  all  of  them  were  hearkening  as  to  singing 

Of  far-off  voices  thin  and  delicate, 

Voices  too  fine  for  any  mortal  wind 

To  blow  into  the  whorls  of  mortal  ears — 

And  yet  those  sounds  flowed  from  their  grave,  sweet  faces. 

And  as  I  looked  I  heard  that  delicate  music, 
And  I  became  as  grave,  as  calm,  as  still 
As  those  carved  boys.     I  stood  upon  that  shore, 
I  felt  the  cool  sea  dream  around  my  feet, 
My  eyes  were  staring  at  the  far  horizon.  .  .  . 

Walter  J.  Turner 


407  THE  SEA  OF  DEATH 

And  there  were  spring-faced  cherubs  that  did  sleep 
Like  water-lilies  on  that  motionless  deep, 
How  beautiful  !  with  bright  unruffled  hair 
On  sleek  unfretted  brows,  and  eyes  that  were 
Buried  in  marble  tombs,  a  pale  eclipse  ! 
And  smile-bedimpled  cheeks,  and  pleasant  lips, 
Meekly  apart,  as  if  the  soul  intense 
Spake  out  in  dreams  of  its  own  innocence.  .  .  . 

408 


THE  SEA  OF  DEATH 

So  lay  they  garmented  in  torpid  light, 
Under  the  pall  of  a  transparent  night, 
Like  solemn  apparitions  lulled  sublime 
To  everlasting  rest, — and  with  them  Time 
Slept,  as  he  sleeps  upon  the  silent  face 
Of  a  dark  dial  in  a  sunless  place. 


408  THE  FROZEN  OCEAN 

The  sea  would  flow  no  longer, 

It  wearied  after  change. 
It  called  its  tides  and  breakers  in, 

From  where  they  might  range. 

It  sent  an  icy  message 

To  every  wave  and  rill  ;g 
They  lagged,  they  paused,  they  stiffened, 

They  froze,  and  were  still. 

It  summoned  in  its  currents, 
They  reached  not  where  they  led  ; 

It  bound  its  foaming  whirlpools. 
"  Not  the  old  life,"  it  said, 

"  Not  fishes  for  the  fishermen, 

Not  bold  ships  as  before, 
Not  beating  loud  for  ever 

Upon  the  seashore, 

"  But  cold  white  foxes  stepping 

On  to  my  hard  proud  breast, 
And  a  bird  coming  sweetly 

And  building  a  nest. 

"  My  icebergs  shall  be  mountains, 

My  silent  fields  of  snow 
Unmarked  shall  join  the  lands'  snowfields — 
Where,     no  man  shall  know." 

Viola  Meynell 
409 


"TELL  HEB  I  FOLLOW  " 

409        I  HE  END  OF  THE  WORLD 

J  m  snow  had  fallen  main-  nights  and  days; 

1  In-  sky  was  come  upon  the  earth  at  last, 
Sitting  thinly  down  as  endlessly 
As  though  within  the  system  of  blind  planets 
Something  had  been  forgot  or  overdriven. 

The  dawn  now  seemed  neglected  in  the  grey 
\\  here  mountains  were  unbuilt  and  shadowless  trees 
Rootlessly  paused  or  hung  upon  the  air. 
There  was  no  wind,  but  now  and  then  a  sigh 
Crossed  that  dry  falling  dust  and  rifted  it 
Through  crevices  of  slate  and  door  and  casement. 
Perhaps  the  new  moon's  time  was  even  past. 
Outside,  the  first  white  twilights  were  too  void 
Until  a  sheep  called  once,  as  to  a  lamb, 
And  tenderness  crept  everywhere  from  it ; 
But  now  the  flock  must  have  strayed  far  away. 
The  lights  across  the  valley  must  be  veiled, 
The  smoke  lost  in  the  greyness  or  the  dusk. 
For  more  than  three  days  now  the  snow  had  thatched 
That  cow-house  roof  where  it  had  ever  melted 
With  yellow  stains  from  the  beasts'  breath  inside  ; 
But  yet  a  dog  howled  there,  though  not  quite  lately. 
Someone  passed  down  the  valley  swift  and  singing, 
Yes,  with  locks  spreaded  like  a  son  of  morning  ; 
But  if  he  seemed  too  tall  to  be  a  man 
It  was  that  men  had  been  so  long  unseen, 
Or  shapes  loom  larger  through  a  moving  snow. 
And  he  was  gone  and  food  had  not  been  given  him. 
When  snow  slid  from  an  overweighted  leaf, 
Shaking  the  tree,  it  might  have  been  a  bird 
Slipping  in  sleep  or  shelter,  whirring  wings  ; 
Yet  never  bird  fell  out,  save  once  a  dead  one — 
And  in  two  days  the  snow  had  covered  it. 
The  dog  had  howled  again — or  thus  it  seemed 
Until  a  lean  fox  passed  and  cried  no  more. 
All  was  so  safe  indoors  where  life  went  on 

410 


THE  END  OF  THE  WORLD 

Glad  of  the  close  enfolding  snow — 0  glad 
To  be  so  safe  and  secret  at  its  heart, 
Watching  the  strangeness  of  familiar  things. 
They  knew  not  what  dim  hours  went  on,  went  by, 
For  while  they  slept  the  clock  stopt  newly  wound 
As  the  cold  hardened.     Once  they  watched  the  road, 
Thinking  to  be  remembered.     Once  they  doubted 
If  they  had  kept  the  sequence  of  the  days, 
Because  they  heard  not  any  sound  of  bells. 
A  butterfly,  that  hid  until  the  Spring 
Under  a  ceiling's  shadow,  dropt,  was  dead. 
The  coldness  seemed  more  nigh,  the  coldness  deepened 
As  a  sound  deepens  into  silences  ; 
It  was  of  earth  and  came  not  by  the  air  ; 
The  earth  was  cooling  and  drew  down  the  sky. 
The  air  was  crumbling.     There  was  no  more  sky. 
Rails  of  a  broken  bed  charred  in  the  grate, 
And  when  he  touched  the  bars  he  thought  the  sting 
Came  from  their  heat — he  could  not  feel  such  cold  .  .  . 
She  said,  "  0  do  not  sleep, 

Heart,  heart  of  mine,  keep  near  me.     No,  no  ;  sleep. 
I  will  not  lift  his  fallen,  quiet  eyelids, 
Although  I  know  he  would  awaken  then- 
He  closed  them  thus  but  now  of  his  own  will. 
He  can  stay  with  me  while  I  do  not  lift  them." 

Gordon  Bottomley 


411 


OLD  TALES  AND     ® 
BALLADRY   ®     ®     ® 


4io  FLANNAN  ISLE 

"  Though  three  men  dwell  on  Flannan  Isle 
To  keep  the  lamp  alight, 
As  we  steered  under  the  lee,  we  caught 
No  glimmer  through  the  night." — 

A  passing  ship  at  dawn  had  brought 
The  news  ;  and  quickly  we  set  sail, 
To  find  out  what  strange  thing  might  ail 
The  keepers  of  the  deep-sea  light. 

The  Winter  day  broke  blue  and  bright, 
With  glancing  sun  and  glancing  spray, 
While  o'er  the  swell  our  boat  made  way, 
As  gallant  as  a  gull  in  flight. 

But  as  we  neared  the  lonely  Isle, 

And  looked  up  at  the  naked  height, 

And  saw  the  lighthouse  towering  white, 

With  blinded  lantern,  that  all  night 

Had  never  shot  a  spark 

Of  comfort  through  the  dark, 

So  ghostly  in  the  cold  sunlight 

It  seemed,  that  we  were  struck  the  while 

With  wonder  all  too  dread  for  words. 

And  as  into  the  tiny  creek 
We  stole  beneath  the  hanging  crag, 
We  saw  three  queer,  black,  ugly  birds — 
Too  big,  by  far,  in  my  belief, 
For  cormorant  or  shag — 

415 


OLD  TALKS  AM)   BALLADRY 

Like  seamen  sitting  bolt-upright 
Upon  a  half-tide  reef : 

But,  as  we  ncarcd,  they  plunged  from  sight, 
Without  a  sound,  or  spurt  of  white. 

And  still  too  mazed  to  speak, 

We  Landed  ;  and  made  fast  the  boat ; 

And  climbed  the  track  in  single  file, 

Each  wishing  he  were  safe  afloat, 

On  any  sea,  however  far, 

So  it  be  far  from  Flannan  Isle  : 

And  still  we  seemed  to  climb,  and  climb, 

As  though  we'd  lost  all  count  of  time, 

And  so  must  climb  for  evermore. 

Yet,  all  too  soon,  we  reached  the  door 

The  black,  sun-blistered  lighthouse-door, 

That  gaped  for  us  ajar. 

As,  on  the  threshold,  for  a  spell, 

We  paused,  we  seemed  to  breathe  the  smell 

Of  limewash  and  of  tar, 

Familiar  as  our  daily  breath, 

As  though  'twere  some  strange  scent  of  death 

And  so,  yet  wondering,  side  by  side, 

We  stood  a  moment,  still  tongue-tied  : 

And  each  with  black  foreboding  eyed 

The  door,  ere  we  should  fling  it  wide, 

To  leave  the  sunlight  for  the  gloom  : 

Till,  plucking  courage  up,  at  last, 

Hard  on  each  other's  heels  we  passed, 

Into  the  living-room. 

Yet,  as  we  crowded  through  the  door, 
We  only  saw  a  table,  spread 
For  dinner,  meat  and  cheese  and  bread  ; 
But,  all  untouched  ;  and  no  one  there  : 
As  though,  when  they  sat  down  to  eat, 
Ere  they  could  even  taste, 
Alarm  had  come  ;  and  they  in  haste 
Had  risen  and  left  the  bread  and  meat : 

416 


FLANNAN  ISLE 

For  at  the  table-head  a  chair 
Lay  tumbled  on  the  floor. 

We  listened  ;  but  we  only  heard 
The  feeble  cheeping  of  a  bird 
That  starved  upon  its  perch  : 
And,  listening  still,  without  a  word, 
We  set  about  our  hopeless  search. 

We  hunted  high,  we  hunted  low  ; 

And  soon  ransacked  the  empty  house  ; 

Then  o'er  the  Island,  to  and  fro, 

We  ranged,  to  listen  and  to  look 

In  every  cranny,  cleft  or  nook 

That  might  have  hid  a  bird  or  mouse  : 

But,  though  we  searched  from  shore  to  shore 

We  found  no  sign  in  any  place  : 

And  soon  again  stood  face  to  face 

Before  the  gaping  door  : 

And  stole  into  the  room  once  more 

As  frightened  children  steal. 

Ay  :  though  we  hunted  high  and  low, 

And  hunted  everywhere, 

Of  the  three  men's  fate  we  found  no  trace 

Of  any  kind  in  any  place, 

But  a  door  ajar,  and  an  untouched  meal, 

And  an  overtoppled  chair. 

And  as  we  listened  in  the  gloom 

Of  that  forsaken  living-room — 

A  chill  clutch  on  our  breath— 

We  thought  how  ill-chance  came  to  all 

Who  kept  the  Flannan  Light : 

And  how  the  rock  had  been  the  death 

Of  many  a  likely  lad  : 

How  six  had  come  to  a  sudden  end, 

And  three  had  gone  stark  mad  : 

And  one  whom  we'd  all  known  as  friend 

Had  leapt  from  the  lantern  one  still  night, 

And  fallen  dead  by  the  lighthouse  wall  : 

417  2d 


OLD  TALES  AND  BALLADRY 

And  long  we  thought 
On  the  three  we  sought, 
And  of  wh.it  might  yet  befall. 

I  ike  curs  a  glance  has  broughl  to  heel, 

We  listened,  flinching  there: 

And  looked,  and  looked,  on  the  untouched  meal, 

And  the  overtoppled  chair. 

We  seemed  to  stand  for  an  endless  while, 
Though  still  no  word  was  said, 
Three  men  alive  on  Flannan  Isle, 
Who  thought  on  three  men  dead. 

Wilfrid  Gibson 


4ii  THE  GOLDEN  VANITY 

There  was  a  gallant  ship,  and  a  gallant  ship  was  she, 
Eck  iddle  du,  and  the  Lowlands  low  ; 

And  she  was  called  The  Goulden  Vanitie. 
As  she  sailed  to  the  Lowlands  low. 

She  had  not  sailed  a  league,  a  league  but  only  three, 
When  she  came  up  with  a  French  gallee. 
As  she  sailed  to  the  Lowlands  low. 

Out  spoke  the  little  cabin-boy,  out  spoke  he  ; 
"  What  will  you  give  me  if  I  sink  that  French  gallee  ? 
As  ye  sail  to  the  Lowlands  low." 

"  I'll  give  thee  gold,  and  I'll  give  thee  fee, 
And  my  eldest  daughter  thy  wife  shall  be 
If  yon  sink  her  off  the  Lowlands  low." 

"  Then  row  me  up  ticht  in  a  black  bull's  skin, 
And  throw  me  oer  deck-buird,  sink  I  or  swim. 
As  ye  sail  to  the  Lowlands  low." 

So  they've  rowed  him  up  ticht  in  a  black  bull's  skin, 
And  have  thrown  him  oer  deck-buird,  sink  he  or  swim. 
As  they  sail  to  the  Lowlands  low. 

418 


THE  GOLDEN  VANITY 

About,  and  about,  and  about  went  he, 
Until  he  cam  up  with  the  French  gallee. 
As  they  sailed  to  the  Lowlands  low. 

0  some  were  playing  cards,  and  some  were  playing  dice, 
The  boy  he  had  an  auger  bored  holes  two  at  twice  ; 
He  let  the  water  in,  and  it  dazzled  in  their  eyes, 
As  they  sailed  to  the  Lowlands  low. 

Then  some  they  ran  with  cloaks,  and  some  they  ran  with 

caps, 
To  try  if  they  could  stap  the  saut-water  draps. 
As  they  sailed  to  the  Lowlands  low. 

About,  and  about,  and  about  went  he, 
Until  he  cam  back  to  The  Goulden  Vanitie. 
As  they  sailed  to  the  Lowlands  low. 

"  Now  throw  me  oer  a  rope  and  pu  me  up  on  buird, 
And  prove  unto  me  as  guid  as  your  word. 
As  ye  sail  to  the  Lowlands  low.''' 

"  We'll  no  throw  ye  oer  a  rope,  nor  pu  you  up  on  buird, 
Nor  prove  unto  you  as  guid  as  our  word. 
As  we  sail  to  the  Lowlands  low.'' 

"  You  promised  me  gold,  and  you  promised  me  fee, 
Your  eldest  daughter  my  wife  she  should  be. 
As  ye  sail  to  the  Lowlands  low." 

"  You  shall  have  gold,  and  you  shall  have  fee, 
But  my  eldest  daughter  your  wife  shall  never  be. 
As  we  sail  to  the  Lowlands  low." 

Out  spoke  the  little  cabin-boy,  out  spoke  he  ; 
"  Then  hang  me,  I'll  sink  ye  as  I  sunk  the  French  gallee. 
As  ye  sail  to  the  Lowlands  low." 

The  boy  he  swam  round  all  by  the  starboard  side, 
When  they  pu'd  him  up  on  buird  it's  there  he  soon  died  ; 
They  threw  him  o'er  deck-buird  to  go  down  with  the  tide, 
And  sink  off  the  Lowlands  low. 

419 


OLD  TALKS  AM)  BALLADRY 


41:  BROWN  ROBYN 

It  ifll  upon  .1  Wodensday 

Brown  Rohyn's  men  went  to  sci, 

But  they  s  nv  neither  moon  nor  sun, 
Nor  starlight  with  their  ee. 

"  We'll  cast  kcvels  us  amang, 

See  wha  the  unhappy  man  may  be  :  " 

The  kevel  fell  on  Brown  Robyn, 
The  master-man  was  hce. 

"  It  is  nae  wonder,"  said  Brown  Robyn, 

"  Altho  I  dinna  thrive  ; 
[For  if  the  deidly  sins  be  seven, 

Befallen  me  hae  five.] 

*'  But  tie  me  to  a  plank  o  wude, 
And  throw  me  in  the  sea  ; 

And  if  I  sink,  ye  may  bid  me  sink, 
But  if  I  swim,  lat  me  bee." 

They've  tyed  him  to  a  plank  o  wude, 
And  thrown  him  in  the  sea  ; 

He  didna  sink,  tho  they  bade  him  sink  ; 
He  swimd,  and  they  lat  him  be. — 

He  hadna  been  into  the  sea 
An  hour  but  barely  three, 

Till  by  and  came  Our  Blessed  Lady, 
Her  dear  young  son  her  wi. 

"  Will  ye  gang  to  your  men  again  ? 

Or  will  ye  gang  wi  me  ? 
Wrill  ye  gang  to  the  high  heavens, 

Wi  my  dear  son  and  me  ?" 

"  I  winna  gang  to  my  men  again, 
For  they  woud  be  feared  at  mee  ; 

But  I  woud  gang  to  the  high  heavens, 
Wi  thy  dear  son  and  thee." 
420 


BROWN  ROBYN 

"  It's  for  nae  honour  ye  did  to  me,  Brown  Robyn, 

It's  for  nae  guid  ye  did  to  mee  ; 
But  a'  is  for  your  fair  confession 

You've  made  upon  the  sea." 


413  ONE  FRIDAY  MORN 

One  Friday  morn  when  we  set  sail, 

Not  very  far  from  land, 
We  there  did  espy  a  fair  pretty  maid 

With  a  comb  and  a  glass  in  her  hand,  her  hand,  her 

hand, 
With  a  comb  and  a  glass  in  her  hand. 
While  the  raging  seas  did  roar, 

And  the  stormy  winds  did  blow, 
While  we  jolly  sailor-boys  were  up  into  the  top, 
And  the  land-lubbers  lying  down  below,  below,  below, 
And  the  land-lubbers  lying  down  below. 

Then  up  starts  the  captain  of  our  gallant  ship, 

And  a  brave  young  man  was  he  : 
"  I've  a  wife  and  a  child  in  fair  Bristol  town, 
But  a  widow  I  fear  she  will  be." 
And  the  raging  seas  did  roar, 
And  the  stormy  winds  did  blow. 

Then  up  starts  the  mate  of  our  gallant  ship, 

And  a  bold  young  man  was  he  : 
"  Oh  !  I  have  a  wife  in  fair  Portsmouth  town, 
But  a  widow  I  fear  she  will  be." 
And  the  raging  seas  did  roar, 
And  the  stormy  winds  did  blow. 

Then  up  starts  the  cook  of  our  gallant  ship, 

And  a  gruff  old  soul  was  he  : 
"  Oh  !   I  have  a  wife  in  fair  Plymouth  town, 
But  a  widow  I  fear  she  will  be." 
And  the  raging  seas  did  roar, 
And  the  stormy  winds  did  blow. 
421 


OLD  TALKS  AND  BALLADRY 

And  then  up  spoke  the  little  i  abin-boy, 

Anil  a  pretty  little  buy  was  he  ; 
"  Oh  !   I  .mi  mure  grieved  for  my  daddy  and  my  mammy 
Than  you  for  your  wives  all  three." 
And  the  raging  seas  did  roar, 
And  the  stormy  winds  did  blow. 

Then  three  times  round  went  our  gallant  ship, 

And  three  times  round  went  she  ; 
And  three  times  round  went  our  gallant  ship, 

And  she  sank  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  .  .  . 

And  the  raging  seas  did  roar, 
And  the  stormy  winds  did  blow. 

While  <ce  jolly  sailor-boys  were  up  into  the  top, 
And  the  land-lubbers  lying  down  below,  below,  below, 
And  the  land-lubbers  lying  down  below. 


414  THE  SHIP 

There  was  no  song  nor  shout  of  joy 

Nor  beam  of  moon  or  sun, 
When  she  came  back  from  the  voyage 

Long  ago  begun  ; 
But  twilight  on  the  waters 

Was  quiet  and  grey, 
And  she  glided  steady,  steady  and  pensive, 

Over  the  open  bay. 

Her  sails  were  brown  and  ragged, 

And  her  crew  hollow-eyed, 
But  their  silent  lips  spoke  content 

And  their  shoulders  pride  ; 
Though  she  had  no  captives  on  her  deck, 

And  in  her  hold 
There  were  no  heaps  of  corn  or  timber 

Or  silks  or  gold. 

J.  C.  Squire 

422 


THE  MOON-CHILD 


415  THE  MOON-CHILD 


A  little  lonely  child  am  I 

That  have  not  any  soul : 
God  made  me  as  the  homeless  wave, 

That  has  no  goal. 


&v 


A  seal  my  father  was,  a  seal 

That  once  was  man  ; 
My  mother  loved  him  tho'  he  was 

'Neath  mortal  ban. 

He  took  a  wave  and  drowned  her, 

She  took  a  wave  and  lifted  him  : 
And  I  was  born  where  shadows  are 

In  sea-depths  dim. 

All  through  the  sunny  blue-sweet  hours 
I  swim  and  glide  in  waters  green  : 

Never  by  day  the  mournful  shores 
By  me  are  seen. 

But  when  the  gloom  is  on  the  wave 

A  shell  unto  the  shore  I  bring  : 
And  then  upon  the  rocks  I  sit 

And  plaintive  sing. 

I  have  no  playmate  but  the  tide 

The  seaweed  loves  with  dark  brown  eyes  : 
The  night-waves  have  the  stars  for  play, 

For  me  but  sighs. 

Fiona  Macleod  "  (William  Sharp) 


<< 


416  THE  MERMAID 

To  yon  fause  stream  that,  by  the  sea, 
Hides  mony  an  elf  and  plum,1 

And  rives  wi'  fearful  din  the  stanes, 
A  witless  knicht  did  come. 


iPool 


423 


OLD   TALKS  AM)  BALLADRY 

The  day  shines  clear.     Far  in  he's  gane, 

Whar  shells  are  silver  bright  ; 
Fishes  war  loupin1 '  a1  aroun' 

An'  sparklin'  to  the  light. 

When,  as  he  laved,  sounds  came  sae  sweet 

Frae  ilka  rock  ajee  ;  2 
The  brief3  was  out  ;   'twas  him  it  doomed 

The  mermaid's  face  to  see. 

Frae  'neath  a  rock  sune,  sune  she  rose, 

An'  stately  on  she  swam, 
Stopped  i'  the  midst,  and  becked  and  sang 

For  him  to  stretch  his  han'  : 


Gowden  glist  the  yellow  links 

That  roun'  her  neck  she'd  twine  ; 

Her  een  war  o'  the  skyie  blue, 
Her  lips  did  mock  the  wine. 

The  smile  upon  her  bonnie  cheek 

Was  sweeter  than  the  bee  ; 
Her  voice  excelled  the  birdie's  sang 

Upon  the  birchen  tree. 

Sae  couthie,  couthie  did  she  look, 
And  meikle  had  she  fleeched  ;  4 

Out  shot  his  hand — alas  !  alas  ! 
Fast  in  the  swirl  he  screeched. 

The  mermaid  leuched  ;  5  her  brief  was  dane  ; 

The  kelpie's  blast  was  blawin'  : 
Fu'  low  she  dived,  ne'er  cam'  again  ; 

For  deep,  deep  was  the  fawin'. 

Aboon  the  stream  his  wraith  was  seen  : 
Warlocks  tirled  lang  at  gloamin'  : 

That  e'en  was  coarse ;  6  the  blast  blew  hoarse 
Ere  lang  the  waves  war  foamin'. 

1  Leaping  2  Crooked,  awry  3  Spell 

4  Charmed  and  cozened  6  Laughed  6  Foul 

424 


QUO'  THE  TWEED 

4I7  QUO'  THE  TWEED 

Quo'  the  Tweed  to  the  Till, 

"  What  gars  ye  gang  sae  still  ?" 

Quo'  the  Till  to  the  Tweed, 
"  Though  ye  rin  wi'  speed, 

And  I  rin  slaw, 

For  ilka  ane  that  ye  droon, 
I  droon  twa." 


418  SIR  PATRICK  SPENCE 

The  king  sits  in  Dumferling  toune, 
Drinking  the  blude-reid  wine  : 

"  0  whar  will  I  get  ae  guid  sailor, 
To  sail  this  schip  of  mine  ?" 

Up  and  spak  an  eldern  knicht, 
Sat  at  the  king's  richt  kne  ; 

"  Sir  Patrick  Spence  is  the  best  sailor 
That  sails  upon  the  se." 

The  king  has  written  a  braid  letter, 
And  signd  it  wi  his  hand, 

And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 
Was  walking  on  the  sand. 

The  first  line  that  Sir  Patrick  red, 
A  loud  lauch  lauched  he  ; 

The  next  line  that  Sir  Patrick  red, 
The  teir  blinded  his  ee. 

"  O  wha  is  this  has  done  this  deid, 
This  ill  deid  don  to  me, 

To  send  me  out  this  time  o'  the  yeir, 
To  sail  upon  the  se  ! 


425 


OLD  TALKS  AND  BALLADRY 

"  M.ik  haste,  mak  haste,  my  mirry  men  all, 
Our  guid  schip  sails  the  morne." 

"  O  s.iv  n.i  sae,  my  master  < K-ir, 
Fir  I  feir  a  deadlie  storme. 

"  Late,  late  yestreen  I  saw  the  new  moonc 
Wi'  the  auld  moonc  in  hir  armc, 

And  I  feir,  I  feir,  my  deir  mister, 
That  we  will  cum  to  harmc." 

0  our  Scots  nobles  wcr  richt  laith  l 
To  weet2  their  cork-heil'd  schoone  ; 

Bot  lang  owre  3  a'  the  play  wer  playd, 
Thair  hats  they  swam  aboone. 

0  lang,  lang  may  their  ladies  sit 

Wi'  thair  fans  into  their  hand 
Or  eir  they  se  Sir  Patrick  Spence 

Cum  sailing  to  the  land. 

0  lang,  lang  may  the  ladies  stand, 
Wi'  thair  gold  kerns  in  their  hair, 

Waiting  for  thair  ain  deir  lords, 
For  they'll  se  thame  no  mair. 

Haf  owre,  haf  owre  to  Aberdour, 

It's  fiftie  fadom  deip, 
And  thair  lies  guid  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 

Wi'  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feit. 

419  ALLISON  GROSS 

0  Allison  Gross,  that  lives  in  yon  towr, 
The  ugliest  witch  i  the  north  country, 

Has  trysted  me  ae  day  up  till  her  bowr, 
An  monny  fair  speech  she  made  to  me. 

She  stroaked  my  head,  an  she  kembed  my  hair, 
An  she  set  me  down  saftly  on  her  knee  ; 

Says,  Gin  4  ye  will  be  my  luver  so  true, 

Sae  monny  braw  things  as  I  woud  you  gi'e. 

1  Right  loth       s  Wet       3  But  long  ere       «  If 

426 


ALLISON  GROSS 

She  showd  me  a  mantle  o  red  scarlet, 

Wi  gouden  flowrs  an  fringes  fine  ; 
Says,  Gin  ye  will  be  my  luver  so  true, 

This  goodly  gift  it  sal  be  thine. 

"  Awa,  awa,  ye  ugly  witch, 

Haud  far  awa,  an  lat  me  be  ; 
I  never  will  be  your  luver  sae  true, 

An  I  wish  I  were  out  o  your  company." 

She  neist  brought  a  sark  o  the  saftest  silk, 
Well  wrought  wi  pearles  about  the  ban  ; 

Says,  Gin  you  will  be  my  ain  true  love, 
This  goodly  gift  you  sal  comman. 

She  showd  me  a  cup  of  the  good  red  gold, 

Well  set  wi  jewls  sae  fair  to  see  ; 
Says,  Gin  you  will  be  my  luver  sae  true, 

This  goodly  gift  I  will  you  gi'e. 

"  Awa,  awa,  ye  ugly  witch, 

Haud  far  awa,  and  lat  me  be  ; 
For  I  woudna  ance  kiss  your  ugly  mouth 

For  a'  the  gifts  that  ye  could  gi'e." 

She's  turnd  her  right  and  roun  about, 

An  thrice  she  blaw  on  a  grass-green  horn, 

An  she  sware  by  the  moon  and  the  stars  aboon, 
That  she'd  gar  me  rue  the  day  I  was  born. 

Then  out  has  she  taen  a  silver  wand, 

An  she's  turnd  her  three  times  roun  an  roun  ; 

She's  mutterd  sich  words  till  my  strength  it  faild, 
An  I  fell  down  senceless  upon  the  groun. 

She's  turnd  me  into  an  ugly  worm, 
And  gard  me  writhle  about  the  tree  ; 

An  ay,  on  ilka  Saturdays  night, 
My  sister  Maisry  came  to  me, 

427 


OLD  TALES  AND  BALLADRY 

Wi  silver  l>.ison  an  silver  kemb, 

To  kemb  my  heady  upon  her  knee  ; 

But  or  I  had  kissd  her  ugly  mouth, 
I'd  rather  a  writhled  about  the  tree. 

But  as  it  fell  out  on  last  Hallow-even, 
When  the  seely  court  was  ridin  by, 

The  queen  lighted  down  on  a  gowany  bank, 
Nae  far  frae  the  tree  where  I  wont  to  lye. 

She  took  me  up  in  her  milk-white  han, 

An  she's  stroakd  me  three  times  oer  her  knee 

She  chang'd  me  again  to  my  ain  proper  shape, 
An  I  nae  mair  maun  writhle  about  the  tree. 

420      SIR  HUGH,  OR,  THE  JEW'S  DAUGHTER 

Four  and  twenty  bonny  boys 

Were  playing  at  the  ba', 
And  by  it  came  him  sweet  Sir  Hugh, 

And  he  playd  o'er  them  a1. 

He  kicked  the  ba'  with  his  right  foot, 

And  catchd  it  wi'  his  knee, 
And  throuch-and-thro  the  Jew's  window 

He  gard  the  bonny  ba'  flee. 

He's  doen  him  to  the  Jew's  castell, 

And  walkd  it  round  about ; 
And  there  he  saw  the  Jew's  daughter, 

At  the  window  looking:  out. 


*& 


"  Throw  down  the  ba',  ye  Jew's  daughter, 

Throw  down  the  ba'  to  me  !" 
"  Never  a  bit,"  says  the  Jew's  daughter, 

"  Till  up  to  me  come  ye." 

"  How  will  I  come  up  ?     How  can  I  come  up  ? 

How  can  I  come  to  thee  ? 
For  as  ye  did  to  my  auld  father 

The  same  ye'll  do  to  me." 
428 


SIR  HUGH,  OR,  THE  JEW'S  DAUGHTER 

She's  gane  till  her  father's  garden, 
And  pu'd  an  apple  red  and  green  ; 

'T  was  a'  to  wyle  him — sweet  Sir  Hugh, 
And  to  entice  him  in. 

She's  led  him  in  through  ae  dark  door, 

And  sae  has  she  thro  nine  ; 
She's  laid  him  on  a  dressing-table, 

And  stickit  him  like  a  swine. 

And  first  came  out  the  thick,  thick  blood, 

And  syne  came  out  the  thin, 
And  syne  came  out  the  bonny  heart's  blood  ; 

There  was  nae  mair  within. 

She's  rowd  him  in  a  cake  o'  lead, 

Bade  him  lie  still  and  sleep  ; 
She's  thrown  him  in  Our  Lady's  draw-well, 

Was  fifty  fathom  deep. 

When  bells  were  rung,  and  mass  was  sung, 
And  a'  the  bairns  came  hame, 

When  every  lady  gat  hame  her  son, 
The  Lady  Maisry  gat  nane. 

She's  ta'en  her  mantle  her  about, 

Her  coffer  *  by  the  hand, 
And  she's  gane  out  to  seek  her  son, 

And  wanderd  o'er  the  land. 

She's  doen  her  to  the  Jew's  castell, 

Where  a'  were  fast  asleep  : 
"  Gin  ye  be  there,  my  sweet  Sir  Hugh, 

I  pray  you  to  me  speak." 

She's  doen  her  to  the  Jew's  garden, 
Thought  he  had  been  gathering  fruit : 

"  Gin  ye  be  there,  my  sweet  Sir  Hugh, 
I  pray  you  to  me  speak  ! 

1  Hand-bag 

429 


OLD   TALKS  AM)  BALLADRY 

She  neard  Our  Lady's  deep  draw-well, 

Was  fifty  fathom  «.  1  c <_•  j > : 
■  Whareer  ye  be,  my  sweet  Sir  Hugh, 

I  pray  you  to  mc  speak." 

"  Gac  hame,  gae  hame,  my  mither  dear, 

Prepare  my  winding  sheet, 
And  at  the  birks  1  o'  merry  Lincoln 

The  morn  I  will  you  meet." 

Now  Lady  Maisry  is  gane  hame, 

Made  him  a  winding  sheet, 
And  at  the  birks  o'  merry  Lincoln 

The  dead  corpse  did  her  meet. 

And  a'  the  bells  o'  merry  Lincoln 
Without  men's  hands  were  rung, 

And  a'  the  books  o'  merry  Lincoln 
Were  read  without  man's  tongue, 

When  bells  war  rung,  and  mass  was  sung 

And  a'  men  bound  for  bed, 
Every  mither  had  her  son, 

But  sweet  Sir  Hugh  was  dead. 


421  EDWARD 

"  Why  does  your  brand  so  drop  wi'  blood, 

Edward,  Edward, 
W7hy  does  your  brand  so  drop  wi'  blood, 

And  why  so  sad  go  ye  O  ?" 
"01  have  killed  my  hawk  so  good, 

Mother,  mother, 
0  I  have  killed  my  hawk  so  good, 
And  I  had  no  more  but  he  0." 

"  Your  hawk's  blood  was  never  so  red, 

Edward,  Edward, 
Your  hawk's  blood  was  never  so  red, 
My  dear  son  I  tell  thee  0." 

1  Birch- wood 

430 


EDWARD 

"01  have  killed  my  red-roan  steed, 

Mother,  mother, 
0  I  have  killed  my  red-roan  steed, 
That  erst  was  so  fair  and  free  O." 

"  Your  steed  was  old,  and  ye  have  got  more, 

Edward,  Edward, 
Your  steed  was  old,  and  ye  have  got  more, 

Some  other  grief  you  bear  0." 
"01  have  killed  my  father  dear, 

Mother,  mother, 
0  I  have  killed  my  father  dear, 
Alas,  and  woe  is  me  0  !" 

"  And  what  penance  will  ye  do  for  that, 

Edward,  Edward  ? 
And  what  penance  will  ye  do  for  that  ? 

My  dear  son,  now  tell  me  O." 
"  I'll  set  my  foot  in  yonder  boat, 

Mother,  mother, 
I'll  set  my  foot  in  yonder  boat, 
And  I'll  fare  over  the  sea  0." 

"  And  what  will  ye  do  wi'  your  towers  and  your  hall, 

Edward,  Edward  ? 
And  what  will  ye  do  wi'  your  towers  and  your  hall, 

That  were  so  fair  to  see  0  ?" 
"  I'll  let  them  stand  till  they  down  fall, 

Mother,  mother, 
I'll  let  them  stand  till  they  down  fall, 
For  here  never  more  may  I  be  O." 

"  And  what  will  ye  leave  to  your  bairns  and  your  wife, 

Edward,  Edward  ? 
And  what  will  ye  leave'  to  your  bairns  and  your  wife, 

When  ye  go  over  the  sea  O  ?" 
"  The  world's  wide,  let  them  beg  their  life, 

Mother,  mother, 
The  world's  wide,  let  them  beg  their  life, 
For  them  never  more  will  I  see  0." 

431 


OLD  TALKS  AND  BALLADRY 

"  And  what  will  ye  leave  to  your  own  mother  dear, 

Edward,  Edward  ? 
And  what  will  yc  leave  to  your  own  mother  dear  ? 

\lv  dc.tr  sun,  now  tell  me  0." 
'  The  curse  of  hell  from  me  shall  ye  hear, 

Mother,  mother, 
The  curse  of  hell  from  me  shall  ye  bear, 
Such  counsels  ye  gave  to  me  0." 


422  THE  LAIRD  0'  LOGIE 

I  will  sing,  if  ye  will  hearken, 

If  ye  will  hearken  unto  me  ; 
The  King  has  ta'en  a  poor  prisoner, 

The  wanton  laird  of  Young  Logie. 

Young  Logie's  laid  in  Edinburgh  chapel, 
Carmichael's  the  keeper  o'  the  key  ; 

I  heard  a  may  l  lamenting  sair 
A'  for  the  laird  of  Young  Logie. 

"  Lament,  lament  na,  May  Margaret, 
And  0'  your  weeping  let  me  be  ; 

For  ye  maun  to  the  king  your  sell, 
And  ask  the  life  of  Young  Logie. 

May  Margaret  has  kilted  her  green  cleiding,2 
And  she's  currlld  back  her  yellow  hair  ; 

"  If  I  canna  get  young  Logie's  life, 
Farewell  to  Scotland  for  ever  mair  !" 

When  she  came  before  the  king, 
She  knelit  low  doon  on  her  knee  : 

"  It's  what's  your  will  wi'  me,  May  Margaret, 
And  what  needs  a'  this  courtesie  ?" 

"  A  boon,  a  boon,  my  noble  liege, 
A  boon,  a  boon,  I  beg  o'  thee  ! 

1  The  young  wife  2  Skirts  of  bright  green 

432 


THE  LAIRD  O'  LOGIE 

And  the  first  boon  that  I  come  to  crave, 
It's  to  grant  me  the  life  o'  Young  Logie." 

"  0  na,  0  na,  May  Margaret, 

Na,  in  sooth  it  mauna 1  be  ; 
For  the2  morn,  ere  I  taste  meat  or  drink, 

Hee 3  hanged  shall  Young  Logie  be." 

She  has  stolen  the  king's  redding-kaim,4 
Likewise  the  queen  her  wedding-knife  ; 

And  sent  the  tokens  to  Carmichael, 
To  cause  Young  Logie  get  5  his  life. 

She  sent  him  a  purse  o'  the  red  gowd, 

Another  o'  the  white  monie  ; 
And  sent  him  a  pistol  into  each  hand, 

And  bade  him  shoot  when  he  gat  free. 

When  he  came  to  the  Tolbooth  stair, 

There  he  let  his  volley  flee, 
It  made  the  king  in  his  chamber  start, 

E'en  in  the  bed  where  he  might  be. 


lSJ 


"  Gae  out,  gae  out,  my  merrie  men  a', 
And  gar  Carmichael  come  speak  wi'  me, 

For  I'll  lay  my  life  the  pledge  o'  that, 
That  yon's  the  volley  of  Young  Logie." 

When  Carmichael  came  before  the  king, 
He  fell  low  down  upon  his  knee  ; 

The  very  first  word  that  the  king  spake, 
Was,  "  Where's  the  laird  o'  Young  Logie  ?" 

Carmichael  turn'd  him  round  about, 
I  wat  the  salt  tear  blinded  his  ee, 

"  There  came  a  token  frae  your  grace, 
Has  ta'en  the  laird  awa  frae  me." 

1  Must  not  2  This  3  High  4  Hair-comb 

5  Save 

433  2e 


OLD  TALKS  AND  BALLADRY 

Hast  thou  played  mc  that  Carmichael  ?  — 
Hasl  thou  played  me  thai  ?"  quoth  lie; 
'  The  morn  the  Justice  Court's  to  stand, 
And  Louie's  place  ye  iii.uin  supplic." 

Carmichael's  awa  to  May  Margaret'3  bower, 

Even  .is  fast  as  he  may  dree  ; 
"  0  if  Young  Logic  be  within, 

Tell  him  to  come  and  speak  with  me." 

May  Margaret's  turn'd  her  round  about, 
I  wat  a  loud  laughter  gae  she  : 

"  The  egg  is  chipp'd,  the  bird  is  flown, 
Ye'll  see  nae  mair  o'  Young  Logic." 

Tane  1  is  shipped  at  the  pier  o'  Lcith, 

T'other  at  the  Queen's  Ferrie, 
And  she's  gotten  a  father  to  her  bairn, 

The  wanton  laird  of  Young  Logic. 


423  FAIR  ANNIE 

The  reivers  2  they  stole  Fair  Annie, 
As  she  walked  by  the  sea  ; 

But  a  noble  knight  was  her  ransom  soon, 
Wi'  gowd  and  white  monie.3 

She  bided  in  strangers'  land  wi'  him, 
And  none  knew  whence  she  cam  ; 

She  lived  in  the  castle  wi'  her  love, 
But  never  told  her  name. — 

'  It's  narrow,  narrow,  mak  your  bed, 
And  learn  to  lie  your  lane ;  4 

For  I'm  gaun  owre  the  sea,  Fair  Annie, 
A  braw  Bride  to  bring  hamc. 

Wi'  her  I  will  get  .gowd  and  gear, 
Wi'  you  I  ne'er  gat  nane. 

1  The  one  2  Raiders  3  Gold  and  silver 

4  Alone 

434 


FAIR  ANNIE 

"  But  wha  will  bake  my  bridal  bread, 

Or  brew  my  bridal  ale  ? 
And  wha  will  welcome  my  bright  Bride, 

That  I  bring  owre  the  dale  ?" 

"  It's  I  will  bake  your  bridal  bread, 

And  brew  your  bridal  ale  ; 
And  I  will  welcome  your  bright  Bride, 

That  you  bring  owre  the  dale." 

"  But  she  that  welcomes  my  bright  Bride 

Maun  gang  like  maiden  fair  ; 
She  maun  lace  on  her  robe  sae  jimp, 

And  comely  braid  her  hair. 

"  Bind  up,  bind  up  your  yellow  hair, 

And  tie  it  on  your  neck  ; 
And  see  you  look  as  maiden-like 

As  the  day  that  first  we  met." 

"  0  how  can  I  gang  maiden-like, 

When  maiden  I  am  nane  ? 
Have  I  not  borne  six  sons  to  thee, 

And  am  wi'  child  again  ?" 

"  I'll  put  cooks  into  my  kitchen, 

And  stewards  in  my  hall, 
And  I'll  have  bakers  for  my  bread, 

And  brewers  for  my  ale  ; 
But  you're  to  welcome  my  bright  Bride, 

That  I  bring  owre  the  dale." 

Three  months  and  a  day  were  gane  and  past, 

Fair  Annie  she  gat  word 
That  her  love's  ship  was  come  at  last, 

Wi'  his  bright  young  Bride  aboard. 

She's  ta'en  her  young  son  in  her  arms, 

Anither  in  her  hand  ; 
And  she's  gane  up  to  the  highest  tower, 

Looks  over  sea  and  land. 
435 


OLD  TALKS  AND  BALLADRY 

"  Come  doun,  come  doiin,  my  mother  dear, 

Come  aff  the  castle  w.i'  ! 
I  fear  if  langer  ye  stand  there, 

Ye'll  let  yoursell  doun  fa'." 

She's  ta'en  a  cake  o'  the  best  bread, 

A  stoup  o'  the  best  wine, 
And  a'  the  keys  upon  her  arm, 

And  to  the  yett  is  gane.1 

"  0  ye're  welcome  hame,  my  ain  gude  lord, 
To  your  castles  and  your  towers  ; 

Ye're  welcome  hame,  my  ain  gude  lord, 
To  your  ha's,2  but  and  your  bowers. 

And  welcome  to  your  hame,  fair  lady  ! 
For  a'  that's  here  is  yours." 

"  0  whatna  lady's  that,  my  lord, 

That  welcomes  you  and  me  ? 
Gin  3  I  be  lang  about  this  place, 

Her  friend  I  mean  to  be." — 

Fair  Annie  served  the  lang  tables 
Wi'  the  white  bread  and  the  wine  ; 

But  ay  she  drank  the  wan  water 
To  keep  her  colour  fine. 

And  she  gaed  by  the  first  table, 

And  smiled  upon  them  a'  ; 
But  ere  she  reached  the  second  table, 

The  tears  began  to  fa'. 

She  took  a  napkin  lang  and  white, 

And  hung  it  on  a  pin  ; 
It  was  to  wipe  away  the  tears, 

As  she  gaed  out  and  in. 

When  bells  were  rung  and  mass  was  sung, 

And  a'  men  bound  for  bed, 
The  bridegroom  and  the  bonny  Bride 

In  ae  4  chamber  were  laid. — 

1  To  the  gate  is  gone  2  Halls  *  If  *  One 

436 


FAIR  ANNIE 

Fair  Annie's  ta'en  a  harp  in  her  hand, 

To  harp  thir  twa  *  asleep  ; 
But  ay,  as  she  harpit  and  she  sang, 

Fu'  sairly  did  she  weep. 

"  0  gin  my  sons  were  seven  rats, 

Rinnin'  on  the  castle  wa', 
And  I  mysell  a  grey  grey  cat, 

I  soon  wad  worry  them  a'  ! 

"  0  gin  my  sons  were  seven  hares, 

Rinnin'  owre  yon  lily  lea, 
And  I  mysell  a  good  greyhound, 

Soon  worried  they  a'  should  be  !" — 

Then  out  and  spak  the  bonny  young  Bride, 

In  bride-bed  where  she  lay  : 
"  That's  like  my  sister  Annie,"  she  says  ; 

"  Wha  is  it  doth  sing  and  play  ? 

"  I'll  put  on  my  gown,"  said  the  new-come  Bride 

"  And  my  shoes  upon  my  feet ; 
I  will  see  wha  doth  sae  sadly  sing, 

And  what  is  it  gars  her  greet.2 

"  What  ails  you,  what  ails  you,  my  housekeeper, 

That  ye  mak  sic  a  mane  ?  3 
Has  ony  wine-barrel  cast  its  girds, 

Or  is  a'  your  white  bread  gane  ? " 

"  It  isna  because  my  wine  is  spilt, 

Or  that  my  white  bread's  gane  ; 
But  because  I've  lost  my  true  love's  love, 

And  he's  wed  to  anither  ane." 

"  Noo  tell  me  wha  was  your  father  ?"  she  says, 
"  Noo  tell  me  wha  was  your  mother  ? 

And  had  ye  ony  sister  ?"  she  says, 
"  And  had  ye  ever  a  brother  ?" 

1  The  twain  2  Makes  her  weep  3  Such  lament 

437 


OLD  TALKS  AM)  BALLADRY 

'  The  Earl  ol  Wemysa  was  my  father, 

The  Countess  of  Wemysa  my  mother, 
Young  Elinor  sin-  was  my  sister  dear, 
And  Lord  John  he  was  my  brother." 

"  It"  the  Earl  of  Wemysa  was  your  father, 

1  wot  sae  was  he  mine  ; 
And  it's  0  my  sister  Annie  ! 

Your  love  ye  sallna  tync.1 

"  Tak  your  husband,  my  sister  dear  ; 

You  ne'er  were  wrangd  for  me, 
Beyond  a  kiss  o'  his  merry  mouth 

As  we  cam  owre  the  sea. 

"  Seven  ships,  loaded  weel, 

Cam  owre  the  sea  wi'  me  ; 
Ane  o'  them  will  tak  me  hame, 

And  six  I'll  gie  to  thee." 


424  HELEN  OF  KIRCONNELL 

...  I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies, 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries  ; 
O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea  ! 

Curst  be  the  heart  that  thought  the  thought, 
And  curst  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot, 
When  in  my  arms  burd  Helen  dropt, 
And  died  for  sake  o'  me  ! 

0  think  na  but  my  heart  was  sair 

When  my  love  dropt  down  and  spak  nae  mair  ; 

1  laid  her  down  wi'  meikle  care 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

As  I  went  down  the  water-side, 
None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 

1  Shall  not  lose 

438 


HELEN  OF  KIRCONNELL 

None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea  ; 

I  lighted  down,  my  sword  to  draw, 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma', 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma', 

For  her  that  died  for  me. 

O  Helen  fair,  beyond  compare, 
I'll  make  a  garland  of  thy  hair 
Shall  bind  my  heart  for  evermair, 
Until  the  day  I  die. 

O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies, 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries  ; 
Out  of  my  bed  she  bids  me  rise, 

Says,  "  Haste  and  come  to  me  !" 

0  Helen  fair  !  O  Helen  chaste  ! 
If  I  were  with  thee,  I  were  blest, 
Where  thou  lies  low  and  takes  thy  rest 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

1  wish  my  grave  were  growing  green, 
A  winding-sheet  drawn  ower  my  een, 
And  I  in  Helen's  arms  lying, 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies, 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries  ; 
And  I  am  weary  of  the  skies, 

Since  my  love  died  for  me. 


425  THE  BONNIE  BOWER 

The  Lament  of  the  Border  Widow 

My  love  he  built  me  a  bonnie  bower, 
And  clad  it  a'  wi'  lily  flower  ; 
A  brawer  bower  ye  ne'er  did  see, 
Than  my  true-love  he  built  for  me. 
439 


OLD  TALKS  AND  BALLADRY 

There  came  a  man,  by  middle  day, 
1  li  spied  Ins  sport,  and  went  away  ; 
And  brought  the  king  thai  very  night, 
Who  brake  my  bower,  and  slew  my  knight. 

He  slew  my  knight,  to  mc  sae  dear  ; 
He  slew  my  knight,  and  poin'd  his  gear  : 1 
My  servants  all  for  life  did  flee, 
And  left  me  in  extremitic. 

I  sewed  his  sheet,  making  my  mane  ; 
I  watched  the  corpse,  mysel  alane  ; 
I  watched  his  body  night  and  day  ; 
No  living  creature  came  that  way. 

I  took  his  body  on  my  back, 

And  whiles  I  gaed,  and  whiles  I  sat ; 

I  digged  a  grave,  and  laid  him  in, 

And  happed  him  with  the  sod  sae  green. 

But  think  na'  ye  my  heart  was  sair, 
When  I  laid  the  moul'  on  his  yellow  hair  ? 
0,  think  na'  ye  my  heart  was  wae, 
When  I  turned  about,  away  to  gae  ? 

Nae  living  man  I'll  love  again, 
Since  that  my  lovely  knight  is  slain  ; 
Wi'  ae  lock  o'  his  yellow  hair 
I'll  chain  my  heart  for  evermair. 


426  WEEP  NO  MORE 

Weep  no  more,  nor  sigh  nor  groan, 
Sorrow  calls  no  time  that's  gone  : 
Violets  plucked,  the  sweetest  rain 
Makes  not  fresh  nor  grow  again ; 

1  Seized  his  all 

440 


WEEP  NO  MORE 

Trim  thy  locks,  look  chearfully, 
Fate's  hidden  ends  eyes  cannot  see. 
Joys  as  winged  dreams  fly  fast, 
Why  should  sadness  longer  last  ? 
Grief  is  but  a  wound  to  woe  ; 
Gentlest  fair,  mourn,  mourn  no  moe.1 

John  Fletcher 


427  THE  TWA  SISTERS 

There  were  twa  sisters  sat  in  a  bowr  ; 

Binnorie,  0  Binnorie  : 
There  came  a  knight  to  be  their  wooer 

By  the  bonny  mill-dams  of  Binnorie. 

He  courted  the  eldest  wi'  glove  an  ring, 
But  he  lov'd  the  youngest  above  a'  thing.2 

He  courted  the  eldest  wi'  brotch  an  knife, 
But  lov'd  the  youngest  as  his  life. 

The  eldest  she  was  vexed  sair, 
An'  much  envi'd  her  sister  fair. 

Into  3  her  bow'r  she  could  not  rest, 
Wi'  grief  an  spite  she  almos  brast. 

Upon  a  morning  fair  an'  clear, 
She  cried  upon  her  sister  dear  : — 

"  0  sister,  come  to  yon  sea  stran, 

An  see  our  father's  ships  come  to  Ian." 

She's  ta'en  her  by  the  milk-white  han, 
An  led  her  down  to  yon  sea  stran. 

The  youngest  stood  upon  a  stane, 
The  eldest  came  an  threw  her  in. 

1  More  2  Everything  3  Within 

441 


OLD    TALKS  AND  BALLADRY 

She  tookc  her  by  tin-  middle  sma,' 
An  dashed  her  bonny  back  t<>  the  jaw.1 

"  0  sister,  sister,  t.ik  my  li.m, 

And  I^e  mack1  you  heir  to  a'  my  Ian. 

"  0  sister,  sister,  t.ik  my  middle, 

An  yes  get3  my  goud  and  my  gouden  girdle. 

"  0  sister,  sister,  save  my  life, 

An  I  swear  Ise  never  be  nae  man's  wife." 

"  Foul  fa'  the  han  that  I  should  tacke, 
It  twin'd  me  an  my  wardles  make.4 

"  Your  cherry  cheeks  an  yallow  hair 
Gars  me  gae  maiden  for  evermair." 

Sometimes  she  sank,  an  sometimes  she  swam, 
Till  she  came  down  yon  bonny  mill-dam. 

0  out  it  came  the  miller's  son, 
An'  saw  the  fair  maid  swimmin  in. 

"  0  father,  father,  draw  your  dam, 
Here's  either  a  mermaid  or  a  swan." 

The  miller  quickly  drew  the  dam, 
An  there  he  found  a  drown'd  woman. 

You  coudna  see  her  yallow  hair 

For  gold  and  pearle  that  were  so  rare. 

You  coudna  see  her  middle  sma' 
For  gouden  girdle  that  was  sae  braw. 

You  coudna  see  her  fingers  white, 
For  gouden  rings  that  was  sae  gryte.5 

An  by  there  came  a  harper  fine, 
That  harped  to  the  king  at  dine. 

1  And  dashed  her  backwards  into  the  waves 

2  And  I'll  make  3  You  shall  have 

*  It  parted  me  and  my  world's  mate  5  Great 

442 


THE  TWA  SISTERS 

When  he  did  look  that  lady  upon, 
He  sigh'd  and  made  a  heavy  moan. 

He's  taen  three  locks  o'  her  yallow  hair, 
An  wi'  them  strung  his  harp  sae  fair. 

The  first  tune  he  did  play  and  sing, 
Was,  "  Farewell  to  my  father  the  king." 

The  nextin  tune  that  he  play'd  syne, 
Was,  "  Farewell  to  my  mother  the  queen.' 

The  lastin  tune  that  he  play'd  then, 
Was,  "  Wae  to  my  sister,  fair  Ellen." 


428      SWEET  WILLIAM  AND  MAY  MARGARET 

There  came  a  ghost  to  Margret's  door, 
With  many  a  grievous  groan  ; 

And  aye  he  tirled  at  the  pin, 
But  answer  made  she  none.  .  .  . 

"  Is  that  my  father  Philip  ? 

Or  is't  my  brother  John  ? 
Or  is't  my  true-love  Willie, 

From  Scotland  new  come  home  ?" 

'Tis  not  thy  father  Philip, 

Nor  yet  thy  brother  John, 
But  'tis  thy  true-love  Willie, 

From  Scotland  new  come  home. 

"  0  sweet  Margret,  0  dear  Margret, 

I  pray  thee  speak  to  me  ; 
Give  me  my  faith  and  troth,  Margret, 

As  I  gave  it  to  thee." 

"  Thy  faith  and  troth  thou's  never  get, 

Nor  yet  will  I  thee  lend, 
Till  that  thou  come  within  my  bower 

And  kiss  me  cheek  and  chin." 
443 


OLD  TALKS  AM)  BALLADRY 

"  If  1  shou'd  conn-  within  thy  bower, 

I  am  no  earthly  man  ; 
And  shou'd  I  kiss  thy  ruby  lips, 

Thy  days  would  not  be  lang. 

"  0  sweet  Margret,  0  dear  Margrct, 

I  pray  thee  speak  to  me  ; 
Give  me  my  faith  and  troth,  Margret, 

As  I  gave  it  to  thee." 

"  Thy  faith  and  troth  thou's  never  get, 

Nor  yet  will  I  thee  lend, 
Till  thou  take  me  to  yon  kirk-yard, 

And  wed  me  with  a  ring." 

"  My  bones  are  buried  in  yon  kirk-yard 

Afar  beyond  the  sea  ; 
And  it  is  but  my  spirit,  Margret, 

That's  now  speaking  to  thee." 

She  stretched  out  her  lily-white  hand, 

And,  for  to  do  her  best : 
"  Hae,  there's  your  faith  and  troth,  Willie  ; 

God  send  your  soul  good  rest."  .  .  . 

Now  she  has  kilted  her  robes  o'  green 

A  piece  below  her  knee, 
And  a'  the  live-lang  winter  night 

The  dead  corp  followed  she. 

"  Is  there  any  room  at  your  head,  Willie, 

Or  any  room  at  your  feet  ? 
Or  any  room  at  your  side,  Willie, 

Wherein  that  I  may  creep  ?" 

"  There's  nae  room  at  my  head,  Margret, 

There's  nae  room  at  my  feet ; 
There's  nae  room  at  my  side,  Margret, 

My  coffin's  made  so  meet." 
444 


SWEET  WILLIAM  AND  MAY  MARGARET 

Then  up  and  crew  the  red,  red  cock, 

And  up  and  crew  the  grey  ; 
"  'Tis  time,  'tis  time,  my  dear  Margret, 

That  you  were  gane  awa'." 

429  THE  WIFE  OF  USHER'S  WELL 

There  lived  a  wife  at  Usher's  Well 
And  a  wealthy  wife  was  she  ; 

She  had  three  stout  and  stalwart  sons, 
And  sent  them  o'er  the  sea. 

They  hadna  been  a  week  from  her, 

A  week  but  barely  ane, 
Whan  word  came  to  the  carline  wife 

That  her  three  sons  were  gane. 

They  hadna  been  a  week  from  her, 

A  week  but  barely  three, 
Whan  word  came  to  the  carline  wife 

That  her  sons  she'd  never  see. 

"  I  wish  the  wind  may  never  cease, 

Nor  fashes  in  the  flood, 
Till  my  three  sons  come  hame  to  me, 

In  earthly  flesh  and  blood."— 

It  fell  about  the  Martinmass, 
When  nights  are  lang  and  mirk, 

The  carline  wife's  three  sons  came  hame, 
And  their  hats  were  o  the  birk. 

It  neither  grew  in  syke  nor  ditch, 

Nor  yet  in  ony  sheugh  ; 
But  at  the  gates  o'  Paradise 

That  birk  grew  fair  eneugh.  .  .  . 

"  Blow  up  the  fire,  my  maidens, 

Bring  water  from  the  well ; 
For  a'  my  house  shall  feast  this  night. 

Since  my  three  sons  are  well." 
445 


OLD  TALKS  AM)  BALLADRY 

And  she  has  made  to  than  a  bed, 
Shi's  made  d  large  and  wide  ; 

And  -la's  ta'en  her  mantle  her  about, 

S.it  down  at  the  bedside. 

"  Iae  still,  he  stdl  but  a  little  wee  while, 

1  h-  still  but  if  we  may  ; 
Gin  my  mother  should  miss  us  when  she  wakes 

She'll  go  mad  ere  it  be  clay. 

"  Our  mother  has  nae  mair  but  us  ; 

Sec  where  she  leans  asleep  ; 
The  mantle  that  was  on  herself, 

She  has  happ'd  it  round  our  feet." 

Up  then  crew  the  red,  red  cock, 

And  up  and  crew  the  grey  ; 
The  eldest  to  the  youngest  said, 

"  'Tis  time  we  were  away  !" 

The  cock  he  hadna  crawed  but  once, 

And  clapped  his  wings  at  a', 
When  the  youngest  to  the  eldest  said, 

"  Brother,  we  must  awa'. 

"  The  cock  doth  craw,  the  day  doth  daw, 
The  channerin  worm  doth  chide  ; 

Gin  we  be  mist  out  o'  our  place, 
A  sair  pain  we  maun  bide. 

*  Fare  ye  weel,  my  mother  dear  ! 

Fareweel  to  barn  and  byre  ! 
A.nd  fare  ye  weel,  the  bonny  lass 

That  kindles  my  mother's  fire  !" 


440 


fflmESBBBJEagE 


EVENING  AND  DREAM 


430  DREAM-PEDLARY 

If  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 

What  would  you  buy  ? 
Some  cost  a  passing  bell ; 

Some  a  light  sigh, 
That  shakes  from  Life's  fresh  crown 
Only  a  rose-leaf  down. 
If  there  were  dreams  to  sell, 
Merry  and  sad  to  tell, 
And  the  crier  rang  the  bell, 

What  would  you  buy  ? 

A  cottage  lone  and  still, 

With  bowers  nigh, 
Shadowy,  my  woes  to  still, 

Until  I  die. 
Such  peace  from  Life's  fresh  crown 
Fain  would  I  shake  me  down. 
Were  dreams  to  have  at  will, 
This  would  best  heal  my  ill, 

This  would  I  buy. 

Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes 


431  THE  EVENING  SUN 

The  evening  sun  was  sinking  down 
On  low  green  hills  and  clustered  trees  ; 

It  was  a  scene  as  fair  and  lone 
As  ever  felt  the  soothing  breeze 

449  2  f 


EVENING  AM)  DREAM 

That  cools  the  grass  when  day  is  gone, 
And  gives  the  waves  a  brighter  blue, 

And  makes  the  soft  white  clouds  sail  on — 
Like  spirits  of  ethereal  dew 

Which  all  the  morn  had  hovered  o'er 

The  azure  flowers,  where  they  were  nursed, 

And  now  return  to  Heaven  once  more, 
Where  their  bright  glories  shone  at  first. 

Kmii.y  Bronte 


452  TO  THE  EVENING  STAR 

Thou  Fair-haired  Angel  of  the  Evening, 
Now,  whilst  the  sun  rests  on  the  mountains,  light 
Thy  bright  torch  of  love  ;  thy  radiant  crown 
Put  on,  and  smile  upon  our  evening  bed  ! 
Smile  on  our  loves  ;  and  while  thou  drawest  the 
Blue  curtains  of  the  sky,  scatter  thy  silver  dew 
On  every  flower  that  shuts  its  sweet  eyes 
In  timely  sleep.     Let  thy  West  Wind  sleep  on 
The  lake  ;  speak  silence  with  thy  glimmering  eyes, 
And  wash  the  dusk  with  silver.     Soon,  full  soon, 
Dost  thou  withdraw  ;  then  the  wolf  rages  wide, 
And  the  lion  glares  through  the  dun  forest : 
The  fleeces  of  the  flocks  are  covered  with 
Thy  sacred  dew7  :  protect  them  with  thine  influence. 

William  Blake 


433         TO  DAISIES,  NOT  TO  SHUT  SO  SOON 

Shut  not  so  soon  ;  the  dull-eyed  night 

Hath  not  as  yet  begun 
To  make  a  seisure  on  the  light, 

Or  to  seale  up  the  Sun. 

450 


TO  DAISIES,  NOT  TO  SHUT  SO  SOON 

No  Marigolds  yet  closed  are  ; 

No  shadowes  great  appeare  : 
Nor  doth  the  early  Shepheard's  Starre 

Shine  like  a  spangle  here. 

Stay  but  till  my  Julia  close 

Her  life-begetting  eye  ; 
And  let  the  whole  world  then  dispose 

It  selfe  to  live  or  dye. 

Robert  Herrick 


434  OF  THE  GOING  DOWN  OF  THE  SUN 

What,  hast  thou  run  thy  Race  ?     Art  going  down  ? 
Thou  seemest  angry,  why  dost  on  us  frown  ? 
Yea  wrap  thy  head  with  Clouds,  and  hide  thy  face, 
As  threatning  to  withdraw  from  us  thy  Grace  ? 
Oh  leave  us  not  !     When  once  thou  hid'st  thy  head, 
Our  Horizon  with  darkness  will  be  spread. 
Tell's,  who  hath  thee  offended  ?     Turn  again  : 
Alas  !  too  late — Entreaties  are  in  vain  ! .  .  . 

John  Bunyan 

435  VIRTUE 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright 

The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  skie  : 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night, 
For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue  angry  and  brave 

Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 

And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 

A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie, 
My  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 
And  all  must  die. 
451 


EVENING  AM)  DREAM 

Only  a  sweet  and  vertuous  soul, 

Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives  ; 
Bui  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal, 
Then  chiefly  lives. 

George  Herbert 


436  NIGHT 

The  sun  descending  in  the  west, 
The  evening  stnr  does  shine  ; 
The  birds  are  silent  in  their  nest, 
And  I  must  seek  for  mine. 

The  moon,  like  a  flower, 

In  heaven's  high  bower, 

With  silent  delight 

Sits  and  smiles  on  the  night. 

Farewell  green  fields  and  happy  groves, 

Where  flocks  have  took  delight. 

Where  lambs  have  nibbled,  silent  moves 

The  feet  of  angels  bright  ; 
Unseen  they  pour  blessing, 
And  joy  without  ceasing, 
On  each  bud  and  blossom, 
And  each  sleeping  bosom. 

They  look  in  every  thoughtless  nest, 
Where  birds  are  covered  warm  ; 
They  visit  caves  of  every  beast, 
To  keep  them  all  from  harm. 
If  they  see  any  weeping, 
That  should  have  been  sleeping, 
They  pour  sleep  on  their  head, 
And  sit  down  by  their  bed. 

When  wolves  and  tygers  howl  for  prey, 
They  pitying  stand  and  weep  ; 
Seeking  to  drive  their  thirst  away, 
And  keep  them  from  the  sheep. 
452 


NIGHT 

But  if  they  rush  dreadful, 
The  angels,  most  heedful, 
Receive  each  mild  spirit, 
New  worlds  to  inherit. 

And  there  the  lion's  ruddy  eyes 
Shall  flow  with  tears  of  gold, 
And  pitying  the  tender  cries, 
And  walking  round  the  fold, 

Saying,  "  Wrath,  by  his  meekness, 

And,  by  his  health,  sickness 

Is  driven  away 

From  our  immortal  day. 

"  And  now  beside  thee,  bleating  lamb, 
I  can  lie  down  and  sleep  ; 
Or  think  on  Him  who  bore  thy  name, 
Graze  after  thee  and  weep. 

For,  washed  in  life's  river, 

My  bright  mane  for  ever 

Shall  shine  like  the  gold, 


As  I  guard  o'er  the  fold." 


William  Blake 


437  NURSE'S  SONG 

When  the  voices  of  children  are  heard  on  the  green, 
And  laughing  is  heard  on  the  hill, 
My  heart  is  at  rest  within  my  breast, 
And  everything  else  is  still. 

"  Then  come  home,  my  children,  the  sun  is  gone  down, 

And  the  dews  of  night  arise  ; 

Come,  come,  leave  off  play,  and  let  us  away 

Till  the  morning  appears  in  the  skies." 

"  No,  no,  let  us  play,  for  it  is  yet  day, 
And  we  cannot  go  to  sleep  ; 
Besides,  in  the  sky  the  little  birds  fly, 
And  the  hills  are  all  covered  with  sheep." 

453 


EVENING  AM)  DREAM 

"  Well,  well,  go  and  play  till  the  light  fades  away, 
And  then  go  home  to  bed." 

The  little  ones  leaped  and  shouted  and  laughed 

And  all  the  hills  echoed. 

William   Blake 


438  THE  EVENING  PRIMROSE 

When  once  the  sun  sinks  in  the  west, 
And  dew-drops  pearl  the  evening's  breast  ; 
Almost  as  pale  as  moonbeams  are, 
Or  its  companionable  star, 
The  evening  primrose  opes  anew 
Its  delicate  blossoms  to  the  dew  ; 
And,  shunning  hermit  of  the  light, 
Wastes  its  fair  bloom  upon  the  night ; 
Who,  blindfold  to  its  fond  caresses, 
Knows  not  the  beauty  he  possesses. 
Thus  it  blooms  on  till  night  is  bye 
And  day  looks  out  with  open  eye, 
Abashed  at  the  gaze  it  cannot  shun, 
It  faints  and  withers,  and  is  done. 

Emily  Bronte 

439  "  TIME,  YOU  OLD  GIPSY  MAN  " 

Time,  you  old  gipsy  man, 
WTill  you  not  stay, 
Put  up  your  caravan 
Just  for  one  day  ? 

All  things  I'll  give  you 
Will  you  be  my  guest, 
Bells  for  your  jennet 
Of  silver  the  best, 
Goldsmiths  shall  beat  you 
A  great  golden  ring 
Peacocks  shall  bow  to  you, 
Little  boys  sing, 
454 


"  TIME,  YOU  OLD  GIPSY  MAN  " 

Oh,  and  sweet  girls  will 
Festoon  you  with  may. 
Time,  you  old  gipsy, 
Why  hasten  away  ? 

Last  week  in  Babylon, 

Last  night  in  Rome, 

Morning,  and  in  the  crush 

Under  Paul's  dome  ; 

Under  Paul's  dial 

You  tighten  your  rein — ■ 

Only  a  moment, 

And  off  once  again  ; 

Off  to  some  city 

Now  blind  in  the  womb, 

Off  to  another 

Ere  that's  in  the  tomb. 

Time,  you  old  gipsy  man, 
Will  you  not  stay, 
Put  up  your  caravan 
Just  for  one  day  ? 

Ralph  Hodgson 

440  AFTERWARDS 

When   the    Present    has    latched    its    postern    behind    my 
tremulous  stay, 

And  the  May  month  flaps  its  glad  green  leaves  like  wings, 
Delicate-filmed  as  new-spun  silk,  will  the  neighbours  say, 

"  He  was  a  man  who  used  to  notice  such  things  "  ? 

If  it  be  in  the  dusk  when,  like  an  eyelid's  soundless  blink, 
The  dewfall-hawk  comes  crossing  the  shades  to  alight 

Upon  the  wind-warped  upland  thorn,  a  gazer  may  think, 
"  To  him  this  must  have  been  a  familiar  sight." 

If  I  pass  during  some  nocturnal  blackness,  mothy  and  warm, 
When  the  hedgehog  travels  furtively  over  the  lawn, 

455 


EVENING  AND  DREAM 

One  may  Bay,   "He  strove  that  such  innocent  creatures 
should  come  to  no  harm, 
But  he  could  do  little  tor  them  ;  and  now  he  is  gone." 

It,  when  hearing  that  I  have  been  stilled  at  last,  they  stand 
at  the  door, 
Watching  the  lull-starred  heavens  that  winter  sees, 
Will  this  thought  rise  on  those  who  will  meet  my  face  no 
more, 
"  He  was  one  who  had  an  eye  for  such  mysteries  "  ? 

And  will  any  say  when  my  bell  of  quittance  is  heard  in  the 
gloom, 
And  a  crossing  breeze  cuts  a  pause  in  its  outrollings, 
Till  they  rise  again,  as  they  were  a  new  bell's  boom, 

"  He  hears  it  not  now,  but  used  to  notice  such  things  "  ? 

Thomas  Hardy 


441  STEPPING  WESTWARD 

"  What,  you  are  stepping  westward  ?" — "  Yea." 
— 'Twould  be  a  wildish  destiny, 
If  we,  who  thus  together  roam 
In  a  strange  land,  and  far  from  home, 
Were  in  this  place  the  guests  of  chance  ; 
Yet  who  would  stop,  or  fear  to  advance, 
Though  home  or  shelter  he  had  none, 
With  such  a  sky  to  lead  him  on  ?" 

The  dewy  ground  was  dark  and  cold  ; 

Behind,  all  gloomy  to  behold  ; 

And  stepping  westward  seemed  to  be 

A  kind  of  heavenly  destiny  ; 

I  liked  the  greeting  ;   'twas  a  sound 

Of  something  without  place  or  bound  ; 

And  seemed  to  give  me  spiritual  right 

To  travel  through  that  region  bright. 

456 


STEPPING  WESTWARD 

The  voice  was  soft,  and  she  who  spake 

Was  walking  by  her  native  lake  ; 

The  salutation  had  to  me 

The  very  sound  of  courtesy  ; 

Its  power  was  felt ;  and  while  my  eye 

Was  fixed  upon  the  glowing  sky, 

The  echo  of  the  voice  enwrought 

A  human  sweetness  with  the  thought 

Of  travelling  through  the  world  that  lay 

Before  me  in  my  endless  way. 

William  Wordsworth 


442  FOLDING  THE  FLOCKS 

Shepherds  all,  and  Maidens  fair, 
Fold  your  Flocks  up  ;  for  the  Air 
'Gins  to  thicken,  and  the  Sun 
Already  his  great  course  hath  run. 
See  the  Dew-drops  how  they  kiss 
Every  little  Flower  that  is  : 
Hanging  on  their  Velvet  Heads, 
Like  a  Rope  of  Cristal  Beads. 
See  the  heavy  Clouds  low  falling, 
And  bright  Hesperus  down  calling 
The  dead  Night  from  under  Ground, 
At  whose  rising,  Mists  unsound, 
Damps  and  Vapours  fly  apace, 
Hov'ring  o'er  the  smiling  Face 
Of  these  Pastures,  where  they  come, 
Striking  dead  both  Bud  and  Bloom  ; 
Therefore,  from  such  Danger,  lock 
Ev'ry  one  of  his  loved  Flock  ; 
And  let  your  Dogs  lie  loose  without, 
Lest  the  Wolf  come  as  a  scout 
From  the  Mountain,  and,  ere  day, 
Bear  a  Lamb  or  Kid  away  ; 
Or  the  crafty,  thievish  Fox 
Break  upon  your  simple  Flocks  : 
457 


EVENING  AND  DREAM 

To  secure  yourself  from  these 
1  te  not  too  secure  in  ease  : 
Lei  one  E  ye  his  watches  keep, 

While  the  other  Eye  doth  sleep; 

So  shall  you  good  Shepherds  prove, 

And  deserve  your  Master's  love. 

Now,  good  night  !  may  Sweetest  Slumbers 

And  soft  Silence  fall  in  numbers 

On  your  Eye-lids  :  So,  farewell  ; 

Thus  I  end  my  Evening  knell. 

John  Fletcher 


443  TO  THE  NIGHT 

Swiftly  walk  o'er  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Night  ! 
Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave, 
Where,  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight, 
Thou  wo  vest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear, 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear, — 

Swift  be  thy  flight  ! 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  grey 

Star-inwrought ; 
Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day, 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out  : 
Then  wander  o'er  city  and  sea  and  land, 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand — 

Come,  long-sought  ! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn 

I  sighed  for  thee  ; 
When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone, 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  Day  turned  to  his  rest, 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 

I  sighed  for  thee. 

458 


TO  THE  NIGHT 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried 

Wouldst  thou  me  ? 
Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 
Murmured  like  a  noon-tide  bee, 
Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side  ? 
Wouldst  thou  me  ? — And  I  replied 

No,  not  thee  ! 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon — 
Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled  ; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 

Come  soon,  soon  ! 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 


444       LIGHT  THE  LAMPS  UP,  LAMPLIGHTER  ! 

(For  a  Lamplighter,  a  Grandmother,  the  Angel 
Gabriel,  and  Any  Number  of  Others) 

Light  the  lamps  up,  Lamplighter, 
The  people  are  in  the  street — 

Without  a  light 

They  have  no  sight, 
And  where  will  they  plant  their  feet  ? 
Some  will  tread  in  the  gutter, 
And  some  in  the  mud — oh  dear  ! 
Light  the  lamps  up,  Lamplighter, 
Because  the  night  is  here. 

Light  the  candles,  Grandmother, 
The  children  are  going  to  bed — 
Without  a  wick 
They'll  stumble  and  stick, 
And  where  will  they  lay  their  head  ? 

459 


EVENING  AND  DREAM 

Some  will  lie  cm  the  staircase, 
And  Borne  in  the  hearth — oh  dear ! 
Light  the  candles,  Grandmother, 
i  tecause  the  night  is  here. 

Light  the  stars  up,  Gabriel, 
1  'he  cherubs  are  out  to  fly — 

If  heaven  is  blind 

How  will  they  find 
Their  way  across  the  sky  ? 
Some  will  splash  in  the  Milky  Way, 
Or  bump  on  the  moon — oh  dear  ! 
Light  the  stars  up,  Gabriel, 
Because  the  night  is  here. 

Eleanor  Farjeon 


445  WILL  YOU  COME? 

Will  you  come  ? 

Will  you  come  ? 

Will  you  ride 

So  late 

At  my  side  ? 

O,  will  you  come  ? 

Will  you  come  ? 
Will  you  come 
Tf  the  night 
Has  a  moon, 
Full  and  bright  ? 
0,  will  you  come  ? 

Would  you  come  ? 
Would  you  come 
If  the  noon 
Gave  light, 
Not  the  moon  ? 
Beautiful,  would  you  come  ? 
460 


WILL  YOU  COME  ? 

Would  you  have  come  ? 

Would  you  have  come 

Without  scorning, 

Had  it  been 

Still  morning  ? 

Beloved,  would  you  have  come  ? 

If  you  come 

Haste  and  come. 

Owls  have  cried  ; 

It  grows  dark 

To  ride. 

Beloved,  beautiful,  come  ! 

Edward  Thomas 


446  COME ! 

Wull  ye  come  in  early  Spring, 
Come  at  Easter,  or  in  May  ? 
Or  when  Whitsuntide  mid  bring 
Longer  light  to  show  your  way  ? 
Wull  ye  come,  if  you  be  true, 
Vor  to  quicken  love  anew  ? 
Wull  ye  call  in  Spring  or  Fall  ? 
Come  now  soon  by  zun  or  moon  ? 
Wull  ye  come  ? 

Comewi'  vaice  to  vaice  the  while 
All  their  words  be  sweet  to  hear  ; 
Come  that  feace  to  feace  mid  smile, 
While  their  smiles  do  seem  so  dear  ; 
Come  within  the  year  to  seek 
Woone  you  have  sought  woonce  a  week  ? 
Come  while  flow'rs  be  on  the  bow'rs, 
And  the  bird  o'  songs  a-heard. 
Wull  ye  come  ? 

Ees  come  to  ye,  an'  come  vor  ye,  is  my  word, 
I  wull  come. 

William  Barnes 
461 


EVENING  AND  DREAM 

447  HYMN  TO  DIANA 

Qi  i  i  n  and  hunt  its-,  chaste  and  fair, 
Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep, 
Lted  in  thy  silver  chair, 

State  in  wonted  manner  keep  ; 
Hesperus  entreats  thy  light, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose  ; 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 

Heaven  to  clear  when  day  did  close  : 
Bless  us  then  with  wish6d  sight, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart, 

And  thy  crystal  shining  quiver  ; 
Give  unto  the  flying  hart 

Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever  : 
Thou  that  mak'st  a  day  of  night, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Ben  Jonson 

44S  THE  CLOUDS  HAVE  LEFT  THE  SKY 

The  clouds  have  left  the  sky, 
The  wind  hath  left  the  sea, 
The  half-moon  up  on  high 
Shrinketh  her  face  of  dree. 

She  lightens  on  the  comb 
Of  leaden  waves,  that  roar 
And  thrust  their  hurried  foam 
Up  on  the  dusky  shore. 

Behind  the  western  bars 
The  shrouded  day  retreats, 
And  unperceived  the  stars 
Steal  to  their  sovran  seats. 
462 


THE  CLOUDS  HAVE  LEFT  THE  SKY 

And  whiter  grows  the  foam, 
The  small  moon  lightens  more  ; 
And  as  I  turn  me  home, 
My  shadow  walks  before. 

Robert  Bridges 


449  WITH  HOW  SAD  STEPS 

With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climb'st  the  skies  ! 
How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face  ! 
What  1  may  it  be  that  even  in  heavenly  place 
That  busy  archer  his  sharp  arrows  tries  ? 
Sure,  if  that  long-with-love-acquainted  eyes 
Can  judge  of  love,  thou  feel'st  a  lover's  case  : 
I  read  it  in  thy  looks  ;  thy  languished  grace 
To  me,  that  feel  the  like,  thy  state  descries. 

Then,  even  of  fellowship,  O  Moon,  tell  me, 

Is  constant  love  deemed  there  but  want  of  wit  ? 

Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they  be  ? 

Do  they  above  love  to  be  loved,  and  yet 

Those  lovers  scorn  whom  that  love  doth  possess  ? 

Do  they  call  virtue  there  ungratefulness  ? 

Sir  Philip  Sidney 


450  IN  DISPRAISE  OF  THE  MOON 

I  would  not  be  the  Moon,  the  sickly  thing, 
To  summon  owls  and  bats  upon  the  wing  ; 
For  when  the  noble  Sun  is  gone  away, 
She  turns  his  night  into  a  pallid  day. 

She  hath  no  air,  no  radiance  of  her  own, 
That  world  unmusical  of  earth  and  stone. 
She  wakes  her  dim,  uncoloured,  voiceless  hosts, 
Ghost  of  the  Sun,  herself  the  sun  of  ghosts. 

463 


EVENING  AND  DREAM 

The  mortal  eyes  that  gaze  too  long  on  her 
Of  Reason's  piercing  ray  defrauded  arc. 
Light  in  itself  doth  feed  the  living  brain  ; 
That  light,  reflected,  but  makes  darkness  plain. 

Mary  Coleridge 


451  THE  WANING  MOON 

And  like  a  dying  lady,  lean  and  pale, 
Who  totters  forth,  wrapt  in  a  gauzy  veil, 
Out  of  her  chamber,  led  by  the  insane 
And  feeble  wanderings  of  her  fading  brain, 
The  moon  arose  up  in  the  murky  east, 
A  white  and  shapeless  mass. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

452  WE'LL  GO  NO  MORE  A-ROVING 

So,  we'll  go  no  more  a-roving 

So  late  into  the  night, 
Though  the  heart  be  still  as  loving, 

And  the  moon  be  still  as  bright. 

For  the  sword  outwears  its  sheath, 
And  the  soul  wears  out  the  breast, 

And  the  heart  must  pause  to  breathe, 
And  love  itself  have  rest. 

Though  the  night  was  made  for  loving, 

And  the  day  returns  too  soon, 
Yet  we'll  go  no  more  a-roving 

By  the  light  of  the  moon. 

George  Gordon,  Lord  Byron 

453  SONG  OF  THE  NIGHT  AT  DAYBREAK 

All  my  stars  forsake  me, 
And  the  dawn-winds  shake  me. 
Where  shall  I  betake  me  ? 
404 


SONG  OF  THE  NIGHT  AT  DAYBREAK 

Whither  shall  I  run 
Till  the  set  of  sun, 
Till  the  day  be  done  ? 

To  the  mountain-mine, 
To  the  boughs  o'  the  pine, 
To  the  blind  man's  eyne, 

To  a  brow  that  is 
Bowed  upon  the  knees, 
Sick  with  memories. 

Alice  Meynell 


454  THE  NIGHT  WILL  NEVER  STAY 

The  night  will  never  stay, 

The  night  will  still  go  by, 

Though  with  a  million  stars 

You  pin  it  to  the  sky  ; 

Though  you  bind  it  with  the  blowing  wind 

And  buckle  it  with  the  moon, 

The  night  will  slip  away 

Like  sorrow  or  a  tune. 

Eleanor  Farjeon 


455       LINES  FOR  A  BED  AT  KELMSCOTT  MANOR 

"  The  wind's  on  the  wold 
And  the  night  is  a-cold, 
And  Thames  runs  chill 
Twixt  mead  and  hill, 
But  kind  and  dear 
Is  the  old  house  here, 
And  my  heart  is  warm 
Midst  winter's  harm. 
Rest  then  and  rest, 
And  think  of  the  best 
Twixt  summer  and  spring 
When  all  birds  sing 

465  2  a 


EVENING  AND  DREAM 

In  the  town  of  the  tree, 
And  ye  lie  in  me 
And  scarce  dare  move 
Lesl  earth  and  its  love 
Should  fade  away 
Ere  the  full  of  the  daw 

1  am  old  and  have  seen 
Many  things  that  have  been, 
Both  grief  and  peace, 
And  wane  and  increase. 
No  tale  I  tell 
Of  ill  or  well, 
But  this  I  say, 
Night  treadeth  on  day, 
And  for  worst  and  best 
Right  good  is  rest." 

\\  ii.liam  Morris 


456  ROCK,   BALL,  FIDDLE 

He  that  lies  at  the  stock, 
Shall  have  the  gold  rock  ; 
He  that  lies  at  the  wall, 
Shall  have  the  gold  ball  ; 
He  that  lies  in  the  middle, 
Shall  have  the  gold  fiddle. 

457  BEFORE  SLEEPING 

Matthew,  Mark,  Luke,  and  John, 
Bless  the  bed  that  I  lie  on. 
Before  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep 
I  give  my  soul  to  Christ  to  keep. 
Four  corners  to  my  bed, 
Four  angels  there  aspread, 
Two  to  foot,  and  two  to  head, 
And  four  to  carry  me  when  I'm  dead. 
466 


BEFORE  SLEEPING 

I  go  by  sea,  I  go  by  land, 

The  Lord  made  me  with  His  right  hand. 

If  any  danger  come  to  me, 

Sweet  Jesus  Christ  deliver  me. 

He's  the  branch  and  I'm  the  flower, 

Pray  God  send  me  a  happy  hour, 

And  if  I  die  before  I  wake, 

I  pray  that  Christ  my  soul  will  take. 

458  ON  A  QUIET  CONSCIENCE 

Close  thine  eyes,  and  sleep  secure  ; 

Thy  soul  is  safe,  thy  body  sure. 

He  that  guards  thee,  he  that  keeps, 

Never  slumbers,  never  sleeps. 

A  quiet  conscience  in  the  breast 

Has  only  peace,  has  only  rest. 

The  wisest  and  the  mirth  of  kings 

Are  out  of  tune  unless  she  sings  : 
Then  close  thine  eyes  in  peace  and  sleep  secure, 
No  sleep  so  sweet  as  thine,  no  rest  so  sure. 

Charles  I. 

459  SONG 

While  Morpheus  thus  does  gently  lay 
His  powerful  charge  upon  each  part 

Making  thy  spirits  even  obey 

The  silver  charms  of  his  dull  art ; 

I,  thy  Good  Angel,  from  thy  side, — 
As  smoke  doth  from  the  altar  rise, 

Making  no  noise  as  it  doth  glide, — 
Will  leave  thee  in  this  soft  surprise  ; 

And  from  the  clouds  will  fetch  thee  down 

A  holy  vision,  to  express 
Thy  right  unto  an  earthly  crown  ; 

No  power  can  make  this  kingdom  less. 
407 


EVENING  AND  DREAM 


.-> 


Hut  gently,  gently,  lest  I  brim 

A  start  in  sleep  by  sudden  flight, 
Playing  aloof,  and  hovering, 

Till  1  am  lost  unto  the  sight. 

This  is  a  motion  still  and  soft ; 

So  free  from  noise  and  cry, 
That  Jove  himself,  who  hears  a  thought, 

Knows  not  when  we  pass  by. 

Henry  Killigrew 


460  THE  EVE  OF  SAINT  MARK 

Upon  a  Sabbath-day  it  fell  ; 
Twice  holy  was  the  Sabbath-bell, 
That  called  the  folk  to  evening  prayer  ; 
The  city  streets  were  clean  and  fair 
From  wholesome  drench  of  April  rains  ; 
And,  on  the  western  window  panes, 
The  chilly  sunset  faintly  told 
Of  unmatured  green  vallies  cold, 
Of  the  green  thorny  bloomless  hedge, 
Of  rivers  new  with  spring-tide  sedge, 
Of  primroses  by  sheltered  rills, 
And  daisies  on  the  aguish  hills. 
Twice  holy  was  the  Sabbath-bell  : 
The  silent  streets  were  crowded  well 
With  staid  and  pious  companies, 
Warm  from  their  fire-side  oratories  ; 
And  moving,  with  demurest  air, 
To  even-song,  and  vesper-prayer. 
Each  arched  porch,  and  entry  low, 
Was  filled  with  patient  folk  and  slow, 
With  whispers  hush,  and  shuffling  feet, 
While  played  the  organ  loud  and  sweet. 
The  bells  had  ceased,  the  prayers  begun, 
And  Bertha  had  not  yet  half  done 

468 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  MARK 

A  curious  volume,  patched  and  torn, 
That  all  day  long,  from  earliest  morn, 
Had  taken  captive  her  two  eyes, 
Among  its  golden  broideries  ; 
Perplexed  her  with  a  thousand  things, — 
The  stars  of  Heaven,  and  angels'  wings, 
Martyrs  in  a  fiery  blaze, 
Azure  saints  in  silver  rays, 
Moses'  breastplate,  and  the  seven 
Candlesticks  John  saw  in  Heaven, 
The  winged  Lion  of  Saint  Mark, 
And  the  Covenantal  Ark, 
With  its  many  mysteries, 
Cherubim  and  golden  mice. 

Bertha  was  a  maiden  fair, 

Dwelling  in  the  old  Minster-square  ; 

From  her  fire-side  she  could  see, 

Sidelong,  its  rich  antiquity, 

Far  as  the  Bishop's  garden-wall ; 

Where  sycamores  and  elm-trees  tall, 

Full-leaved,  the  forest  had  outstript, 

By  no  sharp  north-wind  ever  nipt, 

So  sheltered  by  the  mighty  pile, 

Bertha  arose,  and  read  awhile, 

With  forehead  'gainst  the  window-pane, 

Again  she  tryed,  and  then  again, 

Until  the  dusk  eve  left  her  dark 

Upon  the  legend  of  St.  Mark. 

From  plaited  lawn-frill,  fine  and  thin, 

She  lifted  up  her  soft  warm  chin, 

With  aching  neck  and  swimming  eyes, 

And  dazed  with  saintly  imageries. 

All  was  gloom,  and  silent  all, 
Save  now  and  then  the  still  foot-fall 
Of  one  returning  homewards  late, 
Past  the  echoing  minster-gate. 
469 


EVKNIM;  AM)  DREAM 

The  clamorous  daws,  thai  .ill  the  day 
Above  tree-tops  and  towers  play, 
Pair  by  pair  had  gone  t<>  rest, 

Each  in  its  ancient  brltry-nest, 
Where  asleep  they  fall  betimes, 
To  music  of  the  drowsy  chimes. 
All  was  silent,  all  was  gloom, 
Abroad  and  in  the  homely  room  : 
Down  she  sat,  poor  cheated  soul  ! 
And  struck  a  lamp  from  the  dismal  coal ; 
Leaned  forward,  with  bright  drooping  hair 
And  slant  book,  full  against  the  glare. 
Her  shadow,  in  uneasy  guise, 
Hovered  about,  a  giant  size, 
On  ceiling-beam  and  old  oak  chair, 
The  parrot's  cage,  and  panel  square  ; 
And  the  warm  angled  winter  screen, 
On  which  were  many  monsters  seen, 
Called  doves  of  Siam,  Lima  mice, 
And  legless  birds  of  Paradise, 
Macaw,  and  tender  Avadavat, 
And  silken-furred  Angora  cat. 
Untired  she  read,  her  shadow  still 
Glowered  about,  as  it  would  fill 
The  room  with  wildest  forms  and  shades, 
As  though  some  ghostly  queen  of  spades 
Had  come  to  mock  behind  her  back, 
And  dance,  and  ruffle  her  garments  black. 
Untired  she  read  the  legend  page, 
Of  holy  Mark,  from  youth  to  age, 
On  land,  on  sea,  in  pagan  chains, 
Rejoicing  for  his  many  pains. 
Sometimes  the  learned  eremite, 
With  golden  star,  or  dagger  bright, 
Referred  to  pious  poesies 
Written  in  smallest  crow-quill  size 
Beneath  the  text ;  and  thus  the  rhyme 
Was  parcelled  out  from  time  to  time  : — 

470 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  MARK 

"  '  Gif  ye  wol  stonden  x  hardie  wight — 
Amiddes  of  the  blacke  night — 
Righte  in  the  churche  porch,  pardie 
Ye  wol  behold  a  companie 
Approchen  thee  full  dolourouse  : 
For  sooth  to  sain  from  everich  house 
Be  it  in  city  or  village 
Wol  come  the  Phantom  and  image 
Of  ilka  2  gent  and  ilka  carle 
Whom  colde  Deathe  hath  in  parle 
And  wol  some  day  that  very  year 
Touchen  with  foule  venime  spear 
And  sadly  do  them  all  to  die. — 
Hem  all  shalt  thou  see  verilie — 
And  everichon  shall  by  thee  pass 
All  who  must  die  that  year,  Alas.' 

"  Als  3  writith  he  of  swevenis,4 

Men  han  beforne  they  wake  in  bliss, 

Whanne  that  hir  friendes  thinke  hem  bound 

In  crimped  shroude  farre  under  grounde  ; 

And  how  a  litling  child  mote  be 

A  saint  er  its  nativitie, 

Gif  that  the  modre — God  her  blesse  !— 

Kepen  in  solitarinesse, 

And  kissen  devoute  the  holy  croce — 

Of  Goddes  love,  and  Sathan's  force, — 

He  writith  ;  and  thinges  many  mo, 

Of  swiche  thinges  I  may  not  show. 

Bot  I  must  tellen  verilie 

Somdel  of  Sainte  Cicilie, 

And  chieflie  what  he  auctoriethe 

Of  Sainte  Markis  life  and  dethe  :  " 

At  length  her  constant  eyelids  come 

Upon  the  fervent  martyrdom  ; 

Then  lastly  to  his  holy  shrine, 

Exalt  amid  the  tapers'  shine 

At  Venice.  .  .  .  John  Keats 

1  If  you  will  stand  2  Every  3  Likewise         4  Visions 

471 


EVENING  AM)  DREAM 

46]  LAID   IN  MY  QUIET  BED 

Laid  in  my  quid  bed,     in  study  .is  I  wen-, 

1  saw  within  ray  troubled  head  .1  heap  of  thoughts  appear; 

•\  1  u  1  every  thought  did  shew     so  lively  in  mine  eyes, 

That  now   I  sighed,  and  then   1  smiled,  as  cause  of  thought 

did  rise. 

a  the  little  boy     in  thought  how  oft  that  he 
Did  wish  of  God,  to  scape  the  rod,  a  tall  young  man  to  be. 
The  young  man  eke  that  feels     his  bones  with  pains  opprest, 
How  he  would  be  a  rich  old  man,  to  live  and  lie  at  rest. 
The  rich  old  man  that  sees     his  end  draw  on  so  sore, 
How  he  would  be  a  boy  again,  to  live  so  much  the  more. 
Whereat  full  oft  I  smiled,     to  see  how  all  these  three, 
From  boy  to  man,  from  man  to  boy,  would  chop  and  change 

degree.  .  .  . 

Henry  Howard.   Earl  of  Surrey 


462  AT  NIGHT 

Home,  home  from  the  horizon  far  and  clear, 

Hither  the  soft  wings  sweep  ; 
Flocks  of  the  memories  of  the  day  draw  near 

The  dovecote  doors  of  sleep. 

Oh,  which  are  they  that  come  through  sweetest  light 

Of  all  these  homing  birds  ? 
Which  with  the  straightest  and  the  swiftest  flight  ? 

Your  words  to  me,  your  words  ! 

Alice  Meynell 


463  ECHO 

Come  to  me  in  the  silence  of  the  night ; 

Come  in  the  speaking  silence  of  a  dream  ; 
Come  with  soft  rounded  cheeks  and  eyes  as  bright 
As  sunlight  on  a  stream  ; 
Come  back  in  tears, 
0  memory,  hope,  love  of  finished  years. 

472 


ECHO 

O  dream  how  sweet,  too  sweet,  too  bitter  sweet, 
Whose  wakening  should  have  been  in  Paradise, 

Where  souls  brimfull  of  love  abide  and  meet ; 
Where  thirsting  longing  eyes 
Watch  the  slow  door 

That  opening,  letting  in,  lets  out  no  more. 

Yet  come  to  me  in  dreams,  that  I  may  live 
My  very  life  again  though  cold  in  death  : 
Come  back  to  me  in  dreams,  that  I  may  give 
Pulse  for  pulse,  breath  for  breath  : 
Speak  low,  lean  low, 
As  long  ago,  my  love,  how  long  ago. 

Christina  Rossetti 


464  THE  SHADOW  OF  NIGHT 

How  strange  it  is  to  wake 

And  watch  while  others  sleep, 
Till  sight  and  hearing  ache 

For  objects  that  may  keep 
The  awful  inner  sense 

Unroused,  lest  it  should  mark 
The  life  that  haunts  the  emptiness 

And  horror  of  the  dark. 

How  strange  the  distant  bay 

Of  dogs  ;  how  wild  the  note 
Of  cocks  that  scream  for  day, 

In  homesteads  far  remote  ; 
How  strange  and  wild  to  hear 

The  old  and  crumbling  tower, 
Amidst  the  darkness,  suddenly 

Take  life  and  speak  the  hour.  .  .  . 

The  nightingale  is  gay, 

For  she  can  vanquish  night ; 

Dreaming,  she  sings  of  day, 

Notes  that  make  darkness  bright 
473 


EVENING  AM)  DREAM 

But  when  the  refluent  gloom 

S  iddens  the  gaps  of  son-, 
\\  e  charge  on  her  the  dolefulness, 

And  call  her  crazed  with  wrong. 

COVENTRY  PaTMOKE 


465  OUT  IN  THE  DARK 

Our  in  the  dark  over  the  snow 
The  fallow  fawns  invisible  go 
With  the  fallow  doe  ; 
And  the  winds  blow 
Fast  as  the  stars  are  slow. 

Stealthily  the  dark  haunts  round 

And,  when  the  lamp  goes,  without  sound 

At  a  swifter  bound 

Than  the  swiftest  hound, 

Arrives,  and  all  else  is  drowned  ; 

And  I  and  star  and  wind  and  deer, 

Are  in  the  dark  together, — near, 

Yet  far, — and  fear 

Drums  on  my  ear 

In  that  sage  company  drear. 

How  weak  and  little  is  the  light, 

All  the  universe  of  sight, 

Love  and  delight, 

Before  the  might, 

If  you  love  it  not,  of  night. 

Edward  Thomas 


466  NOCTURNE 

The  red  flame  flowers  bloom  and  die, 
The  embers  puff  a  golden  spark. 

Now  and  again  a  horse's  eye 
Shines  like  a  topaz  in  the  dark. 
474 


NOCTURNE 

A  prowling  jackal  jars  the  hush, 
The  drowsy  oxen  chump  and  sigh — 

The  ghost  moon  lifts  above  the  bush 
And  creeps  across  the  starry  sky. 

Low  in  the  south  the  "  Cross  "  is  bright, 
And  sleep  comes  dreamless,  undefiled, 

Here  in  the  blue  and  silver  night, 
In  the  star-chamber  of  the  Wild. 

Crosbie  Garstin 

467  THE  ANGEL 

I  dreamt  a  Dream  !  what  can  it  mean  ? 
And  that  I  was  a  maiden  Queen 
Guarded  by  an  Angel  mild  : 
Witless  woe  was  ne'er  beguiled  ! 


'&* 


And  I  wept  both  night  and  day, 
And  he  wiped  my  tears  away  ; 
And  I  wept  both  day  and  night, 
And  hid  from  him  my  heart's  delight. 

So  he  took  his  wings  and  fled  ; 
Then  the  morn  blushed  rosy  red  ; 
I  dried  my  tears,  and  armed  my  fears 
With  ten  thousand  shields  and  spears. 

Soon  my  Angel  came  again  ; 
I  was  armed,  he  came  in  vain  ; 
For  the  time  of  youth  was  fled, 
And  grey  hairs  were  on  my  head. 

William  Blake 

468  "  ANGEL  SPIRITS  OF  SLEEP  " 

Angel  spirits  of  sleep, 
White-robed,  with  silver  hair, 
In  your  meadows  fair, 
Where  the  willows  weep, 
475 


EVENIXC;  AND  DREAM 

Ami  the  >.ul  moonbeam 

On  the  gliding  stream 

\\  rites  her  scattered  dream  : 

Angel  spirits  of  sleep, 
1  'aiicing  to  the  \\  eir 
In  the  hollow  roar 

Of  its  waters  deep  ; 
Know  ye  how  men  say 
That  ye  haunt  no  more 
Isle  and  grassy  shore 
With  your  moonlit  play  ; 
That  ye  dance  not  here, 
\\  lute-robed  spirits  of  sleep, 
All  the  summer  night 
Threading  dances  light  ? 

Robert  Bridges 


469  A  DREAM 

Once  a  dream  did  weave  a  shade 
O'er  my  Angel-guarded  bed, 
That  an  Emmet  lost  its  way 
Where  on  grass  methought  I  lay. 

Troubled,  'wildered,  and  forlorn, 
Dark,  benighted,  travel-worn, 
Over  many  a  tangled  spray, 
All  heart-broke  I  heard  her  say  : 

"  O  my  children  !  do  they  cry  ? 
Do  they  hear  their  father  sigh  ? 
Now  they  look  abroad  to  see  : 
Now  return  and  weep  for  me." 

Pitying,  I  dropped  a  tear  ; 
But  I  saw  a  glow-worm  near, 
Who  replied  :  "  What  wailing  wight 
Calls  the  watchman  of  the  night  ? 
476 


A  DREAM 

"  I  am  set  to  light  the  ground, 
While  the  beetle  goes  his  round  : 
Follow  now  the  beetle's  hum  ; 
Little  wanderer,  hie  thee  home." 

William  Blake 


470  THE  LAND  OF  DREAMS 

Awake,  awake,  my  little  Boy  ! 
Thou  wast  thy  Mother's  only  joy  : 
Why  dost  thou  weep  in  thy  gentle  sleep  ? 
Awake  !  thy  Father  does  thee  keep. 

"  0,  what  land  is  the  Land  of  Dreams, 

What  are  its  mountains,  and  what  are  its  streams  ? 

0  Father  !   I  saw  my  Mother  there, 
Among  the  Lillies  by  waters  fair. 

"  Among  the  lambs  clothed  in  white, 

She  walked  with  her  Thomas  in  sweet  delight. 

1  wept  for  joy,  like  a  dove  I  mourn  ; 

0  !  when  shall  I  again  return  ?" 

Dear  Child,  I  also  by  pleasant  streams 

Have  wandered  all  night  in  the  Land  of  Dreams, 

But  tho'  calm  and  warm  the  waters  wide, 

1  could  not  get  to  the  other  side. 

"  Father,  0  Father  !  what  do  we  here, 
In  this  Land  of  unbelief  and  fear  ? 
The  Land  of  Dreams  is  better  far 
Above  the  light  of  the  Morning  Star." 

William  Blake 


THE  GARDEN  *   *   * 


47i  I  KNOW  A  LITTLE  GARDEN-CLOSE 

I  know  a  little  garden-close 
Set  thick  with  lily  and  red  rose, 
Where  I  would  wander  if  I  might 
From  dewy  dawn  to  dewy  night, 
And  have  one  with  me  wandering. 

And  though  within  it  no  birds  sing, 
And  though  no  pillared  house  is  there, 
And  though  the  apple  boughs  are  bare 
Of  fruit  and  blossom,  would  to  God, 
Her  feet  upon  the  green  grass  trod, 
And  I  beheld  them  as  before. 

There  comes  a  murmur  from  the  shore, 
And  in  the  close  two  fair  streams  are, 
Drawn  from  the  purple  hills  afar, 
Drawn  down  unto  the  restless  sea  ; 
Dark  hills  whose  heath-bloom  feeds  no  bee, 
Dark  shores  no  ship  has  ever  seen, 
Tormented  by  the  billows  green 
Whose  murmur  comes  unceasingly 
Unto  the  place  for  which  I  cry. 

For  which  I  cry  both  day  and  night, 
For  which  I  let  slip  all  delight, 
Whereby  I  grow  both  deaf  and  blind, 
Careless  to  win,  unskilled  to  find, 
And  quick  to  lose  what  all  men  seek. 

481  2 


THE  GARDEN 

Yet  tottering  as  I  am,  and  weak, 
Still  have  I  left  a  little  breath 

To  seek  within  the  jaws  of  death 

An  entrance  to  that  happy  place, 

To  seek  the  unforgotten  face, 

Once  seen,  once  kissed,  once  reft  from  me 

Anigh  the  murmuring  of  the  sea. 

William  Morris 


47:  FOLLOW 

Follow  thy  fair  sun,  unhappy  shadow, 

Though  thou  be  black  as  night, 

And  she  made  all  of  light, 

Yet  follow  thy  fair  sun,  unhappy  shadow. 

Follow  her  whose  light  thy  light  depriveth, 

Though  here  thou  liv'st  disgraced, 

And  she  in  heaven  is  placed, 

Yet  follow  her  whose  light  the  world  reviveth. 

Follow  those  pure  beams  whose  beauty  burnetii, 

That  so  have  scorched  thee, 

As  thou  still  black  must  be, 

Till  her  kind  beams  thy  black  to  brightness  turneth. 

Follow  her  while  yet  her  glory  shineth  : 

There  comes  a  luckless  night, 

That  will  dim  all  her  light ; 

And  this  the  black  unhappy  shade  divineth. 

Follow  still  since  so  thy  fates  ordained  ; 

The  Sun  must  have  his  shade, 

Till  both  at  once  do  fade — 

The  Sun  still  proud,  the  shadow  still  disdained. 

Thomas  Campion 


1^ 


UP-HILL 

473  UP-HILL 

Does  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way  ? 

Yes,  to  the  very  end. 
Will  the  day's  journey  take  the  whole  long  day  ? 

From  morn  to  night,  my  friend. 

But  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting-place  ? 

A  roof  for  when  the  slow  dark  hours  begin. 
May  not  the  darkness  hide  it  from  my  face  ? 

You  cannot  miss  that  inn. 

Shall  I  meet  other  wayfarers  at  night  ? 

Those  who  have  gone  before. 
Then  must  I  knock  or  call  when  just  in  sight  ? 

They  will  not  keep  you  standing  at  the  door. 

Shall  I  find  comfort,  travel-sore  and  weak  ? 

Of  labour  you  shall  find  the  sum. 
Will  there  be  beds  for  me  and  all  who  seek  ? 

Yea,  beds  for  all  who  come. 

Christina  Rossetti 


474  LOVE 

Love  bade  me  welcome  ;  yet  my  soul  drew  back, 

Guilty  of  dust  and  sin. 
But  quick-eyed  Love,  observing  me  grow  slack 

From  my  first  entrance  in, 
Drew  nearer  to  me,  sweetly  questioning 

If  I  lacked  anything. 

"  A  guest,"  I  answered,  "  worthy  to  be  here  "  : 
Love  said,  "  You  shall  be  he." 

'  I,  the  unkind,  ungrateful  ?     Ah,  my  dear  ! 
I  cannot  look  on  Thee." 

Love  took  my  hand,  and  smiling  did  reply, 
"  Who  made  the  eyes  but  I  ?" 
483 


THE  GARDEN 

"  Truth,  Lord  ;   but  I  have  marred  them  ;   lot  my  shame 

Go  where  it  doth  deserve." 
"  And  know  you  not,"  says  Love,  "  who  bore  the  blame  ?" 

"  My  dear,  then  1  will  serve." 
"  You  must  sit  down,"  says  Love,  "  and  taste  my  meat." 

So  I  did  sit  and  eat. 

George  Herbert 


475  A  ROYAL  GUEST 

.  .  .  Yet  if  His  Majesty  our  sovereign  lord 

Should  of  his  own  accord 

Friendly  himself  invite, 
And  say,  "  I'll  be  your  guest  to-morrow  night," 
How  should  we  stir  ourselves,  call  and  command 
All  hands  to  work  !     "  Let  no  man  idle  stand  ! 

"  Set  me  fine  Spanish  tables  in  the  hall, 

See  they  be  fitted  all  ; 

Let  there  be  room  to  eat, 
And  order  taken  that  there  want  no  meat. 
See  every  sconce  and  candlestick  made  bright, 
That  without  tapers  they  may  give  a  light. 

"  Look  to  the  presence  :  are  the  carpets  spread, 

The  dazie  *  o'er  the  head, 

The  cushions  in  the  chairs, 
And  all  the  candles  lighted  on  the  stairs  ? 
Perfume  the  chambers,  and  in  any  case 
Let  each  man  give  attendance  in  his  place  !" 

Thus,  if  the  king  were  coming,  would  we  do, 

And  't  were  good  reason  too  ; 

For  'tis  a  duteous  thing 
To  show  all  honour  to  an  earthly  king, 
And  after  all  our  travail  and  our  cost, 
So  he  be  pleased,  to  think  no  labour  lost. 

1  Canopy  over  dais 

484 


A  ROYAL  GUEST 

But  at  the  coming  of  the  King  of  Heaven 

All's  set  at  six  and  seven  : 

We  wallow  in  our  sin, 
Christ  cannot  find  a  chamber  in  the  inn. 
We  entertain  Him  always  like  a  stranger, 
And,  as  at  first,  still  lodge  Him  in  a  manger. 


476  EVE 

Eve,  with  her  basket,  was 
Deep  in  the  bells  and  grass, 
Wading  in  bells  and  grass 
Up  to  her  knees, 
Picking  a  dish  of  sweet 
Berries  and  plums  to  eat, 
Down  in  the  bells  and  grass 
Under  the  trees. 

Mute  as  a  mouse  in  a 
Corner  the  cobra  lay, 
Curled  round  a  bough  of  the 
Cinnamon  tall.  .  .  . 
Now  to  get  even  and 
Humble  proud  heaven  and — 
Now  was  the  moment  or 
Never  at  all. 

"Eva!"  Each  syllable 
Light  as  a  flower  fell, 
"  Eva  !"  he  whispered  the 
Wondering  maid, 
Soft  as  a  bubble  sung 
Out  of  a  linnet's  lung, 
Soft  and  most  silverly 
"  Eva  !"  he  said. 

Picture  that  orchard  sprite, 
Eve,  with  her  body  white, 
485 


THE  GARDEN 

Supple  and  9mooth  to  her 

Slim  finger  tips, 
W  ondering,  listening, 
Listening,  wondering, 
Eve  with  a  berry 
I  I.ilf-way  to  her  lips. 

t)h,  had  our  simple  Eve 
Seen  through  the  make-believe 
Had  she  but  known  the 
Pretender  he  was  ! 
Out  of  the  boughs  he  came, 
\\  hispering  still  her  name, 
Tumbling  in  twenty  rings 
Into  the  grass. 

Here  was  the  strangest  pair 
In  the  world  anywhere, 
Eve  in  the  bells  and  grass 
Kneeling,  and  he 
Telling  his  story  low.  .  .  . 
Singing  birds  saw  them  go 
Down  the  dark  path  to 
The  Blasphemous  Tree. 

Oh,  what  a  clatter  when 
Titmouse  and  Jenny  Wren 
Saw  him  successful  and 
Taking  his  leave  ! 
How  the  birds  rated  him, 
How  they  all  hated  him  ! 
How  they  all  pitied 
Poor  motherless  Eve  ! 

Picture  her  crying, 
Outside  in  the  lane, 
Eve,  with  no  dish  of  sweet 
Berries  and  plums  to  eat, 
Haunting  the  gate  of  the 
Orchard  in  vain.  .  .  . 
486 


EVE 

Picture  the  lewd  delight 

Under  the  hill  to-night — 

"  Eva  !"  the  toast  goes  round, 

"  Eva!  "  again.  Ralph  Hodgson 


477  EVE 

"  While  I  sit  at  the  door, 
Sick  to  gaze  within, 
Mine  eye  weepeth  sore 
For  sorrow  and  sin  : 
As  a  tree  my  sin  stands 
To  darken  all  lands  ; 
Death  is  the  fruit  it  bore. 

"  How  have  Eden  bowers  grown 
Without  Adam  to  bend  them  ! 
How  have  Eden  flowers  blown, 
Squandering  their  sweet  breath, 
Without  me  to  tend  them  ! 
The  Tree  of  Life  was  ours, 
Tree  twelvefold-fruited, 
Most  lofty  tree  that  flowers, 
Most  deeply  rooted  : 
I  chose  the  Tree  of  Death. 

"  Hadst  thou  but  said  me  nay, 

Adam,  my  brother, 

I  might  have  pined  away  ; 

I,  but  none  other  : 

God  might  have  let  thee  stay 

Safe  in  our  garden 

By  putting  me  away 

Beyond  all  pardon. 

"  I,  Eve,  sad  mother 
Of  all  who  must  live, 
I,  not  another, 

Plucked  bitterest  fruit  to  give 
My  friend,  husband,  lover. 
487 


THE  GARDEN 

i )  wanton  eyes  run  over  ; 
Who  but  1  should  grieve  ? — 
Cain  hath  slain  his  brother  : 
i  li  all  who  must  die  mother, 
Miserable  Eve  !" 

Thus  she  sat  weeping, 
Thus  Eve  our  mother, 
Where  one  lay  sleeping 

Slain  by  his  brother. 
Greatest  and  least 
Each  piteous  beast 
To  hear  her  voice 
Forgot  his  joys 
And  set  aside  his  feast. 

The  mouse  paused  in  his  walk 
And  dropped  his  wheaten  stalk  ; 
Grave  cattle  wagged  their  heads 
In  rumination  ; 
The  eagle  gave  a  cry 
From  his  cloud  station  : 
Larks  on  thyme  beds 
Forbore  to  mount  or.sing  ; 
Bees  drooped  upon  the  wing  ; 
The  raven  perched  on  high 
Forgot  his  ration  ; 
The  conies  in  their  rock, 
A  feeble  nation, 
Quaked  sympathetica!  ; 
The  mocking-bfrd  left  off  to  mock ; 
Huge  camels  knelt  as  if 
In  deprecation  ; 

The  kind  hart's  tears  were  falling  ; 
Chattered  the  wistful  stork  ; 
Dove-voices  with  a  dying  fall 
Cooed  desolation 
Answering  grief  by  grief. 
488 


EVE 

Only  the  serpent  in  the  dust, 
Wriggling  and  crawling, 
Grinned  an  evil  grin  and  thrust 
His  tongue  out  with  its  fork. 

Christina  Rossetti 


478  ADAM 

Adam  lay  i-bowndyn, 
bowndyn  in  a  bond, 

Fowre  thowsand  wynter 
thowt  he  not  to  long  ; 

And  al  was  for  an  appil, 
an  appil  that  he  tok, 

As  clerkes  fyndyn  wretyn 
in  here  Book. 

Ne  hadde  the  appil  take  ben, 
the  appil  taken  ben, 

Ne  hadde  never  our  lady 
a  ben  hevene  qwen. 

Blyssid  be  the  tyme 
that  appil  take  was  ! 

Therefore  we  mown  syngyn 
Deo  gracias. 


479  THE  SEVEN  VIRGINS 

All  under  the  leaves  and  the  leaves  of  life 

I  met  with  virgins  seven, 
And  one  of  them  was  Mary  mild, 

Our  Lord's  mother  of  Heaven. 

"  O  what  are  you  seeking,  you  seven  fair  maid; 

All  under  the  leaves  of  life  ? 
Come  tell,  come  tell,  what  seek  you 

All  under  the  leaves  of  life  ?" 
489 


THE  GARDEN 

••  we're  seeking  for  no  leaves,  Thom  is, 

I '.ut  for  .1  friend  ol  thine  ; 
We're  seeking  for  sweet  Jesus  Christ, 

To  be  our  guide  and  thine." 

"  i  ro  down,  go  down,  to  yondei  town, 

And  sit  in  the  gallery, 
And  there  you'll  sec  sweet  Jesus  Christ 

Nailed  to  a  big  yew  -tree." 

So  down  they  wenl  to  yonder  town 

As  fast  as  foot  could  fall, 
And  many  .1  grievous  bitter  tear 

From  the  virgins'  eyes  did  fall. 

"  0  peace,  Mother,  0  peace,  Mother, 

N  our  weeping  doth  me  grieve  : 
I  musl  suffer  I  Ins,"  He  said, 

"  For  Adam  and  for  Eve. 

"  0  Mother,  take  you  John  Evangelist 

All  for  to  be  your  son, 
And  he  will  comfort  you  sometimes, 

Mother,  as  I  have  done." 

"  0  come,  thou  John  Evangelist, 

Thou'rt  welcome  unto  me  ; 
But  more  welcome  my  own  dear  Son, 

\\  hum  I  nursed  on  my  knee." 

Then  he  laid  his  head  on  His  right  shoulder, 
Seeing  death  it  struck  Him  nigh — 

"  The  Holy  Ghost  be  with  your  soul, 
I  die,  Mother  dear,  I  die.".  .  . 


I'.Mt 


LULLY,  LULLAY 

480  LULLY,  LULLAY 

Lully,  lullay,  lully,  lullay  ; 

The  fawcon  hath  born  my  make  l  away. 

He  bare  hym  up,  he  bare  hym  down, 
He  bare  hym  in  to  an  orchard  browne. 

In  that  orchard  there  was  an  halle 
That  was  hangid  with  purpill  and  pall. 

And  in  that  hall  there  was  a  bede,2 
Hit  was  hangid  with  gold  so  rede. 

And  yn  that  bede  there  lythe  a  knyght, 
His  woundis  bledying  day  and  nyght. 

By  that  bede  side  kneleth  a  may, 
And  she  wepeth  both  nyght  and  day. 

And  by  that  bedde  side  there  stondith  a  ston, 
Corpus  Christi  wretyn  ther'on. 

481  BALME 

.  .  .  There  grew  a  goodly  tree  him  faire  beside, 
Loaden  with  fruit  and  apples  rosie  red, 
As  they  in  pure  vermilion  had  beene  dide, 
Whereof  great  vertues  over  all  were  red  :  3 
For  happie  life  to  all,  which  thereon  fed, 
And  life  eke  everlasting  did  befall : 
Great  God  it  planted  in  that  blessed  sted 
With  his  almightie  hand,  and  did  it  call 

The  tree  of  life,  the  crime  of  our  first  father's  fall. 

In  all  the  world  like  was  not  to  be  found, 
Save  in  that  soile,  where  all  good  things  did  grow. 
And  freely  sprong  out  of  the  fruitfullground, 
As  incorrupted  Nature  did  them  sow, 
Till  that  dread  Dragon  all  did  overthrow. 

1  Mate  2  Bed  3  Told 

491 


THE  GARDEN 

Another  like  (aire  tree  eke  grew  thereby, 
Whereof  who  so  did  eat,  eftsoones  did  know 
Both  good  .md  ill  :   0  mornefull  memory  : 
That  tree  through  one  man's  fault   hath  docn  us  all 
to  dy. 

From  that  first  tree  forth  tlowd,  as  from  a  well, 
A  trickling  streame  of  Balmc,  most  soveraine 
And  daintie  deare,  which  on  the  ground  still  fell, 
And  overflowed  all  the  fertill  plaine, 
And  it  had  deawed  bene  with  timely  raine  : 
Life  and  long  health  that  gratious  ointment  gave, 
And  deadly  woundes  could  heale,  and  reare  againe 
The  senselesse  corse  appointed  for  the  grave. 

Into  that  same  he  fell  :    which  did  from  death  him 
save.  .  .  . 

Edmund  Spenser 


482  MY  MASTER  HATH  A  GARDEN 

My  master  hath  a  garden,  full-filled  with  divers  flowers, 
Where  thou  may'st  gather  posies  gay,  all  times  and  hours, 
Here  nought  is  heard 
But  paradise-bird, 
Harp,  dulcimer,  and  lute, 
With  cymbal, 
And  timbrel, 
And  the  gentle  sounding  flute. 

Oh  !  Jesus,  Lord,  my  heal  and  weal,  my  bliss  complete, 
Make  thou  my  heart  thy  garden-plot,  true,  fair  and  neat 
That  I  may  hear 
This  music  clear, 
Harp,  dulcimer,  and  lute, 
With  cymbal, 
And  timbrel, 
And  the  gentle  sounding  flute. 

492 


THIS  IS  THE  KEY 

483  THIS  IS  THE  KEY 

This  is  the  Key  of  the  Kingdom  : 

In  that  Kingdom  is  a  city  ; 

In  that  city  is  a  town  ; 

In  that  town  there  is  a  street ; 

In  that  street  there  winds  a  lane  ; 

In  that  lane  there  is  a  yard  ; 

In  that  yard  there  is  a  house  ; 

In  that  house  there  waits  a  room  ; 

In  that  room  an  empty  bed  ; 

And  on  that  bed  a  basket — 

A  Basket  of  Sweet  Flowers  : 

Of  Flowers,  of  Flowers  ; 

A  Basket  of  Sweet  Flowers. 

Flowers  in  a  Basket ; 
Basket  on  the  bed ; 
Bed  in  the  chamber  ; 
Chamber  in  the  house  ; 
House  in  the  weedy  yard  ; 
Yard  in  the  winding  lane  ; 
Lane  in  the  broad  street ; 
Street  in  the  high  town  ; 
Town  in  the  city  ; 
City  in  the  Kingdom — 
This  is  the  Key  of  the  Kingdom  ; 
Of  the  Kingdom  this  is  the  Key. 


493 


ABOUTfe 
ROUNDi 


'&&..i 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

In  Mr.  Nahum's  The  Other  Worlde,  as  I  have  said  on 
page  xxx,  there  were  many  passages  written  about  and  round- 
about the  poems  contained  in  it.  Some  of  these  I  copied  out. 
With  others  that  I  have  added  since,  they  appear  in  the  follow- 
ing pages.  If  the  reader  prefer  poems  and  poems  only  in  such 
a  collection  as  this,  would  he  of  his  kindness  and  courtesy  ignore 
everything  else?  Otherwise,  will  he  please  forgive  any  blunders 
he  may  discover  ? 

i.     "  This  is  the  Key." 

This  jingle  (like  Nos.  15,  1 6  and  others)  is  one  of  hundreds  of 
nursery  and  dandling  rhymes  which  I  found  in  Mr.  Nahum's 
book.  Compared  with  more  formal  poems  they  are  like  wild 
flowers — pimpernel,  eyebright,  thyme,  woodruff,  and  others 
even  tinier,  even  quieter,  but  having  their  own  private  and  com- 
plete little  beauty  if  looked  at  closely.  Who  made  them,  how 
old  they  are  ;  nobody  knows.  But  when  Noah's  Ark  stranded 
on  the  slopes  of  Mount  Ararat,  maybe  a  blossoming  weed  or 
two  was  nodding  at  the  open  third-storey  window  out  of  which 
over  the  waters  of  the  flood  the  dove  had  followed  the  raven, 
and  there,  rejoicing  in  the  sunshine  and  the  green,  sat  Japheth's 
wife  dandling  little  Magog  on  her  lap,  and  crooning  him  some 
such  lullaby. 

3- 

On  the  one  side  is  printed  the  old  Scots,  and  on  the  other 
the  best  I  can  do  to  put  it  into  the  English  of  our  own  time. 
According  to  the  dictionary  the  thistle-cock  that  cries  shame 
on  the  sleepers  still  drowsing  in  their  beds  is  the  corn-bunting — 

497  2 1 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

.i  cousin  of  the  yellow-hammer.  He  has  a  small  harsh  mono- 
tonous voice  as  it  tot  the  very  purpose.  Whereas  the  nightin- 
gale mighl  seem  tOCTV,  "  Nay,  nay  :    it  is  m  dreams  you  wand,  i 

Happy  ones  I  Sleep  on;  sleep  on." 

.j.      "  I    r.vsM  D   hv   ins  ( i  \i;i>i.n," 
Whatever  fate  befell  the  Sluggard,   I  should  like  to  have' 

taken  a  walk  in  his  garden,  anions  those-  branching  thistles, 
en  thorns  and  briers.  .Maybe  he  sailed  off  at  last  to  the  Isle 
.  t  Nightmare,  or  to  the  land  where  it  is  always  afternoon,  or 
was  wrecked  in  Yawning  Gap.  He  must,  at  any  rate,  have' 
had  an  even  heavier  head  than  Dr.  Watts  supposed  if  he  never 
so  much  as  lifted  it  from  his  pillow  to  brood  awhile  on  that 
still,  verdurous  scene.     And  the  birds  ! 

Indeed,  to  lie,  between  sleep  and  wake,  when  daybreak  is 
brightening  of  an  April  or  a  May  morning,  and  so  listen  to  the 
far-away  singing  of  a  thrush  or  to  the  whistling  of  a  robin 
or  a  wren  is  to  seem  to  be  transported  back  into  the  garden  of 
Eden.     Dreamers,  too,  may  call  themselves  travellers. 

Mr.  Nahum's  picture  to  this  rhyme  was  of  a  man  in  rags 
looking  into  a  small  round  mirror  or  looking-glass,  but  at  what 
you  couldn't  see. 

6.     "The  Merchant  bows"  (line  7) 

— (as  do  the  happy  to  the  New  Moon,  for  luck),  for  his  mer- 
chandise is  being  wafted  over  the  sea  under  the  guidance  of 
the  Seaman's,  or  Ship,  or  Lode,  or  Pole  Star.  It  shines  in  the 
constellation  of  the  Little  Bear,  and  "  is  the  cheefe  marke 
whereby  mariners  governe  their  course  in  saylings  by  nyghte." 
To  find  the  "  marke,"  look  towards  the  north  some  cloudless 
night  for  the  constellation  of  Seven  Stars  called  the  Plough  or 
the  Dipper  or  Charles's  Wain  (or  Waggon),  which  "  enclyneth 
his  ravisshinge  courses  abouten  the  soverein  heighte  of  the 
worlde  "  day  and  night  throughout  the  year.  Its  hinder  stars 
(Dubhe  and  Merak)  are  named  "  the  pointers,"  because  if  you 
follow  the  line  of  them  with  the  eye  into  the  empty  skies,  the 
next  brightish  star  it  will  alight  on  is  the  Seaman's  Star.  Close 
beside  the  seconl  of  the  seven  is  a  mere  speck  of  a  star.  And 
that  is  called  by  country  people  Jack-by-the-middle-horse.  On 
this  same  star  looked  Shakespeare — as  did  the  1st  Carrier  in  his 
Henry  IV.  :     '  Heigh-ho,  an't  be  not  foure  by  the  day,  He  be 

498 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

hanged.     Charles'  waine  is  over  the  near  Chimney,  and  yet  our 
horse  not  packt  ";    and  as  did  his  2nd  Gentleman  in  Othello  : 

Montano.  What  from  the  Cape  can  you  discerne  at 

Sea  ? 

1st  Gentleman .      Nothing  at  all,  it  is  a  high- wrought  Flood  : 

I  cannot  'twixt  the  Heaven,  and  the  Maine 

Descry  a  Saile.  .  .  . 

2nd  Gentleman.     .  .  .  Do  but  stand  upon  the  Foaming  Shore, 

The    chidden    Billow   seemes    to   pelt   the 

Clowds, 
The    wind-shaked-Surge,    with    high    and 

monstrous  Maine, 
Seemes  to  cast  water  on  the  burning  Beare, 
And  quench  the  Guards  of  the   ever-fixed 

Pole. 
I  never  did  like  mollestation  view 
On  the  enchafed  Flood.  .  .  . 

Faintly  shimmering,  too,  in  the  northern  heavens  is  that 
other  numerous  starry  cluster,  known  the  world  over  as  Seven 
— to  us  as  the  Seven  Sisters  or  the  Pleiades.  A  strange  seven  ; 
for  only  six  stars  are  now  clearly  visible  to  the  naked  eye,  one 
having  vanished,  it  would  seem,  within  human  memory. 
When  ?  where  ?— none  can  tell.  They  play  in  light  as  close 
together  as  dewdrops  in  a  cobweb  hung  from  thorn  to  thorn. 
Nearby,  on  winter's  cold  breast  burns  the  most  marvellous  of  the 
constellations — the  huntsman  Orion,  with  his  Rigel  and  Bella- 
trix  and  Betelgeuse  ;  his  dog  Sirius  at  his  heels.  "  Seek  him 
that  maketh  the  Seven  Stars  and  Orion,  and  turneth  the 
shadow  of  death  into  the  morning,  and  maketh  the  day  dark 
with  night  ..." 

9.     "Like  a  Child,  half  in  Tenderness  and  Mirth." 

At  a  first  reading,  perhaps,  this  line  will  not  appear  to  flow 
so  smoothly  as  the  rest.  But  linger  an  instant  on  the  word 
child,  and  you  will  have  revealed  to  yourself  one  of  Shelley's,  and 
indeed  one  of  every  poet's  loveliest  devices  Avith  words — to  let 
the  music  of  his  verse  accord  with  its  meaning,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  please  and  charm  the  ear  with  a  slight  variation  from 
the  regular  beat  and  accent  of  the  metre.  So,  too,  in  the  middle 
lines  of  the  next  stanza.    This  variation,  which  is  called  rhythm, 

499 


ABOUT  AM)  R0UNDA1UHT 

is  the  very  proof  of  its  writer's  sincerity.  For  if  the  sound  of 
his  verse  (or  of  his  voice)  rings  false,  lie  cannot  have  completely 
realised  wli.it  lie  was  writing  or  saving.  When  a  man  says 
what  he  means,  he  says  it  </s  if  he  meant  it.  'The  tunc  of  what 
he  says  sounds  ri.^ht.  When  a  man  does  nut  mean  what  he 
mvs,  he  finds  it  all  but  impossible  to  say  it  as  if  he  did.  The 
tune  goes  wrong. 

Just  so  with  reading.  So  Erom  a  gay  and  tiny  Compendious 
English  Grammar  of  1780  I  have  borrowed  these  four  brief 
wholesome  rules  for  reading  : 

(1)  ...  Observe  well  the  pauses,  accents  and  emphases  ;  and 
never  stop  but  where  the  sense  will  admit  of  it. 

(2)  Humour  your  voice  a  little,  according  to  the  subject.  .  .  . 

(3)  Do  not  read  too  fast,  lest  [in  lip  or  mind]  you  get  a  habit 
of  stammering  ;  adding  or  omitting  words  ;  and  be  sure  that 
your  understanding  keep  pace  with  your  tongue. 

(4)  In  reading  Verse,  pronounce  every  word  just  as  if  it  were 
prose,  observing  the  stops  with  great  exactness,  and  giving 
each  word  its  proper  accent ;  and  if  it  be  not  harmonious,  the 
Poet,  and  not  the  Reader,  is  to  blame." 

Better,  perhaps,  be  sure  of  your  ear  before  you  blame  the 
poet.  But  in  general,  if  these  rules  are  followed,  there  can  be 
little  danger  of  reading  like  a  parrot,  or  like  a  small  boy  in  his 
first  breeches  at  a  Dame's  school.  To  think  while  one  reads  ; 
that  is  the  main  thing  :   so  as  not  to  be,  as  Sidney  says, — just 

.  .  .  like  a  child  that  some  fair  book  doth  find, 
With  gilded  leaves  or  coloured  vellum  plays, 
Or,  at  the  most,  on  some  fair  pictures  stays, 
But  never  heeds  the  fruit  of  writer's  mind. 

13.     "  Comes  dancing  from  the  East." 

I  found  a  story  about  this  dancing  in  Mrs.  Wright's  Rustic 
Speech  and  Folklore.  It  is  the  story  of  a  woman  who  lived  in 
a  district  called  Hockley,  in  the  parish  of  Broseley.  She  said 
that  she  had  heard  of  such  "  dancing  "  but  did  not  believe  it 
to  be  true,  "  till  on  Easter  morning  last,  I  got  up  early,  and 
then  I  saw  the  sun  dance,  and  dance,  and  dance,  three  times, 
and  I  called  to  my  husband  and  said,  '  Rowland,  Rowland,  get 
up  and  see  the  sun  dance  !  '  I  used,"  she  said,  "  not  to  believe 
it,  but  now  I  can  never  doubt  more."  The  neighbours  agreed 
with  her  that  the  sun  did  dance  on  Easter  morning,  and  that 

500 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

some  of  them  had  seen  it.  "  Seeing,"  goes  the  old  proverb, 
"  is  believing  " — which  is  true  no  less  of  the  "  inward  eye." 
I  once  tried  to  comfort  a  very  little  boy  who  was  unhappy 
because  there  was  a  Bear  under  his  bed.  Candle  in  hand, 
I  talked  and  talked,  and  proved  that  there  wasn't  a  real  bear 
for  miles  and  miles  around,  not  at  any  rate  until  we  reached 
the  Zoo,  and  there — black,  brown,  sloth,  spectacled,  grizzly 
and  polar  alike — all  of  them,  poor  creatures,  were  cabined, 
cribbed  and  shut  up  in  barred  cages.  He  listened,  tears  still 
shining  in  his  eyes,  his  small  face  sharp  and  clear.  "  Why 
certainly,  certainly  not,"  I  ended,  "  there  can't  be  a  real  bear 
for  miles  around  !"  He  smiled  as  if  pitying  me.  "  Ah  yes, 
Daddie,"  he  answered  with  a  die-away  sob,  "  but,  you  see, 
you's  talking  of  real  bears,  and  mine  wasn't  real." 

14.     "  Us  Idle  Wenches." 

It  was  a  jolly  bed  in  sooth, 

Of  oak  as  strong  as  Babel. 
And  there  slept  Kit  and  Sail  and  Ruth 

As  sound  as  maids  are  able. 

Ay — three  in  one — and  there  they  dreamed, 
Their  bright  young  eyes  hid  under  ; 

Nor  hearkened  when  the  tempest  streamed 
Nor  recked  the  rumbling  thunder. 

For  marvellous  regions  strayed  they  in, 

Each  moon-far  from  the  other- 
Ruth  in  her  childhood,  Kit  in  heaven, 

And  Sail  with  ghost  for  lover. 

But  soon  as  ever  sun  shone  sweet, 
And  birds  sang,  Praise  for  rain,  O — 

Leapt  out  of  bed  three  pair  of  feet 
And  danced  on  earth  again,  O  ! 

17.     Old  May  Song. 

This,  like  No.  2,  and  the  next  song  must  be  as  old  as  the  dew- 
ponds  on  the  Downs.  They  were  wont  to  be  sung,  I  have  read, 
by  five  or  six  men,  with  a  fiddle,  or  flute,  or  clarionet  accom- 
paniment. When  I  was  a  boy  I  can  remember  one  First  of 
May  seeing  a  Jack-in-the-Green  in  the  street- — a  man  in  a  kind 

501 


ABOUT  AM)  ROUNDABOUT 

i>f  wicker  cage  hung  about  with  flowers  and  leaves— with  .Maid 
M. hi. in.  Friar  Tuck  and  the  rest,  dancing  and  singing  beside 
him.  A  great  friend  ol  mine,  when  she  was  a  Little  girl  <>f  eight, 
was  so  frightened  a1  right  of  this  leafy  prancing  creature  on  her 
way  to  school  that  she  turned  about  and  ran  for  a  mile  without 
stopping. 

19.     The  Daisy. 

There  is  far  too  little  of  Geoffrey  Chaucer's — that  most 
lovable,  shrewd,  compassionate,  and  natural  of  poets — in  this 
book.  There  was  much  more  of  him,  I  noticed,  in  Mr.  Nahum's 
Tome  II.  At  first  sight  his  words  look  a  little  strange  ;  but 
not  for  long  ;  and  if  every  dotted  letter  is  made  a  syllable  of, 
his  rhythm  will  flow  like  water  over  bright  green  water  weed. 

It  is  a  curious,  though  little  thing,  that  while,  among  the  one 
hundred  and  seventy  varieties  of  flowers  Shakespeare  men- 
tions, he  has  no  less  than  fifty-seven  several  references  to  the 
rose,  twenty-one  to  the  green  grass,  eighteen  to  violets,  and 
even  to  the  serviceable  but  rank  nettle  a  round  dozen,  he  has 
but  a  scant  five  to  Chaucer's  beloved  daisy.  Flowers,  it  is 
1  rue,  as  says  Canon  Ellacombe  (who  collected  all  such  references 
into  his  delight-full  book,  Plant-lore  and  Garden-craft  of  Shake- 
speare), never  sweeten  the  Plays  for  their  own  sake  alone,  and 
there  are  no  foxgloves,  snowdrops  or  forget-me-nots  in  them 
at  all.  Still,  had  he  loved  daisies  as  children  do,  he  could  hardly 
have  resisted  them  even  for  "  their  own  sake  alone."  Is  not 
bairnwort  another  name  for  the  daisy  ? 

"  A  yellow  cup,  it  hath,"  says  Pliny,  "  and  the  same  is 
crowned,  as  it  were  with  a  garland,  consisting  of  five  and  fifty 
little  leaves,  set  round  about  it  in  manner  of  fine  pales.  These 
be  flowers  of  the  meadowr,  and  most  of  such  are  of  no  use  at 
all."  No  use  at  all,  none — except  only  to  make  skylark  of 
every  heart  whose  owner  has  eyes  in  his  head  for  a  daisy's 
simple  looks,  its  marvellous  making,  and  the  sheer  happiness  of 
their  multitudes  wide  open  in  the  sun  or  round-headed  and 
adrowse  in  the  evening  twilight. 

Chaucer's  picture  portrait  is  well  known.  So  is  that  in  his 
own  words  in  the  Canterbury  Tales.  But  here  is  another,  less 
familiar,  by  Robert  Greene — of  "  Sir  Jeffery  Chaucer,"  as  he 
calls  him.  Water  chamlet  is  a  rich  coloured  silken  plush,  and 
a  whittell  is  a  knife  : 

502 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

His  stature  was  not  very  tall, 
Leane  he  was,  his  legs  were  small, 
Hosed  within  a  stock  of  red 
A  buttoned  bonnet  on  his  head, 
From  under  which  did  hang,  I  weene, 
Silver  haires  both  bright  and  sheene, 
His  beard  was  white,  trimmed  round, 
His  count'nance  blithe  and  merry  found, 
A  Sleevelesse  Iacket  large  and  wide, 
With  many  pleights  and  skirts  Side, 
Of  water  Chamlet  did  he  weare, 
A  whittell  by  his  belt  he  beare, 
His  shooes  were  corned  broad  before, 
His  Inkhorne  at  his  side  he  wore, 
And  in  his  hand  he  bore  a  booke, 
Thus  did  this  auntient  Poet  looke. 

20.     "  Brave  Prick-Song  " 

— which  means,  I  gather,  that  while  the  nightingale  was — even 
into  the  dusk  of  dawn — yet  singing  her  "  air  "  or  "  descant," 
the  lark  joined  in  as  if  reading  her  notes  from  the  daybreak 
stars  pricking  the  sky. 

21.     "  Cuckoo,  jug,  jug,  pu  we,  to  witta  woo  !" 

Four  birds,  I  suppose,  have  part  in  this  :  cuckoo,  nightingale 
{yoog,  yoog),  green-finch  (?)  and  owl. 

I  rose  anon,  and  thought  I  woulde  gone 
Into  the  woods,  to  hear  the  birdis  sing, 
When  that  the  misty  vapour  was  agone, 
And  cleare  and  faire  was  the  morrowing  ; 
The  dew,  also,  like  silver  in  shining, 
Upon  the  leaves,  as  any  baume  sweet. 

And  in  I  went  to  hear  the  birdis  song, 
Which  on  the  branches,  both  in  plain  and  vale, 
So  loudly  y-sang,  that  all  the  wood  y-rang, 
Like  as  it  should  shiver  in  pieces  smale  ; 
And  as  me  thoughten  that  the  nightingale 
With  so  great  might  her  voice  began  out-wrest, 
Right  as  her  heart  for  love  would  all  to-brest. 

John  Lydgate 
503 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

22.    "  The  Jealous  Trout." 

Thou  thai  desir'st  to  fish  with  line  and  book, 

IV  it  in  pool,  in  river,  or  in  brook, 

To  bless  thy  bail  and  make  the  fish  to  bite, 

Lo,  here's  a  means  !  if  thou  canst  hit  it  right : 

Take  Gum  of  Life,  fine  beat,  and  laid  in  soak 

In  oil  well  drawn  from  that  which  kills  the  oak, 

Fish  where  thou  wilt,  thou  shall  have  sport  thy  fill  ; 

When  twenty  fail,  thou  shall  be  sure  to  kill. 

It's  perfect  and  good, 
If  well  understood  ; 
Else  not  to  be  told 
For  silver  or  gold. 

So  advises  .Master  Will.  Lauson  in  the  Secrets  of  Angling, 
which  was  published  in  1653  ;  the  ingredients  (or  ingrediments 
as  I  used  to  say  when  I  was  a  child)  of  his  "  gum  of  life  "  being 
Coccuhts  J ulicr,  Assafoetida,  Honey,  and  Wheat-flour.  The 
"  that  which  kills  the  oak,"  I  suppose,  is  ivy.  But  it  looks  as 
if  there  may  have  been  a  wink  in  his  eye — to  welcome  the  green 
in  his  reader's. 

Here,  on  the  same  theme,  are  a  few  lines  from  a  poem  by 
Mr.  Robert  Bridges  : 

.  .  .  Sometimes  an  angler  comes,  and  drops  his  hook 
Within  its  hidden  depths,  and  'gainst  a  tree 
Leaning  his  rod,  reads  in  some  pleasant  book, 
Forgetting  soon  his  pride  of  fishery, 

And  dreams,  or  falls  asleep, 

"While  curious  fishes  peep 
About  his  nibbled  bait,  or  scornfully 

Dart  off  and  rise  and  leap.  .  .  . 

And  these  are  by  J.  Wolcot  : 

Why  flyest  thou  away  with  fear  ? 
Trust  me  there's  naught  of  danger  near, 

I  have  no  wicked  hooke 
All  covered  with  a  snaring  bait, 
Alas,  to  tempt  thee  to  thy  fate, 

And  dragge  thee  from  the  brooke.  .  .  . 
504 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

Enjoy  thy  stream,  O  harmless  fish  ; 
And  when  an  angler  for  his  dish, 

Through  gluttony's  vile  sin, 
Attempts,  a  wretch,  to  pull  thee  out, 
God  give  thee  strength,  O  gentle  trout, 

To  pull  the  raskall  in  ! 

A  less  common  and  more  skilful  sport  than  fly,  hook  and  bait, 
or  even  "  tickling  "  can  afford  is  to  share  their  watery  chaos 
with  the  fish,  and  catch  them  with  the  hands.  This  needs  rare 
skill  and  cunning  and — a  disguise!  "  For  dyeing  of  your  hairs," 
says  Isaac  Walton  in  The  Compleat  Angler,  "  do  it  thus  :  Take 
a  pint  of  strong  ale,  half  a  pound  of  soot,  and  a  little  quantity 
of  the  juice  of  walnut-tree  leaves,  and  an  equal  quantity  of 
alum  ;  put  these  together,  into  a  pot,  pan,  or  pipkin,  and  boil 
them  half  an  hour  ;  and  having  so  done,  let  it  cool ;  and  being 
cold,  put  your  hair  into  it,  and  there  let  it  lie  ;  it  will  turn  your 
hair  to  be  a  kind  of  water  or  glass-colour  or  greenish  ;  and  the 
longer  you  let  it  lie,  the  deeper  coloured  it  will  be.  You  might 
be  taught  to  make  many  other  colours, but  it  is  to  little  purpose  ; 
for  doubtless  the  water-colour  or  glass-coloured  hair  is  the  most 
choice  and  the  most  useful  for  an  angler,  but  let  it  not  be  too 
green." 

"  And  Birds  had  drawn  their  Valentines."  (line  4) 

First  thing  in  the  early  morning,  if  you  go  out  on  St. 
Valentine's  Day,  which  is  the  14th  day  of  February,  you  will 
meet,  if  you  meet  anybody,  your  soon-to-be-loved  one.  So  too 
the  birds.  In  my  young  days,  folks  sent  the  daintiest  pictures  to 
their  sweethearts  on  this  day.  Mr.  Nahum  had  a  drawer  half  full 
of  them — with  a  few  locks  of  hair  and  some  withered  flowers. 
And  one  or  two  of  these  Valentines  were  of  beaten  gold,  with 
images  of  lovely  things  upon  them,  as  if  from  another  planet. 

"  This  morning  came  up  to  my  wife's  bedside,  I  being  up 
dressing  myself,  little  Will  Mercer  to  be  her  Valentine  ;  and 
brought  her  name  writ  upon  blue  paper  in  gold  letters,  done  by 
himself,  very  pretty.  ..."     Mr.  Samuel  Pepys's  Diary. 

To-morrow  is  S.  Valentine's  day, 

All  in  the  morning  betime, 

And  I  a  Maid  at  your  Window 

To  be  your  Valentine  !      _    .     .  ,     _ 

Ophelia  s  Song. 

505 


ABOUT  AM)  ROUNDAHOIT 

"Joan  strokes  a  Sillabub  oh  Twain." 

li  you  would  make  a  Lemon  Sillabub  (as  advised  by  Mrs. 
Charlotte  Mason,  "a  Professed  Housekeeper,  who  from  aboul 
1740  had  upwards  of  Thirty  years  experience  in  Families  oJ 
tin*  First  Fashion  ")  take  "  a  Pinl  ol  cream,  a  pint  of  white 
wine,  the  rind  oi  two  lemons  grated,  and  the  juice.  Sugar  to 
the  taste.  Let  it  stand  some  time  ;  mill  or  whip  it.  Lay  the 
froth  dii  a  sieve:  put  tlic  remainder  into  glasses.  Lay  on 
the  froth."  Mr.  Nahum  must  have  had  a  fancy  for  Cookery 
Books  ;  there  were  dozens  of  them  in  his  tower  room.  Indeed, 
the  next  best  thing  to  eating  a  good  dish  is  to  read  how  it  is 
made  ;  and  somehow  the  old  "  cookbook  "  writers  learned  to 
write  a  most  excellent  and  appetising  English.  Here  is 
another  recipe  from  Delightes  for  Ladies,  of  1608 — a  dainty 
that  would  eat  uncommonly  well  with  a  sillabub: — "To 
make  a  marchpane. — Take  two  poundes  of  almonds  being 
blanched,  and  dryed  in  a  sieve  over  the  fire,  beate  them  in  a 
stone  mortar,  and  when  they  bee  small  mixe  them  with  two 
pounde  of  sugar  beeing  finely  beaten,  adding  two  or  three 
spoonefuls  of  rose-water,  and  that  will  keep  your  almonds  from 
oiling  :  when  your  paste  is  beaten  fine,  drive  it  thin  with  a 
rowling  pin,  and  so  lay  it  on  a  bottom  of  wafers,  then  raise  up 
a  little  edge  on  the  side,  and  so  bake  it,  then  yce  it  with  rose- 
water  and  sugar,  then  put  it  in  the  oven  again,  and  when  you 
see  your  yce  is  risen  up  and  drie,  then  take  it  out  of  the  oven 
and  garnish  it  with  pretie  conceipts,  as  birdes  and  beasts  being 
cast  out  of  standing  moldes.  Sticke  long  comfits  upright  in 
it,  cast  biskets  and  carrowaies  in  it,  and  so  serve  it ;  guild  it 
before  you  serve  it :  you  may  also  print  of  this  marchpane 
paste  in  your  molds  for  banqueting  dishes.  And  of  this  paste 
our  comfit  makers  at  this  day  make  their  letters,  knots,  armes, 
escutcheons,  beasts,  birds,  and  other  fancies."  Also  pygmy 
castles  and  suchlike,  for  dessert,  which  the  guests  would 
demolish  with  sugar-plums. 

"  Good  thou,  save  mee  a  piece  of  Marchpane,  and  as  thou 
lovest  me,  let  the  Porter  let  in  Susan  Grindstone  and  Nell.  ..." 

Romeo  and  Juliet 

23.     "  The  Sun  arising." 
'  What  other  fire  could  be  a  better  image  of  the  fire  which  is 
there,  than  the  fire  which  is  here  ?     Or  what  other  earth  than 

506 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

this,  of  the  earth  which  is  there  ?"  So  said  Plotinus,  and 
"  I  know,"  said  Blake,  *'  that  this  world  is  a  world  of  imagina- 
tion and  vision.  I  see  everything  I  paint  in  this  world,  but 
everybody  does  not  see  alike.  To  the  eye  of  a  miser  a  guinea 
is  far  more  beautiful  than  the  sun,  and  a  bag  worn  with  the 
use  of  money  has  more  beautiful  proportions  than  a  vine 
filled  with  grapes.  The  tree  which  moves  some  to  tears  of 
joy  is  in  the  eyes  of  others  only  a  green  thing  which  stands  in 
the  way.  .  .  .  Some  scarce  see  Nature  at  all.  But  to  the  eyes 
of  the  man  of  imagination,  Nature  is  Imagination  itself.  As  a 
man  is,  so  he  sees.  As  the  eye  is  formed,  such  are  its  powers. 
You  certainly  mistake,  when  you  say  that  the  visions  of  fancy 
are  not  to  be  found  in  this  world.  To  me  this  world  is  all  one 
continued  vision.".  .  .  Indeed,  when  Blake  was  a  child,  he 
saw  on  Peckham  Rye  a  tree,  full,  not  of  birds,  but  of  angels  ; 
and  his  poems  show  how  marvellously  clear  were  the  eyes  with 
which  he  looked  at  the  things  of  Nature. 

In  the  year  1872,  an  old  lady  might  have  been  seen  driving 
across  the  Rye  in  her  silvery  carriage  ;  and  she  came  to  where, 
under  a  flowering  tree,  sat  a  small  boy — the  locks  of  hair  upon 
his  head  like  sheaves  of  cowslips,  his  eyes  like  speedwells,  and 
he  in  very  bright  clothes.  And  he  was  a-laughing  up  into  the 
tree.  She  stopped  her  carriage  and  said  to  him  almost  as  if  she 
were  more  angry  than  happy,  "  What  are  you  laughing  at, 
child  ?  "  And  he  said,  "  At  the  sparrows,  ma'am."  "  Mere 
sparrows  !  "  says  she,  "  but  why  ?  "  "  Because  they  were 
saying,"  says  he,  "  here  comes  across  the  Rye  a  blind  old  horse, 
a  blind  old  coachman,  and  a  blind  old  woman."  "  But  I  am 
not  blind,"  says  she.  "  Nor  are  they  not  '  mere  sparrows  '," 
said  the  child.  And  at  that  the  old  lady  was  looking  out 
of  her  carriage  at  no  child,  but  at  a  small  bush,  in  bud,  of 
gorse. 

24.     "  And  thank  Him  then  " 
— as  does  Robert  Herrick's  child,  in  his  "  Grace  "  : 

Here  a  little  child  I  stand, 
Heaving  up  my  either  hand  ; 
Cold  as  Paddocks  though  they  be, 
Here  I  lift  them  up  to  Thee, 
For  a  Benizon  to  fall 
On  our  meat,  and  on  us  all.     Amen. 
507 


ABOUT  AM)  ROUNDAliOVT 

\  paddock  ia  a  frog  or  a  toad,  it  seems.  To  either  small  cold 
band  there  are  tour  cold  angers  and  a  I  numb  ;  and  in  old  times, 
says  l  l.illiwell,  our  ancestors  had  distinct  names  for  each  of  the 
live  toes  and  for  each  oi  the  five  fingers.  The  fingers  were  called 
thumb,  toucher,  Longman,  Leche-man,  little-man:  Leche-man 
being  the  ring-finger,  because  in  that  "  there  is  a  sinew  very 
tender  and  small  that  reaches  to  the  heart."  In  Essex  they 
used  to  call  them  (and  still  may) — Tom  Thumbkin,  Bess 
Bumpkin,  Long  Linkin,  Bill  Wilkin,  and  Little  Dick.  In 
Scotland  :  Thumbkin,  Lickpot,  Landman,  Berrybarn  and 
Tirlie  Winkie. 

And  lure  are  some  more  from  Dr.  Courtenay  Dunn's  Natural 
History  of  the  Child — a  book  which  is  graced  with  as  handsome 
a  frontispiece  as  ever  I've  seen  : 

Thumb  -  Tommy  Tomkins  or  Bill  Milker. 

Forefinger     -   Billy  Wilkins  ,,  Tom  Thumper. 

Third  finger  -   Long  Larum  ,,  Long  Lazy. 

Fourth  finger   Betsy  Bedlam        ,,  Cherry  Bumper. 
Little  finger  -  Little  Bob  ,,  Tippity,     Tippity-Town- 

Toes  :  end. 

or  Toe  Tipe. 

,,  Penny  Wipe. 

,,  Tommy  Tistle. 

,,  Billy  Whistle. 

„  Tripping-go. 

So  (if  you  wish)  you  can  secretly  name  not  only  your  fingers, 
toes,  rooms,  chairs  and  tables,  etc.,  but  also  the  stars  in  their 
courses,  the  trees  in  your  orchard,  and  have  your  own  privy 
countersign  for  the  flowers  you  like  best.  "  Give  a  dog  a  bad 
name,  and  hang  him,"  says  the  old  proverb.  Give  anything 
a  good  name,  and  it  is  yours  for  ever.  There  is  the  tale  of 
the  unhappy  gardener  in  the  Isle  of  Rumm  who  without  ill 
intention  called  a  snapdragon  an  antirrhinum.  And  there 
arose  out  of  the  hillside  a  Monster  named  Zobj — but  I  haven't 
the  space  for  the  rest.  The  gardener  of  course  meant  well  ; 
but  when  he  heard  the  Voice  counting  his  last  moments,  not 
in  common  English,  but  in  what  Wensleydale  Knitters  still 
remember  of  the  Norse — Yahn,  Jyahn,  Tether,  Mether,  Mumph, 
Hither,  Lither,  Auver,  Dauver,  Die — well,  he  died  before  he 
was  due,  so  to  speak. 

:,(  in 


Big  toe 

-  Tom  Barker 

Toe  2    - 

-  Long  Rachel 

Toe  3    - 

-  Minnie  Wilkin 

Toe  4    - 

-  Milly  Lark  in 

Little  toe 

-  Little  Dick 

ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

While  we  are  on  this  subject,  here  is  a  Face  Rhyme  : 

Bo  Peeper 

Nose  Dreeper 

Chin  Chopper 

White  Lopper 

Red  Rag 

And  Little  Gap. 
This  is  another  : 

Here  sits  the  Lord  Mayor  : 

Here  sit  his  men  ; 

Here  sits  the  cockadoodle  ; 

Here  sits  the  hen  ; 

Here  sits  the  little  chickens  ; 

Here  they  run  in  ; 

Chinchopper,  chinchopper,  chinchopper  chin. 

The  next  three  are  foot  rhymes,  very  soothing  at  times  to 
fractious  babies.     The  first  is  common  in  London,  etc.  : 

This  little  pig  went  to  market  ; 
This  little  pig  stayed  at  home  ; 
This  little  pig  had  roast  beef  ; 
This  little  pig  had  the  bone  ; 
This  little  pig  cried  Wee-wee-wee-wee-wee  ! 
All  the  way  home. 

The  second  comes  from  the  Isle  of  Wight : 

This  gurt  pig  zays,  I  wants  meat  ; 
T'other  one  zays,  Where'll  ye  hay  et  ? 
This  one  zays,  In  gramfer's  barn  ; 

T'other  one  zays,   Week  !     Week  !     I   can't  get  over 
the  dreshel. 

And  this  is  from  Scotland  : 

This  ain  biggit  the  baurn, 

This  ain  stealt  the  corn, 

This  ain  stood  and  saw, 

This  ain  ran  awa', 

An'  wee  Pirlie  Winkie  paid  for  a'. 

And  last ;    here  is  a  dance-babbie-on-knee  (or  This-is-the- 
way)  rhyme  ;  also  from  Scotland  : 

The  doggies  gaed  to  the  mill, 
This  way  and  that  way  ; 
509 


ABOUT  AM)  ROUNDABOUT 

They  took  .1  li<  b  ou1  o1  this  wife's  poke 
Vnd  they  took  .1  lick  oul  o'  thai  wife's  poke, 
And  a  Loup  in  the  Lead,  and  a  dip  in  the  dam, 
And  gaed  walloping,  walloping,  walloping,  Hame. 

And  qo  doubt  came  to  t he  conclusion  expressed  in  the  sixth 
stanza  of  Robert  Herrick's  Ternary  of  Littles,  upon  a  Pipkin 
Jelly  sent  to  a  Lady  : 

A  little  Saint  best  fits  a  little  Shrine, 

A  little  Prop  best  tits  a  little  Vine, 

As  my  small  Cruse  best  fits  my  little  Wine. 

A  little  Seed  best  fits  a  little  Soyle, 

A  little  Trade  best  fits  a  little  Toyle, 

As  my  small  Jarre  best  fits  my  little  Oyle. 

A  little  Bin  best  fits  a  little  Bread, 

A  little  Garland  fits  a  little  Head, 

As  my  small  stuffe  best  fits  my  little  Shed. 

A  little  Hearth  best  fits  a  little  Fire, 

A  little  Chappell  fits  a  little  Quire, 

As  my  small  Bell  best  fits  my  little  Spire. 

A  little  streame  best  fits  a  little  Boat, 

A  little  lead  best  fits  a  little  Float, 

As  my  small  Pipe  best  fits  my  little  note. 

A  little  meat  best  fits  a  little  bellie, 

As  sweetly,  Lady,  give  me  leave  to  tell  ye, 

This  little  Pipkin  fits  this  little  Jellie. 

And  the  fact  that  this  or  any  other  poem  is  printed  at  this 
end  of  the  book  instead  of  at  the  other  does  not  mean  that  I  am 
any  the  less  thankful  to  have  it  or  that  Mr.  Nahum  left  it  out 
of  his. 

25.     '*  I  sing  of  a  Maiden." 

Only  the  spelling  of  this  lovely  and  ancient  little  carol  has 
been  slightly  changed. 

29.     "  Sleep  stays  not,  though  a  Monarch  bids." 

(line  11). 

Why  rather,  sleep,  liest  thou  in  smoky  cribs, 
Upon  uneasy  pallets  stretching  thee, 

510 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

And  hushed  with  buzzing  night-flies  to  thy  slumber, 

Than  in  the  perfumed  chambers  of  the  great, 

Under  the  canopies  of  costly  state, 

And  lulled  with  sound  of  sweetest  melody  ? 

O  thou  dull  god,  why  liest  thou  with  the  vile 

In  loathsome  beds,  and  lea  vest  the  kingly  couch 

A  watch-case  or  a  common  'larum-bell  ? 

Wilt  thou  upon  the  high  and  giddy  mast 

Seal  up  the  ship-boy's  eyes,  and  rock  his  brains 

In  cradle  of  the  rude  imperious  surge, 

And  in  the  visitation  of  the  winds, 

Who  take  the  ruffian  billows  by  the  top, 

Curling  their  monstrous  heads,  and  hanging  them 

With  deafening  clamour  in  the  slippery  clouds, 

That,  with  the  hurly,  death  itself  awakes  ? 

Canst  thou,  O  partial  sleep,  give  thy  repose 

To  the  wet  sea-boy  in  an  hour  so  rude  ; 

And  in  the  calmest  and  most  stillest  night, 

With  all  appliances  and  means  to  boot, 

Deny  it  to  a  king  ?     Then  happy  low,  lie  down  ! 

Uneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears  a  crown. 

Henry  IV.  Part  it. 

3°- 

For  many  years  I  read  this  poem  as  if  the  accents  in  the 
first  line  of  each  stanza  fell  on  the  first  and  third  word — the 
two  "  I's."  It  was  stupid  of  me,  for  clearly  the  accent  should 
fall  (lightly)  on  the  second  syllable  of  the  "  remembers." 
Apart  from  the  accents  or  stresses  in  a  line  of  verse,  there  is 
the  rise  and  fall  of  the  voice,  a  kind  of  tune  in  the  saying  of  it. 
If  the  right  tune  is  not  caught,  then  the  difference  is  as  much 
as  if  one  sniffed  a  wallflower  and  it  smelt  like  African  mimosa. 
And  to  me,  as  to  hundreds  of  thousands  of  Englishmen,  this 
poem  is  as  familiar,  long-endeared  and  refreshing  as  wallflower, 
Sweet  William,  or  Old  Man.  This  is  the  second  or  third  time 
I  have  made  remarks  about  the  rhythm,  lilt  or  tune  of  a  poem  ; 
and  it  won't  be  the  last.  May  I  be  forgiven,  for  as  Chaucer 
wrote  to  his  small  son  Louis  when  he  was  sharing  with  him  his 
love  of  astronomy  :  "  Soothly  me  seemeth  betre  to  writen  unto 
a  child  twice  a  good  sentence,  then  he  forget  it  ones."  As  for 
his  elders,  even  thrice  may  be  short  commons. 

511 


A1J0UT  AND  ROUXDAHOIT 

lih'si;    FLOWBRS    maim;    OF    LIGHT."  (line   l  j) 

Hold  up  a  Bower  bel  ween  eye  and  sun,  or  even  candle-flame, 

and  it  seems  link-  but  its  own  waxen  hue  and  colour.  Moon- 
light is  too  pale;  the  petals  remain  opaque,  in  the  moon's 
light,  indeed,  blueness  is  scarcely  distinguishable  Erom  shadowi- 
aess  :  red  darkens  but  yellow  pales,  and  the  fairest  flowers  of  all 
wake  in  her  beams  -jasmine,  convolvulus,  evening-primrose — 
as  if  they  not  only  shared  her  radiance  hut  returned  a  glow- 
wormlike [Uminess  of  their  own. 

Once,  long  before  I  came  to  Thrac,  having  plucked  for  my 
mother  a  few  convolvulus  (lowers,  I  remember  when  I  was  just 
about  to  give  them  into  her  hand  I  discovered  that  the  beautiful 
cups  of  delight  had  enwreathed  themselves  together,  and  had 
returned  as  it  were  to  the  bud,  never  to  reopen.  I  was  but  a 
child,  and  this  odd  little  disappointment  was  so  extreme  that 
I  burst  out  crying. 

32- 

See  just  above,  No.  30  :  and  for  proof  of  the  curious  obedi- 
ence of  words  to  any  bidden  rhythm  it  is  interesting  to  compare 
this  poem  with  its  next  neighbours.  Mr.  Frost's  colt  is  called 
"  a  little  Morgan,"  because  he  was  of  a  famous  breed  of  horses 
of  that  name  which  are  the  pride  of  the  State  of  Vermont. 

35- 

Only  a  single  copy  of  the  old  play,  Mundus  et  Injans,  from 
which  this  fragment  is  taken,  is  known  to  be  in  existence.  It 
was  printed  by  Wynkyn  de  Worde  in  1522  ;  and  was  written 
roundabout  1500. 

The  lines  need  a  slow  reading  to  get  the  run  and  lilt  of  them  : 
and  even  at  that  they  jog  and  creak  like  an  old  farm-cart. 
But  the  boy,  Dalyaunce,  if  one  takes  a  little  pains,  will  come 
gradually  out  of  them  as  clear  to  the  eye  as  if  you  had  met 
him  in  the  street  to-day,  on  his  way  to  "  schole  "  for  yet 
another  "  docking." 

Clothes,  houses,  customs,  food  a  little,  thoughts  a  little, 
knowledge,  too — all  change  as  the  years  and  centuries  go  by, 
but  Dalyaunce  under  a  thousand  names  lives  on.  It  never 
occurred  to  me  when  I  was  young  to  think  that  the  children 
in  Rome  talked  Latin  at  their  games,  and  that  Solomon  and 
Caesar,  Prester  John  and  the  Grand  Khan  knew  in  their  young 

512 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

days  what  it  means  to  be  homesick  and  none  too  easy  to  sit 
down.  Yet  there  are  knucklebones  and  dolls  in  London  that 
the  infant  subjects  of  the  Pharaohs  played  with,  and  at  Strat- 
ford Grammar  School,  for  all  to  see,  is  Shakespeare's  school 
desk.  As  for  Dalyaunce,  "  dockings  "  are  not  nowadays  so 
harsh  as  once  they  were. 

In  proof  of  this,  there  is  a  passage  from  a  book,  telling  of 
his  own  life  as  a  small  boy,  written  by  Guibert  de  Nogent. 
He  is  speaking  of  his  childhood,  about  the  year  when  William 
the  Conqueror  landed  at  Hastings  : 

'  So,  after  a  few  of  the  evening  hours  had  been  passed  in 
that  study,  during  which  I  had  been  beaten  even  beyond  my 
deserts,  I  came  and  sat  at  my  mother's  knees.  She,  according 
to  her  wont,  asked  whether  I  had  been  beaten  that  day ;  and 
I,  unwilling  to  betray  my  master,  denied  it  ;  whereupon, 
whether  I  would  or  no,  she  threw  back  my  inner  garment  (such 
as  men  call  shirt),  and  found  my  little  ribs  black  with  the 
strokes  of  the  osier,  and  rising  everywhere  into  weals.  Then, 
grieving  in  her  inmost  bowels  at  this  punishment  so  excessive 
for  my  tender  years,  troubled  and  boiling  with  anger,  and  with 
brimming  eyes,  she  cried,  "  Never  now  shalt  thou  become  a 
clerk,  nor  shalt  thou  be  thus  tortured  again  to  learn  thy 
letters  ! "  Whereupon,  gazing  upon  her  with  all  the  serious- 
ness that  I  could  call  to  my  face,  I  replied,  "  Nay,  even  though 
I  should  die  under  the  rod,  I  will  not  desist  from  learning  my 
letters  and  becoming  a  clerk  \"  ' 

Still,  there  were  more  merciful  schoolmasters  than  Guibert 
de  Nogent's,  even  in  days  harsh  as  his  ;  as  this  further  extract 
from  Mr.  G.  G.  Coulton's  enticing  Medieval  Garner  shows  : 

'  One  day,  when  a  certain  Abbot,  much  reputed  for  his 
piety,  spake  with  Anselm  concerning  divers  points  of  Monastic 
Religion,  and  conversed  among  other  things  of  the  boys  that 
were  brought  up  in  the  cloister,  he  added  :  "  What,  pray, 
can  we  do  with  them  ?  They  are  perverse  and  incorrigible  ; 
day  and  night  we  cease  not  to  chastise  them,  yet  they  grow 
daily  worse  and  worse." 

Whereat  Anselm  marvelled,  and  said,  "  Ye  cease  not  to  beat 
them  ?  And  when  they  are  grown  to  manhood,  of  what  sort  are 
they  then  ?"     "  They  are  dull  and  brutish,"  said  the  other. 

Then  said  Anselm,  "  With  what  good  profit  do  ye  expend 
your  substance  in  nurturing  human  beings  till  they  become 

513  2  k 


ABOUT  AM)  ROUNDABOUT 

brute  beasts?  .  .  .     Bui    I    prithee   tel]  me,  for  God's  sake, 

wherefore  ye  are  so  set  against  them  ?  Arc  they  not  human, 
sharing  in  the  same  nature  as  yourselves  ?  Would  ye  wish 
to  be  so  handled  as  ye  handle  them  ?  Ye  will  say,  '  Yes,  if 
we  were  as  they  are.'  So  be  it,  then  ;  yet  is  there  no  way  but 
that  cf  stripes  and  scourges  for  shaping  them  to  good  ?  Did 
ye  ever  see  a  goldsmith  shape  his  gold  or  silver  plate  into  a 
fair  image  by  blows  alone  ?  I  trow  not.  What  then  ?  That 
he  may  give  the  plate  its  proper  shape,  he  will  first  press  it 
gently  and  tap  it  with  his  tools  ;  then  again  he  will  more  softly 
raise  it  with  discreet  pressure  from  below,  and  caress  it  into 
shape.  So  ye  also,  if  ye  would  see  your  boys  adorned  with 
fair  manners,  ye  should  not  only  beat  them  down  with  stripes, 
but  also  raise  their  spirits  and  support  them  with  fatherly 
kindness  and  pity  '.  .  ." 

There  was  an  old  woodcut,  hanging  on  Mr.  Nahum's  wall 
in  his  tower  room,  showing  a  boy  in  the  middle  ages  being 
whipped  in  a  kind  of  machine  (something  like  a  roasting-jack), 
and  a  schoolmaster  standing  by,  nicely  smiling,  in  a  gown. 
When  Coleridge  was  a  bluecoat  boy  at  Christ's  Hospital  with 
Charles  Lamb,  he  seems  to  have  had  a  headmaster  of  this  kind  : 

'  Boy  !  '  I  remember  Bowyer  saying  to  me  once  when  I  was 
crying  the  first  day  after  my  return  after  the  holidays, — '  Boy  ! 
the  school  is  your  father  !  Boy  !  the  school  is  your  mother ! 
Boy  !  the  school  is  your  brother  !  the  school  is  your  sister  ! 
the  school  is  your  first  cousin,  and  your  second  cousin,  and  all 
the  rest  of  your  relations  !     Let's  have  no  more  crying.'  .  .  . 

'  Mrs.  Bowyer  was  no  comforter,  either.  Val.  Le  Grice  and 
I  were  once  going  to  be  flogged  for  some  domestic  misdeed, 
and  Bowyer  was  thundering  away  at  us,  by  way  of  prologue, 
when  Mrs.  B.  looked  in  and  said,  '  Flog  them  soundly,  sir, 
I  beg ! '  This  saved  us.  Bowyer  was  so  nettled  at  the 
interruption  that  he  growled  out,  '  Away,  woman,  away  ! ' 
and  we  were  let  off." 

Coleridge  tells  of  yet  another  schoolmaster,  whose  name, 
like  Bowyer  and  birch,  also  began  with  a  B.  :  "  Busby  was 
the  father  of  the  English  public  school  system.  He  was 
headmaster  of  Westminster  through  the  reign  of  Charles  L, 
the  Civil  War,  the  Protectorate,  the  reign  of  Charles  II.,  and 
the  Revolution  of  1688.  Under  him  Westminster  became  the 
first  school  in  the  kingdom.     When  Charles   II.   visited  the 

514 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

school,  Busby  stalked  before  the  King  with  his  hat  upon  his 
head,  whilst  his  most  sacred  majesty  meekly  followed  him. 
In  private  Busby  explained  that  his  conduct  was  due  to  the 
fact  that  he  could  not  allow,  for  discipline's  sake,  the  boys  to 
imagine  there  could  be  a  greater  man  than  himself  alive." 
Quite  rightly,  of  course. 

There  is,  too,  the  story  of  the  little  Lion  that  went  to  school 
to  the  Bear.  Being,  though  of  royal  blood,  a  good  deal  of  a 
dunce,  Master  Lion  bore  many  sound  cufhngs  from  Dr.  Bruin 
on  the  road  to  learning,  and  found  it  hot  and  dusty.  After  such 
administrations,  he  would  sometimes  sit  in  the  sun  under  a 
window,  learning  his  task  and  brooding  on  a  day  when  he  would 
return  to  the  school  and  revenge  himself  upon  the  Doctor  for 
having  treated  him  so  sore.  But  Master  Lion  was  all  this  time 
growing  up,  and  so  many  were  the  cares  of  State  when  he  had 
left  his  books  and  become  a  Prince  and  Heir  Apparent,  that  for 
a  time  he  had  no  thought  for  his  old  school.  Being,  however, 
in  the  Royal  Gardens  one  sunny  morning,  and  seeing  bees 
busy  about  their  hive,  he  remembered  an  old  saying  on  the 
sweetness  of  knowledge  and  wisdom,  and  this  once  more 
reminded  him  of  his  old  Master.  Bidding  his  servants  sling 
upon  a  rod  half  a  dozen  of  the  hives,  he  set  out  to  visit  Dr. 
Bruin.  The  hives  were  taken  into  his  study,  and  the  bees, 
being  unused  to  flitting  within  walls  out  of  the  sunshine, 
angrily  sang  and  droned  about  the  head  of  the  old  schoolmaster 
as  he  sat  at  his  desk.  Their  stings  were  of  little  account 
against  his  thick  hide,  but  their  molestation  was  a  fret,  and  he 
presently  cried  aloud,  "  Would  that  the  Prince  had  kept  his  gifts 
to  himself  !  ,;  The  Prince,  who  was  standing  outside  the  door, 
listening  and  smiling  to  himself,  thereupon  cried  out :  "  Ah  ! 
Dr.  Bruin,  when  I  was  under  your  charge,  you  often  heavily 
smit  and  cuffed  me  with  those  long-clawed  paws  of  yours. 
Now  I  am  older,  and  have  learned  how  sweet  and  worthy  is 
the  knowledge  they  instilled.  This  too  will  be  your  experience. 
My  bees  may  fret  and  buzz  and  sting  a  little  now,  but  you 
will  think  of  me  more  kindly  when  you  shall  be  tasting  their 
rich  honey  in  the  Winter  that  is  soon  upon  us."  And  Dr. 
Bruin,  peering  out  at  the  Prince  from  amid  the  cloud  of  the 
bees,  when  he  heard  him  thus  call  Tit  for  Tat,  he  couldn't 
help  but  laugh. 

And  last — to  return  to  Coleridge  once  more,  who,  in  the  bad 

515 


LBOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

old  days,  so  far  as  food  goes,  never  "  bad  ;i  belly  full  "  at 
Christ '8  Hospital,  and  whose  appetite  was  only  "  damped,  never 
satisfied,"*  here  is  one  oi  his  earliest  Letters  (to  his  elder 
brother  George),  winch  may  have  an  (indirect)  reference  to 
1  m.  1  lowyer's  birch  : 

Dear  Brother, — You  will  excuse  me  for  reminding  you  that, 

as  our  holidays  commence  next  week,   and   I   shall  go  out  a 

good  deal,  a  good  pair  of  breeches  will  be  no  inconsiderable 

ion  to  my  appearance.     For  though  my  present  pair  are 

ellent    for  the  purpose  of  drawing  mathematical  figures  on 

them,  and  though  a  walking  thought,  sonnet  or  epigram  would 

appear    in    them    in    very    splendid    type,    yet    they    are    not 

altogether  so  well  adapted  for  a  female  eye — not  to  mention 

that  I  should  have  the  charge  of  vanity  brought  against  me 

for  wearing  a  looking-glass.     I  hope  you  have  got  rid  of  your 

cold — and  I  am 

\  our  affectionate  brother, 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge 

40. 

This  too  should  go  to  the  lilt  of  its  music,  as  then  the 
accents  would  come  clearly.  I  think,  in  the  reading  of  it,  there 
should  be  four  stressed  syllables  to  the  first,  second  and  fifth 
lines  in  each  stanza  :  '  Whar  hae  ye  been  a'  day,  my  boy 
Tammy  "  ;  and  "  The  wee  thing  gie's  her  hand,  and  says, 
There,  gang  and  ask  my  Mammy."  A  line  of  verse  like  this 
resembles  a  piece  of  elastic  ;  if  you  leave  it  very  slack  you 
will  get  no  music  out  of  it  at  all ;  strelch  it  a  little  too  far,  it 
snaps. 

41.     "  Rosy  Apple,  Lemon,  or  Pear." 

This  little  jingle  and  Nos.  15,  16,  68,  75,  etc.,  are  Singing 
Game  Rhymes,  of  which  scores  have  been  collected  from  the 
mouths  of  children  near  and  far  from  all  over  the  Kingdom,  and 
are  now  to  be  found  in  print  in  Lady  Gomme's  two  stout 
engrossing  volumes  entitled  Traditional  Games.  In  these  more 
than  seven  hundred  games  are  described,  including  Rakes  and 
Roans,  Rockety  Row,  Sally  Go  Round  the  Moon,  Shuttle- 
feather,  Spannims,  Tods  and  Lambs,  Whigmeleerie,  Allicom- 
greenaie,  Bob-Cherrv,  Oranges  and  Lemons,  Cherry  Pit, 
Thumble-bones,  Lady  on  Yandor  Hill,  Hechefragy,  and  Snail 
Creep. 

516 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

A  good  many  of  these  games  have  singing  rhymes  to  them. 
And  the  words  of  them  vary  in  different  places.  For  the 
children  in  each  of  twenty  or  more  villages  and  towns  may 
have  their  own  particular  version  of  the  same  rhyme.  As  for 
the  original  from  which  all  such  versions  must  once  have  come — 
that  may  be  centuries  old.  Like  the  Nursery  Rhymes,  they 
were  most  of  them  in  the  world  ages  before  our  great-great- 
great-grand-dams  were  babies  in  their  cradles.  The  noble 
game  of  Hop  Scotch,  for  instance,  Lady  Gomme  tells  us,  was 
in  favour  before  the  year  i. 

The  most  mysterious  rhymes  of  all  are  said  to  refer  to  ancient 
tribal  customs,  rites  and  ceremonies — betrothals,  harvest-homes, 
sowings,  reapings,  well-blessings,  dirges,  divinations,  battles, 
hunting,  and  exorcisings — before  even  London  was  else  than  a 
few  hovels  by  its  river's  side.  Rhymes  such  as  these  having 
been  passed  on  from  age  to  age  and  from  one  piping  throat  to 
another,  have  grown  worn  and  battered  of  course,  and  become 
queerly  changed  in  their  words. 

These  from  Mr.  Nahum's  book  have  their  own  differences  too. 
He  seems  to  have  liked  best  those  that  make  a  picture,  or 
sound  uncommonly  sweet  and  so  carry  the  fancy  away.  Any 
little  fytte  or  jingle  or  jargon  of  words  that  manages  that  is 
like  a  charm  or  a  talisman,  and  to  make  new  ones  is  as  hard  as 
to  spin  silk  out  of  straw,  or  to  turn  beech  leaves  into  fairy 
money.  When  one  thinks,  too,  of  the  myriad  young  voices 
that  generation  after  generation  have  carolled  these  rhymes 
into  the  evening  air,  and  now  are  still — well,  it's  a  thought 
no  less  sorrowful  for  being  strange,  and  no  less  strange  for  the 
fact  that  our  own  voices  too  will  some  day  be  as  silent. 

Summer's  pleasures  they  are  gone  like  to  visions  every  one, 

And  the  cloudy  days  of  autumn  and  of  winter  cometh  on. 

I  tried  to  call  them  back,  but  unbidden  they  are  gone 

Far  away  from  heart  and  eye  and  for  ever  far  away. 

Dear  heart,  and  can  it  be  that  such  raptures  meet  decay  ? 

I  thought  them  all  eternal  when  by  Langley  Bush  I  lay, 

I  thought  them  joys  eternal  when  I  used  to  shout  and  play 

On  its  bank  at  "  clink  and  bandy,"  "  chock  "  and  "  taw  "  and 

"  ducking  stone," 

Where  silence  sitteth  now  on  the  wild  heath  as  her  own 

Like  a  ruin  of  the  past  all  alone.  .  .  _ 

John  Clare 

517 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

.\2.    "In  Praise." 

The  Loveliest  and  gayesl  song  of  praise  and  sweetness  to  a 
"  young  thing  "  I  have  ever  seen. 

"  Ieloffer "  -gelofer,  gelofre,  gillofre,  gelevor,  gillyvor, 
gillofer,  jerefioure,  gerraflour  all  these  arc  ways  <>f  spelling 
Gillyflower,  gelofre  coming  aearesl  to  iis  original  French: 
giroflfe  —meaning  spiced  like  the  clove.  There  ncre  of  old, 
I  find,  three  kinds  of  gillyflowers  :  the  clove,  the  stock  and  the 
wall.  It  was  the  first  of  these  kinds  that  was  meant  in  the 
earlier  writers  by  the  small  clove  carnation  (or  Coronation, 
because  it  was  made  into  chaplets  or  garlands).  Its  Greek 
name  was  dianthus  (the  flower  divine)  ;  and  its  twin-sister 
is  the  Pink,  so  called  because  its  edges  are,  as  it  were,  picked 
out,  jagged,  notched,  scalloped.  Country  names  for  it  are 
Sweet  John,  Pagiants,  Blunket  and  Sops-in-Wine,  for  it  spices 
what  it  floats  in,  and  used  to  be  candied  for  a  sweetmeat. 
Blossoming  in  July,  the  Gillyflower  suggests  July-flower,  and 
if  Julia  is  one's  sweetheart,  it  may  also  be  a  Julie-flower.  So 
one  name  may  carry  many  echoes.  It  has  been  truly  described 
as  a  gimp  and  gallant  flower,  and,  says  Parkinson,  who  wrote 
Paradisus  Terrcstris,  it  was  the  chiefest  of  account  in  Tudor 
gardens.  By  1700  indeed  there  were  360  kinds  and  four  classes 
of  clove  gillyflower — the  Flake,  the  Bizarre,  the  Piquctte  or 
picotee  {picotee  or  pricketed),  and  the  Painted  Lady,  the  last 
now  gone.  Its  ancestor,  the  dianthus,  seems  to  have  crossed 
the  Channel  with  the  Normans,  for  it  flourishes  on  the  battle- 
ments of  Falaise,  the  Conqueror's  birthplace,  and  crowns  the 
walls  of  many  a  Norman  Castle — Dover,  Ludlow,  Rochester, 
Deal — to  this  day. 

43.     "  Pygsnye  " 

must  be  Piggie's  eye,  or,  from  an  old  word,  Twinkle-eye,  just 
as  we  nowadays  call  a  child  or  loved-one  Goosikins  or  Pussikins, 
or  Lambkin  Pie,  or  Bunch-of-Roses,  or  Chickabiddy,  or 
Come-kiss-me-quick.  Minion  means  anything  small,  minikin, 
delicate,  dainty,  darling.  Look  close,  for  example,  at  the 
brown-green  florets  of  a  stalk  of  mignonette. 

44.     "  A  Worm's  Light."  (line  10) 

Many  years  ago  I  had  the  curious  pleasure  of  reading  a  little 
book — and   one  in   small    print   too    (Alice    Meynell's   lovely 

518 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

Flower  of  the  Mind) — by  English  glowworm  light.  The  worm 
was  lifting  its  green  beam  in  the  grasses  of  a  cliff  by  the  sea, 
and  shone  the  clearer  the  while  because  it  was  during  an  eclipse 
of  the  moon.     But  see  No.  93. 

50.     "  But  never  cam'  He." 

.  .  .  "  O  wha  will  shoe  my  bonny  foot  ? 
And  wha  will  glove  my  hand  ? 
And  wha  will  lace  my  middle  jimp, 
Wi'  a  lang,  lang  linen  band  ? 

"  O  who  will  kame  my  yellow  hair, 

With  a  haw  bayberry  kame  ? 
And  wha  will  be  my  babe's  father, 

Till  Gregory  come  hame  ?" 

"  Thy  father,  he  will  shoe  thy  foot, 

Thy  brother  will  glove  thy  hand, 
Thy  mother  will  bind  thy  middle  jimp 

Wi'  a  lang,  lang  linen  band  ! 

"  Thy  sister  will  kame  thy  yellow  hair. 

Wi'  a  haw  bayberry  kame  ; 
The  Almighty  will  be  thy  babe's  father, 

Till  Gregory  come  hame."  .  .  . 

"  Haw  "  is  an  old  English  word  meaning  (?)  blue  or  braw,  and 
bayberry  is  the  all-spice  tree  ;  so  this  sad  one's  yellow  hair  had 
for  comb  an  uncommonly  charming  thing.  In  another  version 
the  comb  is  of  "  new  silver,"  and  in  a  third  it  is  a  red  river  kame, 
which,  thinks  Mr.  Child,  may  be  a  corruption  of  red  ivory.  But 
give  me  (for  such  hair)  the  bayberry  kind,  and  let  it  be  haw. 

51.     "  The  Orphan." 

"  The  first  sense  of  sorrow  I  ever  knew,"  wrote  Richard 
Steele,  "  was  upon  the  death  of  my  father,  at  which  time  I  was 
not  quite  five  years  of  age  ;  but  was  rather  amazed  at  what 
all  the  house  meant  than  possessed  with  a  real  understanding 
why  nobody  was  willing  to  play  with  me.  I  remember  I  went 
into  the  room  where  his  body  lay,  and  my  mother  sat  weeping 
alone  by  it.  I  had  my  battledore  in  my  hand,  and  fell  a- 
beating  the  coffin,  and  calling,  papa  ;  for,  I  know  not  how, 
I   had   some  slight  idea  that  he  was  locked   up  there.     My 

519 


ABOUT  AM)  ROUNDABOUT 

mother  Catched    me   is    hex  amis,   an<l   transported   beyond   all 

patience  of  the  silenl  grief  she  was  before  in,  she  almost 
smothered  me  in  her  embraces;  and  told  mc  in  a  flood  of 
tears,   '  Papa  COUld   not   hear  me,  and   would   play  with  me  no 

more,  for  they  win-  going  to  pul  him  under  ground,  whence 
he  could  never  come  to  ug  again.'  " 

53- 
The  first  and  third  stanzas  of  this  poem  were  (and  are)  my 
particular  favourites,  and  especially  the  second  line  in  each. 
Such  poems  are  like  wayside  pools,  or  little  well-springs  of 
water.  It  does  not  matter  how  many  wayfarers  come  thither 
to  quench  their  thirst,  there  is  abundance  for  all. 

"  The  Perishing  Pleasures  oe  Man."  (line  18) 

'  But  you  mustn't  imagine,"  said  the  old  old  Harper,  "  that 
I  harp  sad  memories  on  my  harp-strings  because,  being  an 
ancient  I  am  envious  of  my  youth.  Far  from  it.  My  only 
grief  is  that  even  if  mine  were  the  Harp  that  hung  in  Tara, 
I  could  not  express  the  joy  it  is  to  be  of  years  an  hundred,  and 
to  remember  that  once  I  was  nought — and  all  in  the  same 
bar." 

And  for  yet  another  look  behind,  I  cannot  leave  out  this 
little  rhyme  from  William  Allingham,  who  made  one  of  the 
happiest  of  all  anthologies,  "  Nightingale  Valley  "  : 

Four  ducks  on  a  pond, 
A  grass-bank  beyond, 
A  blue  sky  of  spring, 
White  clouds  on  the  wing  ; 
What  a  little  thing 
To  remember  for  years — 
To  remember  with  tears. 

Or,  last,  this  lovely  scrap  from  the  Scots — all  distance  and 
longing  for  home  : 

O  AJva  hills  is  bonny, 

Dalycoutry  hills  is  fair, 
But  to  think  on  the  braes  of  Menstrie 

It  maks  my  heart  fu'  sair. 

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ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

60. 

Edward  Thomas,  who  wrote  this  poem,  knew  by  heart  most 
of  the  villages,  streams,  high  roads,  by-roads,  hills,  forests, 
woods  and  dales  of  the  southern  counties  of  England,  and 
came  so  to  know  them  by  the  best  of  all  methods.  He  walked 
through  them  on  his  feet ;  and,  when  so  inclined,  sat  down 
by  the  wayside  or  leaned  over  a  farm  or  field  gate  and 
gazed  and  mused  and  day-dreamed.  Here  is  another  poem 
of  his  : 

If  I  should  ever  by  chance  grow  rich 

I'll  buy  Codham,  Cockridden,  and  Childerditch, 

Roses,  Pyrgo,  and  Lapwater, 

And  let  them  all  to  my  elder  daughter. 

The  rent  I  shall  ask  of  her  will  be  only 

Each  year's  first  violets,  white  and  lonely, 

The  first  primroses  and  orchises — - 

She  must  find  them  before  I  do,  that  is. 

But  if  she  finds  a  blossom  on  furze — 

Without  rent  they  shall  all  for  ever  be  hers, 

Codham,  Cockridden,  and  Childerditch, 

Roses,  Pyrgo  and  Lapwater, — • 

I  shall  give  them  all  to  my  elder  daughter. 

Not,  of  course,  to  find  a  blossom  on  furze  or  gorse  as  soon 
as  any  sun  is  in  the  year's  sky,  is  the  rare  feat  ;  and  if  in  your 
wanderings  over  the  hills  and  far  away  you  should  chance  on 
secret  hidden-away  Pyrgo  or  Childerditch,  sweet  with  its  frag- 
rance, then  enquire  for  the  beautiful,  happy  young  Lady  of  the 
Manor.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  scent  of  the  furze-blossom  is 
not  exactly  sweet,  but  nutlike  and  aromatic.  This  is  what 
Edward  Thomas's  friend,  W.  H.  Hudson,  the  great  naturalist, 
wrote  about  it  :  "  The  gorse  is  most  fragrant  at  noon,  when  the 
sun  shines  brightest  and  hottest.  At  such  an  hour  when  I 
approach  a  thicket  of  furze,  the  wind  blowing  from  it,  I  am 
alwa3^s  tempted  to  cast  myself  down  on  the  grass  to  lie  for 
an  hour  drinking  in  the  odour.  The  effect  is  to  make  me 
languid  ;  to  wish  to  lie  till  I  sleep  and  live  again  in  dreams  in 
another  world,  in  a  vast  open-air  cathedral  where  a  great 
festival  of  ceremony  is  perpetually  in  progress,  and  acolytes, 
in  scores  and  hundreds  with  beautiful  bright  faces,  in  flame 
yellow  and  orange  surplices,  are  ever  and  ever  coming  toward 

521 


UBOUT  AM)  ROUNDABOUT 

me.  Bwinging  theit  censera  until  I  am  ready  to  swoon  in  that 
heavenly  incense  ! ".  .  . 

"  A  Stoat."  (stanza  5) 

It  is  the  gentle  custom  of  gamekeepers  to  slaughter  at  sight 
(though  Dot  f<>r  food)  the  little  preying  beasts  and  birds  <>f  the 
(Hands  owls,  hawks,  crows,  jays,  stoats,  weasels,  and  such 
like.  They  then  nail  up  their  carcases  to  a  shed  side,  or  to  a 
barn  door,  or  on  a  field-gate,  leaving  them  to  rot  in  the  wind 
tor  a  warning  to  their  live  mates — just  as  in  the  old  days  the 
nous  English  kings  spiked  the  heads  of  traitors  on  the 
turrets  of  the  Tower.     Foxes  you  "  hunt  "  to  death. 

61.  '  The  Howes  of  the  Silent  Vanished  Races  " 
are,  I  suppose,  the  mounds,  barrows,  tumuli  or  Fairie  Hills, 
some  of  them  round,  some  of  them  long,  some  of  them  cham- 
1,  beneath  which  the  ancient  races  of  Britain,  centuries 
before  the  coming  of  the  Saxons  and  the  Danes,  buried  their 
dead.  So  once  slept  the  mummied  Pharaohs  beneath  their 
enormous  Pyramids.  Age  hangs  densely  over  these  solitary 
mounds,  as  over  the  Dolmens  and  Cromlechs — Stonehenge,  the 
Whispering  Knights — and  the  single  gigantic  Menhirs — the 
Tingle  Stone,  the  Whittle  Stone,  the  Bair-down-Man  and  the 
demoniac  Hoar  Stone. 

These  were  utterly  ancient  and  unintelligible  marvels  even 
when  the  monk  Ranulph  Higden  wrote  his  Polychronicon  in 
1352  :  The  second  wonder,  he  says,  is  at  Stonehenge  beside 
Salisbury.  There  great  stones  marvellously  huge,  be  a-reared 
up  on  high,  as  it  were  gates,  so  that  there  seemeth  gates  to  be 
set  up  upon  other  gates.  Nevertheless  it  is  not  clearly  known 
nor  perceived  how  and  to  wrhat  end  they  be  so  a-reared  up,  and 
"  so  wonderlych  yhonged."  And  yet,  they  are  but  as  falling 
apple-blossom  compared  with  the  age  of  the  world  and  the 
antiquity  of  the  Universe  : 

1st  Gravedigger.      Come    my   spade ;     there    is    no    ancient 

Gentlemen  but  Gardiners,  Ditchers 
and  Grave-makers ;  they  hold  up 
Adam's  profession. 

2nd  Gravedigger.    Was  he  a  Gentleman  ? 

15/  Gravedigger.      He  was  the  first  that  ever  bore  Armes. 

Hamlet. 
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ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

62.     The  Twa  Brothers 
— and  here  is  as  romantic  and  tragic  a  tale  of  two  friends  : 

O  Bessie  Bell  and  Mary  Gray, 

They  war  twa  bonnie  lasses  ; 
They  biggit  a  bower  on  yon  Burn-brae, 

And  theekit  it  o'er  wi'  rashes. 

They  theekit  it  o'er  wi'  rashes  green, 

They  theekit  it  o'er  wi'  heather  ; 
But  the  pest  cam'  frae  the  burrows-town, 

And  slew  them  baith  thegither. 

They  thought  to  lye  in  Methven  kirkyard, 

Amang  their  noble  kin  ; 
But  they  maun  lye  in  Stronach  haugh, 

To  biek  forenent  the  sin. 

O  Bessie  Bell  and  Mary  Gray, 

They  war  twa  bonnie  lasses  ; 
They  biggit  a  bower  on  yon  Burn-brae, 

And  theekit  it  o'er  wi'  rashes. 

Biggit  and  theekit  means  builded  and  thatched  ;  and  the 
twelfth  line  is  "to  bask  beneath  the  sun." 

64. 

A  tragic  tale  is  hidden,  rather  than  told,  in  this  old  Scottish 
ballad.  It  resembles  a  half  ruinous  house  in  a  desolate  country, 
dense  green  with  briar  and  bramble,  echoing  with  wild  voices — 
its  memories  gone.  Mr.  Nahum's  picture  for  it  was  of  a 
figure  in  a  woman's  bright  clothes  and  scarlet  hood,  but  with 
what  looked  to  me  like  the  head  of  his  own  skeleton  deep 
within  the  hood.     And  on  a  stone  nearby  sat  a  little  winged  boy. 

66.     "  Her  high-born  Kinsman." 

.  .  .  And  there  was  a  wind  in  the  night  as  they  fared 
onward,  a  wind  in  the  mid-air,  playing  from  out  the  clouds. 
And  presently  after,  the  twain  descended  into  the  valley,  the 
one  traveller's  foot  stumbling  as  he  went,  against  the  writhen 
roots  that  jutted  from  between  the  stones  of  the  path  they 
followed.  And  it  seemed  that  the  voice  of  one  unseen  cried, 
Lo  !     And  the  traveller  looked  up  from  out  of  the  valley  of  his 

523 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

journey,  ami,  behold,  a  wan  moon  gleamed  between  the 
ravelled  clouds;  and  the  face  of  his  companion  showed  for 
that  instant  clear  against  the  sky  in  the  shadow  of  its  cloak. 
And  it  was  the  Ea<  e  oi  .1  nobleman  ;  renowned  for  his  patience  ; 
courteous  and  cold  ;   whose  name  is  Death.  .  .  . 

"  London  Bridge." 

This  is  vet  another  singing-bailie  rhyme.  When  London 
was  nothing  but  a  clustei  of  beehive  huts  in  the  hill  clearings 
of  the  great  Forest  of  Middlesex  above  the  marshes  and  the 
Thames,  there  can  have  been  no  bridge.  There  may  have  been 
a  bridge,  it  seems,  in  a.d.  44,  eighty-seven  years  after  the  death 
of  Caesar  ;  and  for  centuries  there  was  certainly  a  ferry, 
Auderv  the  Shipwight  being  one  of  its  ferrymen,  his  oars  the 
shape  of  shovels,  and  his  boat  like  a  young  moon  on  her  back. 

The  rhyme  appears  to  refer  to  the  wooden  bridge  built  in 
994  at  South waik,  which  was  destroyed  in  1008  by  King  Olaf, 
Saint  of  Norway,  to  whose  glory  four  London  churches  are 
dedicated.  Olaf  had  become  the  ally  of  Ethelred  (the  Unread)'), 
and  to  defeat  the  Danes  who  had  captured  the  city  he  first 
screened  his  fighting  ships  with  frameworks  of  osier  for  the 
protection  of  his  men,  who  then  rowed  them  up  to  the  Bridge 
against  the  tide.  They  wapped  and  bound  huge  ropes  or 
hawsers  round  its  timber  piers,  swept  down  with  the  slack 
with  the  tide,  and  so  brought  the  Bridge  to  ruin. 

The  first  stone  bridge,  in  building  from  uy6  to  1208,  was 
partially  destroyed  by  fire  four  years  afterwards.  A  picture 
of  the  entrancing  re-built  Bridge  of  Elizabeth's  time,  with  its 
chapel,  its  many-storied  gabled  houses,  its  haberdashers', 
goldsmiths'  and  booksellers'  shops,  its  cut-waters  or  starlings 
and  many  narrow  arches,  its  gate-house  with  the  spiked  heads 
atop,  its  drawbridge  and  pillory,  and  that  strange  timber 
mansion,  with  not  a  nail  in  its  wood,  called  Nonesuch,  where 
perhaps  lived  the  Lord  Mayor — all  this  may  be  gloated  over 
in  any  old  seventeenth-century  map  of  London.  (John 
Visscher's  of  1616  shows  a  windmill  in  the  Strand  !)  So  narrow 
were  those  high  arches,  and  so  vehemently  flowed  the  tides 
beneath  them,  that  even  at  ebb  it  was  dangerous  for  a  novice 
to  shoot  them  in  a  boat.  But  between  Windsor  and  Gravesend 
it  is  said  there  were  forty  thousand  watermen  and  wherrymen 
in  Shakespeare's  day,  yelling  "  Eastward  Ho  !  ",  or  "  West- 

524 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

ward  Ho  !  "  for  passengers.  The  Bridge  was  the  glory  of 
London  ;  as  the  Thames  it  spanned  was  its  main  thoroughfare. 
Fire  was  its  chief  enemy  ;  the  Great  Fire  in  1616  and  that  in 
1633,  after  which  it  long  continued  to  be  used  though  dark, 
dismal  and  dangerous.  The  present  monster  of  granite,  over 
which  the  people  of  London  stream  to  and  fro  throughout  the 
day,  like  ants  at  the  flighting,  was  built  thirty  yards  west  of 
the  old  one  and  began  to  span  the  river  in  1832. 

70.     "  This  City." 

London,  thou  art  of  townes  A  per  se  l 

Soveraign  of  cities,  seemliest  in  sight, 
Of  high  renoun,  riches  and  royaltie  ; 

Of  lordis,  barons,  and  many  a  goodly  knyght  ; 

Of  most  delectable  lusty  ladies  bright ; 
Of  famous  prelatis,  in  habitis  clericall  ; 

Of  merchauntis  full  of  substaunce  and  of  myght  : 
London,  thou  art  the  flow'r  of  Cities  all. 

Strong  be  thy  wallis  that  about  thee  standis  ; 

Wise  be  the  people  that  within  thee  dwellis  ; 
Fresh  is  thy  ryver  with  his  lusty  strandis  ; 

Blith  be  thy  chirches,  wele  sownyng  be  thy  bellis  ; 

Rich  be  thy  merchauntis  in  substaunce  that  excellis  ; 
Fair  be  their  wives,  right  lovesom,  white  and  small  ; 

Clere  be  thy  virgyns,  lusty  under  kellis  2  ! 
London,  thou  art  the  flow'r  of  Cities  all.  .  .  . 

William  Dunbar 

71.     "  He  opened  House  to  All."  (line  22) 

The  subject  being  good  victuals,  here  is  the  "  Bill  of  Fare 
at  the  Christening  of  Mr.  Constable's  Child,  Rector  of  Cockley 
Cley,  in  Norfolk,  January  2,  1682." 

"  A  whole  hog's  head  souc'd  with  carrots  in  the  mouth,  and 
pendants  in  the  ears,  with  guilded  oranges  thick  sett. 

2  Oxs  cheekes  stewed  with  6  marrow  bones. 

A  leg  of  Veal  larded  with  6  pullets. 

A  leg  of  Mutton  with  6  rabbits. 

A  chine  of  bief,  chine  of  venison,  chine  of  mutton,  chine  of 
veal,  chine  of  pork,  supported  by  4  men. 

1  First  and  foremost  2  Cap-nets  of  silk  or  of  gold 

525 


ABOUT  AM)  KOlNDMiOl'T 

\  \  eniso"  Pasty. 

\  great  minced  pye,  \\  itli  12  small  ones  about  it. 
A  gelt  tat  turkey  with  6  capons. 
A  bustard  w  ith  6  pluver. 
A  pheasanl  with  6  woodcock. 
\  great  dish  <»f  tarts  made  all  of  sweetmeats. 
\  Westphalia  hamm  with  0  tongues. 
A  Jowle  of  Sturgeon. 

A  great  chargr  of  all  sorts  of  sweetmeats  with  wine,  and  all 
,-orts  of  liquors  answerable." 

And  here  is  another  from  that  inexhaustible  Tom  Tiddler's 
ground,  Rustic  Speech  and  Folklore  for  the  "  funeral  meats" 
of  a  fanner  who  died  near  Whitby  in  1760  :  ''  Besides  what  was 
distributed  to  1,000  poor  people  who  had  6d.  each  in  money, 
there  was  consumed 

1 10  dozen  penny  loaves, 
9  large  hams, 
S  legs  of  veal, 
20  stone  of  beef, 
16  stone  of  mutton, 
15  stone  of  Cheshire  cheese,  and 
30  ankers  of  ale." 

For  me  the  "  great  dish  of  tarts,"  the  "  guilded  oranges  "  and 
"  the  great  charger  of  sweetmeats"!  But  after  all,  fine  fat 
feasts  such  as  these  are  but  a  Town  Mouse's  crumb  of  Wedding 
Cake  compared  to  Mac  Conglinnes'  Vision  in  No.  73,  which  is 
from  the  Gaelic  of  1 100/1200  a.d.,  as  translated  by  Kuno  Meyer. 
Bragget,  line  33,  appears  to  have  been  a  concoction  or  decotion 
of  ale,  honey,  sugar  and  spice,  of  which  last  ambrosial  ingre- 
dients (according  to  the  old  rhyme)  are  made  little  girls. 

72.     "  And  bring  us  in  Good  Ale  " 

really  good  ale,  that  is,  before  beer  was  made  "  so  mortal 
small,"  133  years  before  tea-leaves  came  from  China  (to  be 
boiled  and  the  decoction  stored  in  a  barrel) ;  140  before  the  first 
coffeediouse  in  London  ;  and  even,  one  might  be  tempted  to 
add,  before  milk  came  from  the  cow,  for  as  late  as  15 12  the 
two  young  sons  of  the  fifth  earl  of  Northumberland,  Lord  Percy 
aged  eleven  (who  afterwards  loved  Anne  Boleyn),  and  his 
younger  brother,    Maister   Thomas   Percy,  were   allowed   for 

526 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

"  braikfaste  "  even  on  "  Fysch,"  or  fast  Days  :  "  Half  a  Loif  of 
houshold  Brede,  a  Manchet,  a  Dysch  of  Butter,  a  Pece  of  Salt- 
fish,  a  Dysch  of  Sproits  or  iii  White  Herrynge,"  and  a  Potell 
of  Bere,  i.e.  two  quarts  or  Eight  mugfuls. 

"  Hores,"  or  heres,  means  hairs — cow's  or  dairymaid's. 
Butter  is  less  hairy  nowadays,  though  on  the  other  hand  we 
have  margarine. 

I  thought  perhaps  "  Godes  good  "  referred  to  a  "  podinge  " 
for  Saturdays — a  hodge-podge  of  the  scraps  and  pieces  left 
over  through  the  week ;  but  I  find  it  is  really  an  old  phrase 
for  yeast. 

73- 
"  I'  sooth  a  Feast  of  Fats  "  (from  the  Irish  of  the  twelfth 
century)  like  that  dream  of  the  rats  in  the  "  Pied  Piper  of 
Hamelin  "  as  they  scuttled  to  their  doom  in  the  cold  Weser. 
For  a  feast  of  sweets  there  is  Porphyrio's  in  the  "  Eve  of  St. 
Agnes  "  : 

"  And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavendered, 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd  ; 
With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucent  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon  ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferred 
From  Fez  ;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one, 

From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedared  Lebanon. 

These  delicates  he  heaped  with  glowing  hand 

On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 

Of  wreathed  silver  :  sumptuous  they  stand 

In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 

Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light.  ..." 

For  a  banquet  of  enchantment  there  is  Lamia's,  and  of 
magical  fruits,  poor  Laura's  in  "  Goblin  Market "  ;  Romeo  too 
went  feasting  with  the  Capulets — but  only  his  eyes  ;  so  too 
Macbeth,  but  his  eyes  betrayed  him.  Bottom  in  his  ass's  ears 
asked  only  for  a  munch  of  your  good  dry  oats,  a  handfull  of 
pease,  and  a  bottle  of  hay,  then  fell  asleep  before  even  Queen 
Titania  could  magick  them  up  for  him.  As  for  the  poor  Babes, 
blackberries  and  dewberries  were  their  last  supper.     These  are 

527 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

luii  a  few  oi  oJ  banqueting  delights  in  poetry     bu1  to 

include  them  all  would  need  su<  li  a  larder  as  |.h  k  peeped  into 
when  he  sat  supping  in  the  Giant's  kitchen. 

7).     "  l':  >bon  holes,  Stool-hai.i.,  Barley-break." 

This  fragment  is  a  patchwork  of  the  half -forgotten. 
'  Pigeon  holes  "  was  a  lull  game,  played  on  the  green,  with 
wooden  arches  and  little  chambers  as  in  a  dovecot — a  kind  of 
open-air  bagatelle  "  Stool-ball  "  was  popular  with  Nancies 
and  Franceses  on  Shrove  Tuesday.  1  kirley-brcak  was  in  Scot- 
land a  kind  of  "  I  Spy,"  played  in  a  stackyard,  and  in  England 
a  sort  of  "  French  and  English,"  in  three  marked  spaces  or 
compartments,  the  middle  one  of  which  was  called  hell.  And 
here  -while  we  are  on  the  subject  of  old  and  gallant  pastimes — 
is  a  brief  exposition  of  our  noble  and  National  Game  of  Cricket 
in  its  early  days.  It  comes  from  a  book  with  the  queer  title, 
"  A  Nosegay  for  the  Trouble  of  Culling  ;  or,  .Sports  of  Child- 
hood "  : 

"  Cricket  is  a  game  universally  played  in  England,  not  by 
boys  only,  for  men  of  all  ranks  pique  themselves  on  playing  it 
with  skill.  In  Mary-le-bone  parish  there  is  a  celebrated  cricket 
ground  much  frequented  by  noblemen  and  gentlemen. 

The  wicket  consists  of  two  pieces  of  wood  fixed  upright  and 
kept  together  by  another  piece  which  is  laid  across  the  top  and 
is  called  a  bail ;  if  either  of  these  pieces  of  wood  be  thrown  down 
by  the  ball  the  person  so  hitting  them  becomes  the  winner. 

The  ball  used  in  this  game  is  stuffed  exceedingly  hard. 
Many  windows  and  valuable  looking-glasses  have  been  broken 
by  playing  cricket  in  a  room." 

It  was  in  a  cricket  match  in  the  summer  of  1775,  when  no 
less  than  three  "  balls  "  had  rolled  in  between  a  Mr.  Small's 
two  stumps  without  stirring  the  bail,  that  it  was  decided  to  add 
stump  iii. 

As  for  "  tansy  "  (line  5),  here  is  a  recipe  for  it  (to  go  with  the 
sillabub  on  p.  506)  :  "  Take  15  eggs,  and  6  of  the  wlntes  ; 
beat  them  very  well ;  then  put  in  some  sugar,  and  a  little  sack  ; 
beat  them  again,  and  put  about  a  pint  or  a  little  more  of  cream  ; 
then  beat  them  again  ;  then  put  in  the  juice  of  spinage  or  of 
primrose  leaves  to  make  it  green.  Then  put  in  some  more 
sugar,  if  it  be  not  sweet  enough  ;  then  beat  it  again  a  little,  and 
so  let  it  stand  till  you  fry  it,  when  the  first  course  is  in.     Then 

528 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

fry  it  with  a  little  sweet  butter.  It  must  be  stirred  and  fryed 
very  tender.  When  it  is  fryed  enough,  then  put  it  in  a  dish, 
and  strew  some  sugar  upon  it,  and  serve  it  in." 

75.     "  Mary's  gone  a-milking." 

And,  according  to  Sir  Thomas  Overbury  (who  dipped  his 
pen  in  nectar  as  well  as  ink),  "  A  Fair  and  Happy  Milk-maid," 
is  "a  country  wench,  that  is  so  far  from  making  herself 
beautiful  by  art,  that  one  look  of  hers  is  able  to  put  all  face- 
physic  out  of  countenance.  .  .  . 

"  She  doth  not,  with  lying  long  abed,  spoil  both  her  com- 
plexion and  conditions,  .  .  .  she  rises,  therefore,  with  chanticleer, 
her  dame's  cock,  and  at  night  makes  the  lamb  her  curfew.  In 
milking  a  cow,  and  straining  the  teats  through  her  fingers,  it 
seems  that  so  sweet  a  milk-press  makes  the  milk  the  whiter 
or  sweeter  ;  for  never  came  almond  glove  or  aromatic  ointment 
on  her  palm  to  taint  it.  The  golden  ears  of  corn  fall  and  kiss 
her  feet  when  she  reaps  them,  as  if  they  wish  to  be  bound  and 
led  prisoners  by  the  same  hand  that  felled  them.  Her  breath 
is  her  own  which  scents  all  the  year  long  of  June,  like  a  new 
made  haycock.  She  makes  her  hand  hard  with  labour,  and 
her  heart  soft  with  pity  :  and  when  winter  evenings  fall  early 
(sitting  at  her  merry  wheel),  she  sings  a  defiance  to  the  giddy 
wheel  of  fortune.  She  doth  all  things  with  so  sweet  a  grace, 
it  seems  ignorance  will  not  suffer  her  to  do  ill,  being  her  mind 
is  to  do  well.  .  .  .  She  dares  go  alone  and  unfold  sheep  in  the 
night,  and  fears  no  manner  of  ill,  because  she  means  none  : 
yet  to  say  truth,  she  is  never  alone,  for  she  is  still  accompanied 
with  old  songs,  honest  thoughts,  and  prayers,  but  short  ones.  .  .  . 

"  Thus  lives  she,  and  all  her  care  is  she  may  die  in  the  spring- 
time, to  have  store  of  flowers  stuck  upon  her  winding-sheet." 

76.     "  Cypresse  black  as  ere  was  Crow." 

Cypresse  (according  to  a  memorandum  from  one  of  Mr. 
Nahum's  books)  is  the  fine  cobweblike  stuff  we  now  call  crape. 
Peaking-stickes,  or  poking-sticks,  were  gophering  irons  for 
frilling  out  linen,  flounces,  etc.,  etc.,  and  not,  as  one  might  guess, 
curling  tongs  (since  a  pointed  beard,  and  the  V  of  hair  on  the 
forehead,  used  to  be  called  peaks).  A  quoife  or  coif  is  a  lady's 
head-dress,  such  as  is  still  worn  by  nuns  ;  while  as  for  "  maskes 
for  faces,"  fine  ladies  in  Shakespeare's  day  customarily  wore 

529  2  l 


M'.oiT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

them  (as  old  pictures  show)  when  they  went  to  see  his  plays. 
Masks  were  useful  too  in  disguising  the  faces  of  his  players, 

when — as  was  the  custom  in  the  London  theatres  up  to  1629 — 
boys  took  women's  parts  ;  and  in  the  streets  eyes  gleamed  out 
of   the   holes   in    them,    worn    then    for   keeping   the   skin   fair, 
untanned,  ami  unfreckled,  as  Julia  says  of  herself  in  Shaki 
ire's  l  wo  Gentlemen  <>i  Verona  : 

But  since  she  did  neglect  her  looking-glasse. 
And  threw  her  Sun-expelling  masque  away, 
The  ayre  hath  starved  the  roses  in  her  cheekes. 
And  pinched  the  lily-tincture  of  her  face.  .  .  . 

7S.     Fairing,  (line  5) 

In  this — the  earliest  known  letter  of  Shelley's — he  too  asks 
for  a  fairing — the  kickshaws  and  gewgaws  sold  in  the  booths 
of  a  fair — and  a  toothsome  one  ;  though  I  haven't  yet  been 
able  to  discover  what  he  meant  by  "  hunting  nuts  "  : 

Monday,  July  18,  1803.  (Horsham). 

Dear  Kate, 

We  have  proposed  a  day  at  the  pond  next  Wednesday  ; 
and  if  you  will  come  to-morrow  morning  I  wrould  be  much 
obhged  to  you  ;  and  if  you  could  any  how  bring  Tom  over  to 
stay  all  night,  I  would  thank  you.  We  are  to  have  a  cold 
dinner  over  at  the  pond,  and  come  home  to  eat  a  bit  of  roast 
chicken  and  peas  at  about  nine  o'clock.  Mama  depends  upon 
your  bringing  Tom  over  to-morrow,  and  if  you  don't  we  shall 
be  very  much  disappointed. 

Tell  the  bearer  not  to  forget  to  bring  me  a  fairing — which  is 

some   ginger-bread,    sweetmeat,    hunting-nuts,    and   a   pocket 

book.     Now  I  end. 

I  am  not, 

Your  obedient  servant, 

P.  B.  Shelley 

Even  before  Mr.  Nahum's  tower-room,  I  loved  the  "  bonny 
brown  hair  "  of  this  poem.  Was  it  squirrel  brown,  or  chestnut, 
or  hazelnut,  or  autumn-beech,  or  heather-brown,  or  walnut, 
or  old  hay  colour,  or  undappled-fawn,  or  dark  lichen,  or  velvet 
brown,  or  marigold  or  pansy  or  wallflower-brown — or  yet 
another  ? — every  one  of  which  would  look  charming  beneath 
the  rim  of  a  round  blue-ribanded  "  little  straw  hat." 

530 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

80.       "  WlDDECOMBE    FAIR." 

To  an  eye  looking  down,  the  steeple  of  Widdecombe  Church 
rises  in  the  midst  of  Dartmoor  like  a  lovely  needle  of  ivory  ; 
and  hidden  beneath  the  turf  around  it  lie,  waiting,  the  bones  of 
Tom  Pearse,  Bill  Brewer  .  .  .  Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobley  and  all. 

83.     "  There  were  Three  Gipsies  " 

— and  they  were  of  England  (Somerset),  though  to  judge  from 
this  old   ballad  they  may  have  padded   it  down   from  the 
Highlands  : 

There  cam'  Seven  Egyptians  on  a  day, 

And  wow,  but  they  sang  bonny  ! 
And  they  sang  sae  sweet,  and  sae  very  complete, 

Down  cam'  Earl  Cassilis*  lady. 

She  cam'  tripping  adown  the  stair, 

And  a'  her  maids  before  her  ; 
As  soon  as  they  saw  her  weel-faur'd  face 

They  cast  the  glamourie  owre  her  ; 

They  gave  to  her  the  nutmeg, 

And  they  gave  to  her  the  ginger  ; 
And  she  gave  to  them  a  far  better  thing, 

The  seven  gold  rings  off  her  finger. 

There  was  a  small  black  cobbled-up  book  entitled  Glamourie 
in  a  red  leather  case  in  Thrae,  but,  alas,  it  was  in  a  writing  I 
could  not  easily  decipher.  On  the  fly-leaf  was  scrawled 
"  H.B.",  and  beneath  it  was  the  following  : 

See,  with  eyes  shut. 
Look  seldom  behind  thee. 
In  secret  of  self  ship 
Free  thee,  not  bind  thee. 
Mark  but  a  flower  : 
'Tis  of  Eden.     A  fly 
Shall  sound  thee  a  horn 
Wooing  Paradise  nigh. 
Think  close.     Unto  love 
Give  thy  heart's  steed  the  rein  ; 
So — course  the  World  over  : 
Then  homeward  again. 
531 


AHOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

84.     "Whatever  they  find  they  take  it."  (line  21) 

There  was  a  robber  met  a  robber 

On  a  rig  of  beans  ; 
Says  a  robber  to  a  robber, 
"  Can  a  robber  tell  a  robber 

What  a  robber  means  ?" 

And  if  not  ;  why  not  ?  I  had  never  seen  this  scrap  of  jingle 
until  Mr.  Ralph  Hodgson  gave  it  me.  And  the  following 
version  of  an  old  game  rhyme  (with  its  rare  "  wood  ")  first  met 
my  eye  by  the  kindness  of  another  friend,  Mrs.  Lyon  : 

' '  My  Mother  said  that  I  never  should 
Play  with  the  gypsies  in  the  wood, 
The  wood  was  dark  ;  the  grass  was  green  ; 
In  came  Sally  with  a  tambourine. 

I  went  to  the  sea — no  ship  to  get  across  ; 
I  paid  ten  shillings  for  a  blind  white  horse  ; 
I  up  on  his  back  and  was  off  in  a  crack, 
Sally,  tell  my  Mother  I  shall  never  come  back." 

86. 

This  lament  for  matchless  Robin  Hood,  who  should  shine 
in  a  far  better  place  than  between  "  Beggars  "  and  "  Gilderoy," 
is  the  only  rhyme  about  him  in  this  collection.  The  fact  is,  try 
as  I  might,  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  which  I  liked  best  of 
his  old  greenwood  ballads  in  Mr.  Nahum's  book.  The  oldest 
and  best  were  all  in  formidable  spelling,  the  most  of  them  were 
long,  and  maybe  I  was  at  last  a  little  lazy.  They  are  all  to  be 
found  in  Professor  Child.  And  if  leaving  out  the  merry  outlaw 
will  persuade  anyone  to  get  and  read  English  and  Scottish 
Ballads,  I  shall  have  omitted  him  to  good  purpose. 

87.     "  Gilderoy." 

A  pretty  song  about  a  monstrously  ugly  scoundrel,  though 
handsome  of  feature.  Gilderoy  was  a  highwayman,  sparing  for 
his  prey  neither  man  nor  woman,  and  if  there  were  "  roses  " 
on  his  shoes,  they  were  blood-red.  At  last  fifty  armed  avengers 
surrounded  his  house  at  night  and  set  on.  He  killed  eight  of 
them  before  he  was  captured  ;  which,  if  true,  was  bonnie  fight- 
ing.    Nevertheless,  such  a  villain  he  was  that  he  was  hanged, 

532 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

without  trial,  on  a  gibbet  thirty  feet  high,  and  the  bones  of  him 
(despite  the  last  stanza  of  the  ballad)  dangled  in  chains  fort}' 
feet  above  Leith  Walk  in  Edinburgh  for  fifty  years  afterwards. 

88.     "  And  his  name  was  Little  Bingo." 

In  bounding  health,  it  is  said,  a  dog's  nose  and  a  woman's 
elbow  are  always  cold.  The  reason  for  which  is  explained  in 
a  legend  (referred  to  in  Mrs.  Wright's  Rustic  Speech  and  Folk 
Lore).  It  seems  that  in  the  midst  of  its  forty  days'  riding  on 
the  Flood,  the  Ark  one  black  night  sprung  a  little  leak.  Father 
Noah  having  forgotten  to  bring  his  carpenter's  bag  on  board, 
was  at  his  wits'  end  to  plug  the  hole  in  its  timbers.  In  the 
beam  of  his  rushlight  he  looked  and  he  looked  and  he  looked  ; 
and  still  the  water  came  rilling  in  and  in.  His  dog,  Shafet,  was 
of  course  standing  by,  head  on  one  side,  carefully  watching  his 
master.  And  Noah,  by  good  chance,  at  last  casting  his  eye 
in  his  direction,  seized  the  faithful  creature  and,  thrusting  his 
nose  into  the  leak,  for  a  while  stopped  the  flow.  But  Noah, 
a  merciful  man,  and  partial  to  animals,  quickly  perceived  that 
in  a  few  minutes  poor  Shafet  would  perish  of  suffocation, 
and  as,  by  this  time,  his  wife  had  descended  into  the  fo'c'sle 
to  see  what  he  was  about,  he  released  his  dog's  nose,  and, 
instead  of  it,  stuffed  in  her  charming  elbow,     q.e.d. 

But  not  all  dogs  are  as  ready — as  Launce  in  The  Two  Gentle- 
men of  Verona  knew  : 

"  Launce  :  '  Nay,  'twill  bee  this  howre  ere  I  have  done 
weeping.  All  the  kinde  of  the  Launces,  have  this  very,  fault  : 
I  have  received  my  proportion,  like  the  prodigious  Sonne,  and 
am  going  with  Sir  Protheus  to  the  Imperialls  Court :  I  thinke 
Crab  my  dog,  be  the  sowrest  natured  dogge  that  lives  :  My 
Mother  weeping  :  my  Father  wayling  :  my  Sister  crying  :  our 
Maid  howling  :  our  Catte  wringing  her  hands,  and  all  our 
house  in  a  great  perplexitie,  yet  did  not  this  cruell-hearted 
Curre  shedde  one  teare  :  he  is  a  stone,  a  very  pibble  stone, 
and  has  no  more  pitty  in  him  then  a  dogge  ! " 

90.     "  Poor  old  Horse." 

In  the  furrowed  land 
The  toilsome  and  patient  oxen  stand. 
Lifting  the  yoke-encumbered  head, 
With  their  dilated  nostrils  spread, 
533 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

They  silently  inhale 
The  clover-scented  gale, 
\n.l  the  vapours  that  arise 
From  the  well-watered  and  smoking  soil. 

For  this  rest  in  the  furrow  after  toil 
Their  large  and  lustrous  eyes 
Seem  to  thank  the  Lord, 
More  than  man's  spoken  word. 

H.  W.  Longfellow 

91.     "  Ay   me,  Alas." 

Messalina's  monkey  was,  I  should  fancy,  of  the  kind  called 
a  marmoset,  "  blacke  and  greene."  "  Their  agilitie  and  manner 
of  doing  is  admirable,  for  that  they  seeme  to  have  reason  and 
discourse  to  go  upon  trees,  wherein  they  seeme  to  imitate 
birds."  There  are  so  few  of  these  far  fair  cousins  of  ours  in 
poetrv  that  I  cannot  forbear  adding  a  note  of  Mr.  Nahum's 
from  Sir  John  Maundeville's  Travels. 

"...  From  that  City,  (that  is  to  say  Cassay — the  City  of 
Heaven),  men  go  by  Water,  solacing  and  disporting  themselves, 
till  they  come  to  an  Abbey  of  Monks — that  is  fast  by — that  be 
good  religious  men  after  their  Faith  and  Law.  In  that  Abbey 
is  a  great  Garden  and  a  fair,  where  be  many  Trees  of  diverse 
manner  of  Fruits.  And  in  this  Garden,  is  a  little  Hill,  full  of 
delectable  Trees.  In  that  Hill  and  in  that  Garden  be  many 
divers  Beasts,  as  of  Apes,  Marmosets,  Baboons,  and  many 
other  divers  Beasts.  And  every  day,  when  the  Monks  of 
this  Abbey  have  eaten,  the  Almoner  has  the  remnants  carried 
forth  into  the  Garden,  and  he  smiteth  on  the  Garden  Gate  with 
a  Clicket  of  Silver  that  he  holdeth  in  his  hand,  and  anon  all 
the  Beasts  of  the  Hill  and  of  divers  places  of  the  Garden,  come 
out,  a  3000  or  a  4000  of  them  ;  they  approach  as  if  they  were 
poor  men  come  a-begging  ;  and  the  Almoner's  servants  give 
them  the  remnants,  in  fair  Vessels  of  Silver,  clean  over  gilt. 
And  when  they  have  eaten,  the  Monk  smiteth  eftsoons  on  the 
Garden  Gate  with  the  Clicket ;  and  then  anon  all  the  Beasts 
return  again  to  their  places  that  they  came  from.  And  they 
say  that  these  Beasts  be  Souls  of  worthy  men,  that  resemble 
in  likeness  the  Beasts  that  be  fair  :  and  therefore  they  give 
them  meat  for  the  love  of  God." 

534 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

92.     "  O  Happy  Fly." 

And  here  is  another  of  these  creatures — "  a  sleepy  fly  that 
rubs  its  hands,"  in  Mr.  Hardy's  words — William  Blake's  : 

Little  Fly, 
Thy  summer's  play 
My  thoughtless  hand 
Has  brushed  away. 

Am  not  I 
A  fly  like  thee  ? 
Or  art  not  thou 
A  man  like  me  ? 

For  I  dance, 
And  drink,  and  sing, 
Till  some  blind  hand 
Shall  brush  my  wing. 

If  thought  is  life 

And  strength  and  breath, 

And  the  want 

Of  thought  is  death  ; 

Then  am  I 
A  happy  fly, 
If  I  live 
Or  if  I  die. 

But  the  Happy  Fly  is  nowadays  gone  so  dismally  out  of 
favour  that  it  would  perhaps  be  prudent  to  draw  attention 
from  him  to  Lovelace's  "  Grasshopper  "  : 

O  thou  that  swing'st  upon  the  waving  hair 

Of  some  well-filled  oaten  beard, 
Drunk  every  night  with  a  delicious  tear 

Dropt  thee  from  heaven,  where  thou  wert  reared  ! 

The  joys  of  earth  and  air  are  thine  entire, 

That  with  thy  feet  and  wings  dost  hop  and  fly  ; 

And  when  thy  poppy  works,  thou  dost  retire 
To  thy  carved  acorn-bed  to  lie. 

Up  with  the  day,  the  Sun  thou  welcom'st  then, 

Sport'st  in  the  gilt  plaits  of  his  beams, 
And  all  these  merry  days  mak'st  merry  men, 

Thyself,  and  melancholy  streams. 

535 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

93.     "  Lo,  mi    Bright  Air  alivi    with  Dragonflius." 

There  is  an  old  dialect  children's  rhyme  about  these  lightlikc 
shimmering  stingless  inserts  : 

Snakestanger,  snakestanger,  vlee  aal  about  the  brooks  ; 

Sting  aal  the  bad  bwoys  that  vor  the  lish  looks, 

Biit  let  the  good  bwoys  ketch  aal  the  vish  they  can, 

And  car'm  away  whooam  to  vry  'em  in  a  pan  ; 

Bread  and  butter  they  shall  yeat  at  zupper  wi'  their  vish 

While  aal  the  littull  bad  bwoys  shall  only  lick  the  dish. 

And  here  is  yet  another  rhyme  on  the  Firefly  (from  Du 
Bartas),  which  I  have  borrowed  (with  other  passages  as 
curious)  from  a  mine  of  such  things,  Animal  Lore  of  Shake- 
speare's Time,  by  Miss  Emma  Phipson  : 

"  New-Spain's  cucuio,  in  his  forehead  brings 
Two  burning  lamps,  two  underneath  his  wings  : 
Whose  shining  rayes  serve  oft,  in  darkest  night, 
Th'  imbroderer's  hand  in  royall  works  to  light  : 
Th'  ingenious  turner,  with  a  wakefull  eye, 
To  polish  fair  his  purest  ivory  : 
The  usurer  to  count  his  glistring  treasures  : 
The  learned  scribe  to  limn  his  golden  measures." 

"  There  is  a  kind  of  little  animal  of  the  size  of  prawnes," 
says  Champlain  of  these  tiny  winged  things,  "  which  fly  by 
night,  and  make  such  light  in  the  air  that  one  would  say  that 
they  were  so  many  little  candles.  If  a  man  had  three  or  four 
of  these  little  creatures,  which  are  not  larger  than  a  filbert,  he 
could  read  as  well  at  night  as  with  a  wax  light." 

95.     "The  Sale  of  the  Pet  Lamb." 

"  The  Pet  Lamb  "  by  William  Wordsworth  is  certainly  of  a 
more  delicate  light  and  colour  and  music  than  this  poem.  But 
it  is  much  better  known.  And  there  is  a  secret  something  in 
the  words  of  Mary  Howitt's  that  wins  one  at  once  to  love  the 
writer  of  it. 

98. 

This  is  another  translation  by  Kuno  Meyer  from  the  ancient 
Irish — just  the  bare  bones,  that  is,  of  a  poem  that  in  its 
original  tongue  must  have  been  many  times  more  musical  with 

536 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

rhyme  and  gentle  echo  and  cadence  ;    for  the  craft  of  Gaelic 
verse  was  an  exceedingly  delicate  one. 

I  like  it  for  the  sake  of  its  cat,  its  monk,  and  its  age,  but 
chiefly  because  it  reminds  me  of  my  own  faraway  days  at 
Thrae — brooding  up  there  in  solitude  and  silence  over  Mr. 
Xahum's  books. 

As  for  "  white  Pangur  "  and  his  kind,  "  it  is  needlesse,"  says 
Topsell,  "  to  spend  any  time  about  [Puss's]  loving  nature  to 
man,  how  she  flattereth  by  rubbing  her  skinne  against  ones 
legges,  how  she  whurleth  with  her  voyce,  having  as  many  tunes 
as  turnes  ;  for  she  hath  one  voice  to  beg  and  to  complain, 
another  to  testifie  her  delight  and  pleasure,  another  among  her 
own  kind  by  flattring,  by  hissing,  by  spitting,  insomuch  as 
some  have  thought  that  they  have  a  peculiar  intelligible 
language  among  themselves."  So  also  John  de  Trevisa,  in 
1387  :  '  The  catte  is  a  beaste  of  uncerten  heare  (hair)  and 
colour  ;  for  some  catte  is  white,  some  rede,  some  blacke,  some 
skewed  (piebald)  and  speckled  in  the  fete  and  in  the  face  and 
in  the  eares.  He  is  a  beste  in  youth,  swyfte,  plyaunte,  and 
mery,  and  lepeth  and  reseth  (rusheth)  on  all  thynge  that  is  to- 
fore  him  ;  and  is  led  by  a  strawe  and  playeth  therwith.  He  is 
a  right  hevy  beast  in  aege,  and  ful  slepy,  and  lyeth  slily  in  wait 
for  myce.  And  he  maketh  a  ruthefull  noyse  and  gastfull,  whan 
one  proffreth  to  fyghte  with  another,  and  he  falleth  on  his  owne 
fete  whan  he  falleth  out  of  hye  places." 

The  writings  of  the  ancient  Egyptians  show  that,  far  from 
detesting  to  wet  his  paws,  he  would  then  swim  in  pursuit  of 
fish.  They  painted  a  cat  for  the  sound  "  miaou  "  in  their 
hieroglyphics  ;  gazed  into  his  changing  moonlike  eyes  and 
revered  him  ;    and  embalmed  him  when  dead. 

Having  borrowed  him  from  Egypt,  the  Romans  brought  him 
to  Britain  (though  we  already  had  a  wilding  of  our  own,  Felis 
Catus),  with  the  ass,  the  goat,  the  rabbit,  the  peacock,  not  to 
speak  of  the  cherry,  the  walnut,  the  crocus,  the  tulip,  the  leek, 
the  cucumber,  etc.  The  Monk's  Pangur,  then,  came  of  a  long 
lineage. 

So  valuable  were  cats  in  Wales  in  the  eleventh  century  (two 
or  three  hundred  years  after  Pangur) ,  that  their  price  was  fixed 
by  law  :  for  a  blind  kitten  a  penny  ;  for  a  kitten  with  its  eyes 
open,  twopence  ;  for  a  cat  of  one  mouse,  fourpence,  and  so  on. 
And  to  kill  one  of  the  Prince's  granary  cats  meant  payment 

537 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

oi  .1   fine  of  as  much  wheat  as  would  cover  up  its  body  when 

suspended   by  its  tail.     In  Scotland   there  has  long  been  a 

complete  Clan  of  Cats — apart  from  the  witches.     As  for  the 

Cheshire  Cat,  he  grins,  I  imagine,  no1   because  he  has  nine 

lives,  is  said  to  be  melancholy,  may  look  at  a  king,  and  has 

nothing  to  do  with  Catgut,  Cat's  cradle,  and  Cat-i'-the-pan, 

but  because  he  has  read  in  a  dictionary  that  Dick  Whit tington 

sailed  ofl  to  the  Isle  of  Rats,  not  with  a  Cat,  but  with  acat  or 

achat,  meaning  goods  for  trading — Coals  !     Long  may  he  grin  ! 

How  but  one  country  Gib  or  Tom  may  befriend  the  brightfaced 

Heartsease  (so  sturdy  a  little  dear  that  it  will  bloom  at  burning 

noonday  in  a  gravel  path)  Charles  Darwin  tells  in  his  "  Origin  of 

Specie*,"  p.  57. 

His  "  loving  nature  "  to  creatures  other  than  man  and  the 

heartsease  is  referred  to  in  the  following  old   Scots  nursery 

rhvme  : 

There  was  a  wee  bit  mousikie, 

That  lived  in  Gilberaty,  O, 

It  couldna  get  a  bite  o'  cheese, 

For  cheetie-poussie-cattie,  O. 

It  said  unto  the  cheesikie, 

"  Oh  fain  wad  I  be  at  ye,  O, 
If  't  were  na  for  the  cruel  paws 

O'  cheetie-poussie-cattie,  O." 

99.     "  On  what  Wings  dare  He  aspire." 

The  verb  dare  (I  gather  from  Webster)  was  once  used  only 
in  the  past  tense,  the  preterite  ;  for  "  dare  he  "  therefore  in 
this  poem  we  should  now  write  dared  he. 

100. 

Andrew  Marvell  has  three  rare  charms — his  poetry  is  wholly 
his  own  ;  it  is  as  delightful  as  the  sound  of  his  name  ;  and  the 
face  in  his  portrait  is  as  enchanting  as  either. 

101-2. 

The  Phillip  of  these  two  poems  is,  I  suppose,  the  hedge- 
sparrow  or  dunnock,  that  gentle  and  happy  little  cousin  of  the 
warblers — as  light  and  lovely  in  voice  as  they  are  on  the  wing. 
As  everyone  knows,  a  bull-finch  can  be  taught  to  whistle  like  a 

538 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

baker's  boy,  and  will  become  so  jealous  of  Ms  mistress  that  he 
will  hiss  and  ruff  with  rage  at  every  stranger.  Jackdaws  and 
magpies,  too,  will  become  friends  to  a  friend.  But  a  lady  whom 
I  have  the  happiness  to  know  has  a  nightingale  that  was 
hatched  in  captivity,  and  so  has  never  shared  either  the 
delights  or  the  dangers  of  the  wild.  So  easy  is  he  in  her 
company  that  he  will  perch  on  her  pen-tip  as  she  sits  at  table, 
and  sing  as  if  out  of  a  garden  in  Damascus. 

102.     "  He  would  chirp." 

"  .  .  .As  she  (St.  Douceline)  sat  at  meat,  if  anyone  brought 
her  a  flower,  a  bird,  a  fruit,  or  any  other  thing  that  gave  her 
pleasure,  then  she  fell  straightway  into  an  ecstasy,  and  was 
caught  up  to  Him  Who  had  made  these  fair  creatures.  .  .  . 
One  day  she  heard  a  lonely  sparrow  sing,  whereupon  she  said 
to  her  companions,  '  How  lonely  is  the  song  of  that  bird  !  ' 
and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  she  was  in  an  ecstasy,  drawn  up 
to  God  by  the  bird's  voice.  ..." 

The  above  is  from  A  Medieval  Garner,  and  this,  from  a  Note 
to  "  A  Saint's  Tragedy,"  by  Margaret  L.  Woods  :  When  the 
blessed  Elizabeth  "  had  been  ill  twelve  days  and  more,  one 
of  her  maids  sitting  by  her  bed  heard  in  her  throat  a  very  sweet 
sound,  .  .  .  and  saying,  '  Oh,  my  mistress,  how  sweetly  thou 
didst  sing  ! '  she  answered,  '  I  tell  thee,  I  heard  a  little  bird 
between  me  and  the  wall  sing  merrily  ;  who  with  his  sweet 
song  so  stirred  me  up  that  I  could  not  but  sing  myself.'  " 

"Loving  Redbreasts."  (line  31) 

My  dear,  do  you  know 
How  a  long  time  ago, 

Two  poor  little  children, 
Whose  names  I  don't  know, 
Were  stolen  away 
On  a  fine  summer's  day, 

And  left  in  a  wood, 
As  I've  heard  people  say. 

And  when  it  was  night. 
So  sad  was  their  plight, 

The  sun  it  went  down, 
And  the  moon  gave  no  light ! 
539 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

They  Bobbed  and  they  sighed, 
And  they  bitterly  cried, 

And   the  poor  little  things, 
They  laid  down  and  died. 

•  And  when  they  were  dead, 
The  robins  so  red 

I  iron glit  strawberry  leaves, 
And  over  them  spread  ; 
And  all  the  day  long, 
They  sang  them  this  song, — 
Poor  babes  in  the  wood  ! 
Poor  babes  in  the  wood  ! 

And  don't  you  remember 
The  babes  in  the  wood  ? 

105.     "  'Tis  a  Note  of  Enchantment." 

It  was  a  note  of  enchantment  such  as  this  that  haunted  the 
memory  of  Edward  Thomas  when  he  was  writing  his  poem 
called  The  Unknown  Bird.  I  give  only  a  few  lines,  but  the 
rest  of  the  beautiful  thing  may  be  found  in  his  Poems  : 

Oftenest  when  I  heard  him  I  was  alone, 
Nor  could  I  ever  make  another  hear. 
La-la-la  !  he  called  seeming  far-off — 
As  if  a  cock  crowed  past  the  edge  of  the  world, 
As  if  the  bird  or  I  were  in  a  dream.  .  . 

.  .  .  O  wild-raving  winds  !  if  you  ever  do  roar 

By  the  house  and  the  elms  from  where  I've  a-come, 
Breathe  up  at  the  window,  or  call  at  the  door, 
And  tell  you've  a  found  me  a-thinking  of  home." 

William  Barnes 

107.     "  Like  a  Lady  Bright." 

"  They  say,"  says  Ophelia,  "  they  say  the  owle  was  a  Baker's 
daughter.  Lord,  we  know  what  we  are,  but  know  not  what 
we  may  be.     God  be  at  your  Table."     And  thus  runs  the  story  : 

Our  Saviour  being  footsore,  weary  and  hungry  one 
darkening  evening,  went  into  a  baker's  shop  and  asked  for 
bread.  The  oven  being  then  hot  and  all  prepared  for  the 
baking,  the  mistress  of  the  shop  cut  off  a  good-sized  piece  of 
the  risen  dough  to  bake  for  him.     At  this  her  fair,  greedy 

540 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

daughter,  who  sate  watching  what  was  forward  from  a  little 
window,  upraided  her  mother  for  this  wasting  of  profit  on  such 
an  outcast ;  and  taking  the  platter  out  of  her  hands,  she 
chopped  the  piece  of  dough  into  half,  and  half,  and  half  again. 
Nevertheless  when  this  mean  small  lump  was  put  into  the  oven, 
it  presently  began  miraculously  to  rise  and  swell  until  it 
exceeded  a  full  quartern  of  wheaten  bread.  In  alarm  at  this 
strange  sight  the  daughter — her  round  blue  eyes  largely 
eyeing  the  stranger  in  the  dim  light — turned  on  her  mother, 
and  cried  out :  "  O  Mother,  Mother,  Heugh,  heugh,  heugh." 
"  As  thou  hast  spoken,"  said  our  Saviour,  "  so  be  thou  :  child 
of  the  Night."  Whereupon,  the  poor  creature,  feathered  and 
in  the  likeness  of  an  owl,  fled  forth  into  the  dark  towards  the 
woodside. 

109.     "  The  White  Owl." 

When  night  is  o'er  the  wood 

And  moon-scared  watch-dogs  howl, 
Comes  forth  in  search  of  food 

The  snowy  mystic  owl. 
His  soft,  white,  ghostly  wings 

Beat  noiselessly  the  air 
Like  some  lost  soul  that  hopelessly 

Is  mute  in  its  despair. 

But  now  his  hollow  note 

Rings  cheerless  through  the  glade 
And  o'er  the  silent  moat 

He  flits  from  shade  to  shade. 
He  hovers,  swoops  and  glides 

O'er  meadows,  moors  and  streams  ; 
He  seems  to  be  some  fantasy — 

A  ghostly  bird  of  dreams. 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  the  night  ? 

Why  dost  thou  love  the  moon 
When  other  birds  delight 

To  sing  their  joy  at  noon  ? 
Art  thou  then  crazed  with  love, 

Or  is't  for  some  fell  crime 

That  thus  thou  flittest  covertly 

At  this  unhallowed  time  ? 

F.  J.  Patmore 

541 


ABOUT  AND  lUH'NDAHOlT 

in.     "  Hi:r  small  Soul."   (line  23) 

Smallest  of  all  shrill  souls  among  the  English  birds  is  the 
wren,  but  she  has  a  remote  relative  tli.it  dwells  in  the  dark  and 
enormous  forests  of  South  America,  the  Humming  Bird,  and 
simply  tor  their  own  sakes  I  cannot  resist  borrowing  two 
more  fragments  from  Miss  Phipson's  Animal  Lore.  The  first 
comes  out  of  Purchas's  Pilgrimes,  and  was  written  by  Antonia 
Galvano  of  New  Spain  : 

'  There  be  certaine  small  birds  named  vicmalim,  their  bil  is 
small  and  long.  They  live  of  the  dew,  and  the  juyce  of  flowers 
and  roses.  Their  feathers  bee  small  and  of  divers  colours. 
They  be  greatly  esteemed  to  worke  gold  with.  They  die  or 
sleepe  every  yeere  in  the  moneth  of  October,  sitting  upon  a 
little  bough  in  a  warme  and  close  place :  they  revive  or  wake 
againe  in  the  moneth  of  April  after  that  the  flowers  be  sprung, 
and  therefore  they  call  them  the  revived  birds — Vicmalim." 

The  second  is  Gonzalo  Ferdinando  de  Oviedo's — his  very 
name  a  string  of  gems  : 

.  .  .  I  have  seene  that  one  of  these  birds  with  her  nest  put 
into  a  paire  of  gold  weights  [scales]  altogether,  hath  waide  no 
more  then  a  tomini,  which  are  in  poise  24  graines,  with  the 
feathers,  without  the  which  she  would  have  waied  somewhat 
less.  And  doubtlesse,  when  I  consider  the  finenesse  of  the 
clawes  and  feete  of  these  birds,  I  know  not  whereunto  I  may 
better  liken  them  then  to  the  little  birds  which  the  lymners 
of  bookes  are  accustomed  to  paint  on  the  margent  of  church 
bookes,  and  other  bookes  of  divine  service.  Their  feathers 
are  of  manie  faire  colours,  as  golden,  yellow,  and  greene,  beside 
other  variable  colours.  Their  beake  is  verie  long  for  the 
proportion  of  their  bodies,  and  as  fine  and  subtile  as  a  sowing 
needle.  They  are  verie  hardy,  so  that  when  they  see  a  man 
clime  the  tree  where  they  have  their  nests,  they  fly  at  his  face, 
and  strike  him  in  the  eyes,  comming,  going,  and  returning  with 
such  swiftnesse,  that  no  man  should  lightly  beleeve  it  that 
had  not  seene  it.  .  .  ." 

112.     "  It  caught  His  Image  " 

And  Shelley  : 

...  I  cannot  tell  my  joy,  when  o'er  a  lake 
Upon  a  drooping  bough  with  nightshade  twined, 

542 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

I  saw  two  azure  halcyons  clinging  downward 
And  thinning  one  bright  bunch  of  amber  berries, 
With  quick  long  beaks,  and  in  the  deep  there  lay 
Those  lovely  forms  imaged  as  in  a  sky.  .  .  . 

Anyone  so  happy  as  to  be  able  to  remember  Mary  Coleridge 
as  a  friend,  will  agree  that  to  have  seen  her  eyes  is  to  have  seen 
her  own  pool  and  Shelley's  lake,  imaging  such  lovely  flitting 
halcyons. 

114.  "  King  Pandion  he  is  dead." 

A  wild  and  dreadful  legend  is  hidden  here — of  a  King  who 
wronged  his  Queen  and  her  sister,  daughters  of  Pandion,  and 
how  they  avenged  themselves  upon  him,  sacrificing  his  son  to 
their  hatred.  That  Queen,  goes  this  old  tale,  became  a  nightin- 
gale, her  sister  a  swallow  (crimson  still  dying  the  feathers  of  her 
throat),  the  evil  king  a  hoopoe,  and  the  firstborn  was  raised  to 
life  again  a  pheasant. 

115.     "  A  Sparhawk  Proud  " 

— a  little  bird  but  of  a  noble  family.  Listen,  at  least,  to 
Auceps,  the  Faulkner  or  Falconer,  in  "  The  Compleat  Angler." 
[I  have  inserted  a  few  full  stops  in  a  sentence  that  has  none] 
"...  And  first,  for  the  Element  that  I  use  to  trade  in,  which 
is  the  Air,  an  Element  of  more  worth  than  weight,  an  Element 
that  doubtless  exceeds  both  the  Earth  and  Water  ;  for  though 
I  sometimes  deal  in  both  ;  yet  the  Air  is  most  properly  mine, 
I  and  my  Hawks  use  that  most,  and  it  yields  us  most  recreation. 
It  stops  not  the  high  soaring  of  my  noble  generous  Falcon  ; 
in  it  she  ascends  to  such  an  height,  as  the  dull  eyes  of  beasts 
and  fish  are  not  able  to  reach  to  ;  their  bodies  are  too  gross 
for  such  high  elevations.  In  the  Air  my  troops  of  Hawks  soar 
up  on  high,  and  when  they  are  lost  in  the  sight  of  men,  then 
they  attend  upon  and  converse  with  the  gods,  therefore  I  think 
my  Eagle  is  so  justly  styled,  Joves  servant  in  Ordinary.  And 
that  very  Falcon,  that  I  am  now  going  to  see,  deserves  no 
meaner  a  title,  for  she  usually  in  her  flight  endangers  her  self, 
(like  the  son  of  Daedalus),  to  have  her  wings  scorched  by  the 
Suns  heat,  she  flyes  so  near  it.  But  her  mettle  makes  her 
careless  of  danger,  for  she  then  heeds  nothing,  but  makes  her 

543 


ABOUT  ANT)  ROIM)  \IU)UT 

nimble  Pinions  cul  the  fluid  air,  and  so  makes  her  high  way 
over  the  steepest  mountains  and  deepest  rivers,  and  in  her 
glorious  carere  looks  with  contempt  upon  those  high  Steeples 
and  magnificent  Palaces  which  we  adore  and  wonder  at ;  from 
which  heighl  I  can  make  her  to  descend  by  a  word  from  my 
month  (which  she  both  knows  and  obeys),  to  accept  of  meat 
from  my  hand,  to  own  me  for  her  Master,  to  go  home  with  me, 
and  be  willing  the  next  day  to  afford  me  the  like  recreation.  ..." 

120.     "Come  Wary  One." 

.  .  .  Tak  any  brid,1  and  pat  it  in  a  cage, 
And  do  al  thyn  entente  and  thy  corage 
To  fostre  it  tendrely  with  mete  and  drinke, 
Of  alle  deyntees  that  thou  canst  bithinke, 
And  keep  it  al-so  clenly  as  thou  may  ; 
Al-though  his  cage  of  gold  be  never  so  gay, 
Yet  hath  this  brid,  by  twenty  thousand  fold, 
Lever  in  a  forest,  that  is  rude  and  cold, 
Gon  ete  wormes  and  seich  wrecchednesse. 
For  ever  this  brid  wo]  doon  his  bisinesse 
To  escape  out  of  his  cage,  if  he  may  ; 
His  libertee  this  brid  desireth  ay.  .  .  . 

Geoffrey  Chaucer 

When  I  was  a  child  of  eight  or  nine  I  had  a  kind  of  passion 
for  sparrows,  and  used  to  set  traps  for  them  ;  but  even  if  I 
succeeded  in  taking  one  alive,  which  was  not  always,  I  could 
never  persuade  it  to  live  in  a  cage  above  a  day  or  two,  however 
much  I  pampered  it.  It  drooped  and  died.  Then,  like  a  young 
crocodile,  I  occasionally  shed  tears.  One  fine  morning,  1 
remember,  I  visited  a  distant  trap  and,  as  usual,  all  but  stopped 
breathing  at  discovering  that  it  was  "  down."  Very  cautiously 
edging  in  my  fingers  towards  the  captive,  I  was  startled  out  of 
my  wits  by  a  sudden  prodigious  skirring  of  wings,  and  lo  and 
behold,  I  had  caught — and  lost — a  starling.  He  fled  away 
twenty  yards  or  so,  and  perched  on  a  hillock.  I  see  him  now, 
his  feathers  glistening  in  the  sun,  and  his  sharp  head  turned 
towards  me,  his  eyes  looking  back  at  me,  as  if  foe  at  foe.    And 

*Bird 

544 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

that  reminds  me  of  the  Griffons — the  guardians  of  the  mines 
of  the  one-eyed  Arimaspians. 

"...  From  that  land  go  men  toward  the  land  of  Bacharie, 
where  be  full  evil  folk  and  full  cruel.  ...  In  that  country  be 
many  griffounes,  more  plentiful  than  in  any  other  country. 
Some  men  say  that  they  have  the  body  upward  as  an  eagle,  and 
beneath  as  a  lion  ;  and  truly  they  say  sooth  that  they  be  of 
that  shape.  But  a  griff oun  hath  the  body  more  great,  and  is 
more  strong,  than  eight  lions,  of  such  lions  as  be  on  this  side 
of  the  world  ;  and  larger  and  stronger  than  an  hundred  eagles, 
such  as  we  have  amongst  us.  For  a  griffoun  there  will  bear 
flying  to  his  nest  a  great  horse,  if  he  may  find  him  handy, 
or  two  oxen  yoked  together,  as  they  go  at  the  plough.  For  he 
hath  his  talons  so  long  and  so  broad  and  great  upon  his  feet,  as 
though  they  were  homes  of  great  oxen,  or  of  bugles  (bullocks), 
or  of  kine  ;  so  that  men  make  cups  of  them,  to  drink  out  of. 
And  of  their  ribs,  and  the  quills  of  their  wings,  men  make 
bows  full  strong,  to  shoot  with  arrows  and  bow-bolts.  ..." 

But  a  griffoun  is  only  a  gigantic  starling,  so  to  speak  ;  and 
it's  a  pity  mine  and  I  were  enemies.  "  If  a  sparrow  come 
before  my  window,"  wrote  John  Keats  in  one  of  his  letters, 
"  I  take  part  in  its  existence,  and  pick  about  the  gravel." 
Brick-traps  are  little  help  in  this. 

A  Robin  Redbreast  in  a  cage 
Puts  all  Heaven  in  a  rage  .  .  . 

A  Skylark  wounded  in  the  wing, 
A  Cherubim  does  cease  to  sing  .  .  . 

The  wild  Deer  wandering  here  and  there 
Keeps  the  Human  Soul  from  care  .  .  . 

He  who  shall  hurt  the  little  Wren 
Shall  never  be  beloved  by  Men  .  .  . 

The  wanton  Boy  that  kills  the  Fly 
Shall  feel  the  Spider's  enmity  .  .  . 

Kill  not  the  Moth  nor  Butterfly, 

For  the  Last  Judgment  draweth  nigh  .  .  . 

The  Beggar's  Dog  and  Widow's  Cat, 
Feed  them,  and  thou  wilt  grow  fat  .  .  . 

545  2  m 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

To  see  a  World  in  a  Grain  of  Sand, 
\n<l  a  Heaven  in  a  Wild  Flower, 
Hold  Infinity  in  the  palm  <>f  your  hand, 

An>l  Eternity  in  an  hour. 

\\  illiam  Blake 

.  .  .  What  is  heaven  ?  a  globe  of  dew, 
I  illing  in  the  morning  new 

Some  eyed  flower  whose  young  leaves  waken 
On  an  unimagined  world  : 

Constellated  suns  unshaken, 
Orbits  measureless,  are  furled 

In  that  frail  and  fading  sphere, 

With  ten  millions  gathered  there, 

To  tremble,  gleam,  and  disappear. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

The  men  who  wrote  these  words,  truly  and  solemnly 
meant  them.  They  are  not  mere  pretty  flowers  of  the  fancy, 
but  the  tough  piercing  roots  of  the  tree  of  life  that  grew  within 
their  minds. 

126.     "  Come  unto  these  Yellow  Sands." 

This  poem  and  many  others  I  copied  out  of  Mr.  Nahum's  book 
in  their  original  spelling.  At  first  I  found  the  reading  of 
some  of  them  very  troublesome.  It  was  like  looking  at  a 
dried-up  flower  or  beetle.  But  there  the  things  were  ;  and 
after  a  good  deal  of  trouble  I  not  only  began  to  read  them  more 
easily,  but  grew  to  like  them  thus  for  their  own  sake.  First, 
because  this  was  as  they  were  actually  written,  before  our 
English  printers  agreed  to  spell  alike  ;  and  next,  because  the 
old  words  with  their  look  of  age  became  a  pleasure  to  me  in 
themselves.  It  was  like  watching  the  dried-up  flower  or  beetle 
actually  and  as  if  by  a  magic  of  the  mind  coming  to  life. 
Besides,  many  of  Shakespeare's  small  poems  were  already 
known  to  me.  It  touched  them  with  newness  to  see  them 
(though  indeed  he  never  so  saw  them),  as  they  appeared  (seven 
years  after  his  death),  in  the  pages  of  the  famous  folio  volume 
of  his  Plays  that  was  printed  in  1623  by  Isaac  Jaggard  and 
Edward  Blount. 

Not  only  that ;  for  it  is  curious  too  to  see  how  in  the  old  days 
English  was  constantly  changing — its  faded  words  falling  like 

546 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

dead  leaves  from  a  tree,  and  new  ones  appearing.  In  a  book 
which  William  Caxton  printed  as  far  back  even  as  1490,  he 
says  :  "  And  certainly  our  language  now  used  varieth  far  from 
that  which  was  used  and  spoken  when  I  was  born.  For  we 
Englishmen  be  born  under  the  domination  of  the  moon,  which 
is  never  steadfast  but  ever  wavering,  waxing  one  season  and 
waneth  and  decreaseth  another  season."  So  in  our  own  day 
words,  like  human  beings,  come  into  the  world  and  pass  away  : 
and  many  gradually  change  their  meanings. 

For  if  the  spelling  of  a  word  alters  its  effect  on  the  eye,  it 
must  also  affect  the  mind  of  the  reader  ;  and  I  must  confess 
that  "  my  lovynge  deare,"  looks  to  me  to  tell  of  somebody 
more  lovable  even  than  "  my  loving  dear."  And  what  about 
shoogar-plummes,  cleere  greye  eies,  the  murrkie  fogghe,  the 
moones  enravysshynge  ? 

And  what  about — 

"  Let's  goe  to  Bedde,"  says  Sleepihed  ; 
"  Tarrie  a  while,"  says  Slowe  ; 
"  Putte  on  the  Panne,"  says  Greedie  Nanne, 
"  Wee '11  suppe  afore  wee  goe." 

Not  that  I  have  always  kept  to  the  old  spellings.  I  have 
followed  my  fancy  ;  and  if  anyone  would  like  to  see  an  old 
poem  in  its  first  looks  that  is  here  printed  in  our  own  way,  all 
he  need  do  is  to  go  back  to  the  book  in  which  it  first  appeared. 

128.     "  Shee  carries  Me  above  the  Skie." 

.   .   .  This  palace  standeth  in  the  air, 
By  necromancy  placed  there, 
That  it  no  tempest  needs  to  fear, 

Which  way  soe'er  it  blow  it  ; 
And  somewhat  southward  toward  the  noon, 
Whence  lies  a  way  up  to  the  moon, 
And  thence  the  Fairy  can  as  soon 

Pass  to  the  earth  below  it. 

The  walls  of  spiders'  legs  are  made 
Well  mortised  and  finely  laid  ; 
He  was  the  master  of  his  trade 
It  curiously  that  builded  : 
The  windows  of  the  eyes  of  cats, 
547 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

And  for  the  roof,  instead  of  slal 
[3  co\  ered  with  the  skins  of  bats, 

With  moonshine  that  arc  gilded.  .  .  . 

Michael  Drayton 

1  29.     "  Who  Calls  ?  " 

.  .  .  Such  a  soft  floating  witchery  of  sound 
As  twilight  Elfins  make,  when  they  at  eve 
Voyage  on  gentle  gales  from  Fairy-Land, 
Where  Melodies  round  honey-dropping  flowers, 
Footless  and  wild,  like  birds  of  Paradise, 
Nor  pause,  nor  perch,  hovering  on  untamed  wing  !  .  .  . 

S.  T.  Coleridge 

133.     "  For  Fear  of  Little  Men." 

"  Terrestrial  devils,"  says  Robert  Burton,  "  are  those  Lares, 
Genii,  Fauns,  Satyrs,  Wood-nymphs,  Foliots,  Fairies,  Robin 
Goodfellows,  Trulli,  etc.,  which  as  they  are  most  conversant 
with  men,  so  they  do  them  most  harm.  .  .  .  These  are  they 
that  dance  on  heaths  and  greens  .  .  .  and  leave  that  green 
circle,  which  we  commonly  find  in  plain  fields,  which  others 
hold  to  proceed  from  a  meteor  falling,  or  some  accidental 
rankness  of  the  ground,  so  nature  sports  herself ;  they  are 
sometimes  seen  by  old  women  and  children.  .  .  .  Paracelsus 
reckons  up  many  places  in  Germany,  where  they  do  usually 
walk  in  little  coats,  some  two  feet  long.  A  bigger  kind  there 
is  of  them  called  with  us  hobgoblins,  and  Robin  Goodfellows, 
that  would  in  those  superstitious  times  grind  corn  for  a  mess 
of  milk,  cut  wood,  or  do  any  manner  of  drudgery  work.  They 
would  mend  old  irons  in  those  Aeolian  isles  of  Lipari,  in  former 
ages,  and  have  been  often  seen  and  heard.  .  .  Dithmarus 
Bleskenius,  in  his  description  of  Iceland,  reports  for  a  certainty, 
that  almost  in  every  family  they  have  yet  some  such  familiar 
spirits.  .  .  .  Another  sort  of  these  there  are,  which  frequent 
forlorn  houses.  .  .  .  They  will  make  strange  noises  in  the 
night,  howl  sometimes  pitifully,  and  then  laugh  again,  cause 
great  flame  and  sudden  lights,  fling  stones,  rattle  chains,  shave 
men,  open  doors  and  shut  them,  fling  down  platters,  stools, 
chests,  sometimes  appear  in  the  likeness  of  hares,  crows,  black 
dogs,  etc.".  .  . 

548 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 


135- 

So  too  with  Hazel  Dorn,  in  the  following  poem  by  Mr. 
Bernard  Sleigh,  who  has  most  kindly  allowed  me  to  print  it 
here  for  the  first  time. 

They  stole  her  from  the  well  beside  the  wood. 
Ten  years  ago  as  village  gossips  tell ; 
One  Beltane-eve  when  trees  were  all  a-bud 
In  copse  and  fell. 

Ominous,  vast,  the  moon  rose  full  and  red 
Behind  dim  hills  ;  no  leaf  stirred  in  the  glen 
That  breathless  eve,  when  she  was  pixy-led 
Beyond  our  ken. 

For  she  had  worn  no  rowan  in  her  hair, — 
Nor  set  the  cream-bowl  by  the  kitchen  door, — 
Nor  whispered  low  the  pagan  faery  prayer 
Of  ancient  lore  ; 

But  trod  that  daisied  ring  in  hose  and  shoon, 
To  hear  entranced,  their  elf-bells  round  her  ring  ; 
The  wizard  spells  about  her  wail  and  croon 
With  gathering  string. 

Swiftly  her  arms  they  bound  in  gossamer, 
With  elvish  lures  they  held  her  soul  in  thrall ; 
With  wizard  sorceries  enveloped  her 
Past  cry  or  call. 

A  passing  shepherd  caught  his  breath  to  see 
A  golden  mist  of  moving  wings  and  lights 
Swirl  upwards  past  the  red  moon  eeriely 
To  starlit  heights. 

While  far  off  carollings  half  drowned  a  cry, 
Mournful,  remote,  of  "  Mother,  Mother  dear," 
Floating  across  the  drifting  haze,— a  sigh 
"  Farewell,  Farewell !  " 

In  the  small  hours  of  Beltane  or  May  Day,  vast  fires  have 
been  wont  to  be  kindled  on  the  hills  of  the  Highlands — a 
custom  old  as  the  Druids.  Mr.  Gilbert  Sheldon  tells  me  that 
as  lately  as  1899  he  saw  the  hills  round  Glengariff  ablaze  with 

549 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

them.  They  must  l>e  set  aflame  with  what  is  called  need- 
fire.  And  need-fire  is  made  by  nine  men  twisting  a  wimble  of 
wood  in  a  balk  of  oak  until  the  friction  makes  sparks  fly.  With 
these  they  ignite  dry  agaric,  a  fungus  that  grows  on  birch- 
trees,  and  soon  the  blaze  is  reddening  the  countryside  under  the 
night-sky.  Need-lire  in  a  window-nook  or  carried  in  a  lantern 
is— like  iron  —an  invincible  defence  against  witches  and  witch- 
craft. Beltane  cakes — to  be  eaten  whilst  squatting  on  the  hills, 
or  dancing  and  watching  the  fire — are  made  out  of  a  caudle  of 
eggs,  butter,  oatmeal  and  milk. 

"  No  Rowan  in  her  Hair." 

So  potent  is  the  flower  or  berry  or  wood  of  the  rowan  or 
witchwood  or  quicken  or  whicken-tree  or  mountain  ash  against 
the  wiles  of  the  elf-folk,  that  dairymaids  use  it  for  cream- 
stirrers  and  cowherds  for  a  switch. 

Rowan-tree  and  red  thread 

Gar  the  Witches  tyne  their  speed. 

136.     "  True  Thomas." 

There  are  four  copies  in  handwriting — two  of  them  written 
about  1450 — of  a  rhymed  romance  telling  how  Thomas  in  his 
youth,  while  dreaming  daydreams  under  the  Eildon  Tree,  was 
met  and  greeted  by  the  Queen  of  fair  Elfland.  The  ballad  on 
p.  127  has  been  passed  on  from  mouth  to  mouth. 

Up  to  our  own  grandmothers'  day,  at  least,  this  Thomas 
Rhymour  of  Ercildoune — a  village  nor  far  distant  from  where 
the  Leader  joins  the  Tweed — was  famous  as  a  Wise  One  and  a 
Seer  (a  See-er — with  the  inward  eye).  He  lived  seven  centuries 
ago,  between  1210  and  1297.  Years  after  he  had  returned 
from  Elfland — as  the  ballad  tells — while  he  sat  feasting  in  his 
Castle,  news  was  brought  to  him  that  a  hart  and  a  hind,  having 
issued  out  of  the  forest,  were  to  be  seen  stepping  fair  and  softly 
down  the  stony  street  of  the  town,  to  the  marvel  of  the  people. 
At  this,  Thomas  at  once  rose  from  among  his  guests  ;  left  the 
table  ;  made  down  to  the  street  ;  followed  after  these  strange 
summoners  :  and  was  seen  again  no  more. 

'  Ilka  tett,"  line  7,  means  every  twist  or  plait  ;    a  "  fairlie," 
stanza  n,  is  a  wonder,  mystery,  marvel  ;    and  the  "  coat  "  in 

550 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

the  last  stanza,  being  of  "  even  cloth,"  was  finer  than  the  finest 
napless  damask. 

So,  too,  Young  Tamlane,  when  a  boy  "  just  turned  of  nine," 
was  carried  off  by  the  Elfin  Queen  : 

Ae  fatal  morning  I  went  out 

Dreading  nae  injury, 
And  thinking  lang,  fell  soun  asleep 

Beneath  an  apple  tree. 

Then  by  it  came  the  Elfin  Queen 

And  laid  her  hand  on  me  ; 
And  from  that  time  since  ever  I  mind 

I've  been  in  her  companie.  .  .  . 

He  seems  to  have  been  an  outlandish  and  unhuman  creature 
— if  this  next  rhyme  tells  of  him  truly  (gait,  meaning  road  ; 
pin,  (?)  knife;  coft,  bought;  moss,  peat-bog;  and  boonmost — 
you  can  guess)  : 

Tarn  o'  the  linn  came  up  the  gait, 

Wi'  twenty  puddings  on  a  plate, 

And  every  pudding  had  a  pin, 

"  We'll  eat  them  a',"  quo'  Tarn  o'  the  linn. 

Tarn  o'  the  linn  had  nae  breeks  to  wear, 

He  coft  him  a  sheep's-skin  to  make  him  a  pair, 

The  fleshy  side  out,  the  woolly  side  in, 

"  It's  fine  summer  deeding,"  quo'  Tarn  o'  the  linn. 

Tarn  o'  the  linn  he  had  three  bairns, 

They  fell  in  the  fire,  in  each  others'  arms  ; 

"  Oh,"  quo'  the  boonmost,  "  I've  got  a  het  skin  ;  " 

"  It's  hetter  below,"  quo'  Tarn  o'  the  linn. 

Tarn  o'  the  linn  gaed  to  the  moss, 
To  seek  a  stable  to  his  horse  ; 
The  moss  was  open,  and  Tarn  fell  in, 
'  I've  stabled  mysel',"  quo'  Tarn  o'  the  linn. 

138.     "  Sabrina." 

This  song  is  from  "  Comus,"  a  masque  written  by  Milton 
for  the  entertainment  of  the  Earl  of  Bridgewater,  lord  lieu- 
tenant of  Wales,  at  Ludlow  Castle  in  1634.  That  Castle's  Hall 
is  now  open  to  the  sky — "  the  lightning  shines  there  ;    snow 

551 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

burdens  the  ivy."  From  a  neighbouring  room  the  two 
princes,  Edward  V.  and  his  brother,  went  to  their  dark  death 
m  the  Tower.     Below  the  ruinous  Castle  flow  together  the 

I'eine  and  the  Corve,  on  their  way  to  Hi''  greal  Severn — of 
which  Sabrina,  the  daughter  of  Estrildis,  is  the  Nymph,  she 
having  been  drowned  in  its  waters  by  Guendolen,  the  jealous 
queen  of  Locrine  the  son  of  Brut.  Estrildis  herself,  the 
daughter  of  King  I  lumber,  "  so  farre  excelled  in  bewtie,  that 
none  was  then  lightly  found  unto  her  comparable,  for  her 
skin  was  so  whyte  that  scarcely  the  fynest  kind  of  Ivorie 
that  might  be  found,  nor  the  snowe  lately  fallen  downe  from 
the  Elament,  nor  the  Lylles  did  passe  the  same." 

Milton's  poems — Lycidas,  for  instance — frequently  resemble 
bunches  of  keys,  each  one  of  them  fitting  the  lock  of  some 
ancient  myth  or  legend.  In  the  lines  I  have  omitted  from  No. 
138  are  many  such  locks  awaiting  the  reader — a  reference  to 
the  following  tale  of  Glaucus,  for  example  : 

There  is  a  secret  herb  which,  if  nibbled  by  fish  already 
gasping  to  death  in  our  air,  gives  them  the  power  and  cunning 
to  slip  back  through  the  grasses  into  their  waters  again.  Of 
this  herb  Glaucus  tasted,  and  instantly  his  eyes  dazzled  in 
desire  to  share  their  green  transparent  deeps.  Whereupon 
the  laughing  divinities  of  the  rivers  gave  him  sea-green  hair, 
sleeking  the  stream,  fins  and  a  fish's  tail,  and  feasted  him 
merrily.  His  story  is  told  by  Keats  in  the  third  book  of  his 
Endymion,  while  Leucothea's,  another  reference,  is  to  be  found 
in  the  fifth  of  the  Odyssey.  As  for  the  Sirens,  here  is  the  counsel 
Circe  gave  Ulysses,  the  while  his  seamen  lay  asleep  the  night 
after  they  had  returned  in  safety  from  Pluto's  dismal  mansions  : 

"...  And  then  observe  :  They  sit  amidst  a  mead, 
And  round  about  it  runs  a  hedge  or  wall 
Of  dead  men's  bones,  their  withered  skins  and  all 
Hung  all  along  upon  it ;  and  these  men 
Were  such  as  they  had  fawned  into  their  fen, 
And  then  their  skins  hung  on  their  hedge  of  bones. 
Sail  by  them  therefore,  thy  companions 
Beforehand  causing  to  stop  every  ear 
With  sweet  soft  wax,  so  close  that  none  may  hear 
A  note  of  all  their  charmings.  ..." 


552 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

139. 
These  Songs  are  from  the  last  act  of  "  A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream  " — the  Duke  and  his  guests  are  retired,  and  now  sleep 
far  from  Life's  Play  ;    and  Puck  and  the  fairies  are  abroad  in 
his  palace. 

"  I    AM    SENT    WITH    BROOME    BEFORE." 

When  the  cock  begins  to  crow, 
And  the  embers  leave  to  glow, 
And  the  owl  cries,  Tu-whit — Tu-whoo, 

When  crickets  do  sing 

And  mice  roam  about, 

And  midnight  bells  ring 

To  call  the  devout  : 

When  the  lazy  lie  sleeping 

And  think  it  no  harm, 

Their  zeal  is  so  cold 

And  their  beds  are  so  warm. 
When  the  long — long  lazy  slut 
Has  not  made  the  parlour  clean, 
No  water  on  the  hearth  is  put, 
But  all  things  in  disorder  seem  ; 
Then  we  trip  it  round  the  room 
And  make  like  bees  a  drowsy  hum. 
Be  she  Betty,  Nan,  or  Sue, 
We  make  her  of  another  hue 

And  pinch  her  black  and  blue. 

But  when  the  Puritans  came  in,  it  seems,  the  fairies  fled 
away.     And  Richard  Corbet  bewailed  their  exile  : 

"  Farewell,  rewards  and  fairies  !  " 

Good  housewives  now  may  say, 
For  now  foul  sluts  in  dairies 

Do  fare  as  well  as  they. 
And  though  they  sweep  their  hearths  no  less 

Than  maids  were  wont  to  do, 
Yet  who  of  late,  for  cleanliness, 

Finds  sixpence  in  her  shoe  ?  .  .  . 


At  morning  and  at  evening  both 
You  merry  were  and  glad  ; 
553 


ABOUT  AM)  ROUNDABOUT 

So  little  care  of  Bleep  or  sloth 

These  pretty  ladies  had  ; 

When  Tom  came  home  from  labour, 

Or  Ciss  to  milking  rose, 
Then  merrily  merrily  went  their  tabour 

And  nimbly  went  their  toes. 

Witness  those  rings  and  roundelays 

Of  theirs,  which  yet  remain, 
Were  footed  in  Queen  Mary's  days 

On  many  a  grassy  plain  ; 
But  since  of  late,  Elizabeth, 

And  later,  James  came  in, 
They  never  danced  on  any  heath 

As  when  the  time  hath  been. 

For  times  change,  and  with  them  changes  the  direction  of 
man's  imagination.  He  turns  his  questing  thoughts  now  this 
way,  now  that  ;  and  though  our  learned  dictionaries  may 
maintain  that  fairy  rings  are  but  brighter  circles  in  green  grass 
formed  by  "  certain  fungi,  especially  marasmius  oreades  " — 
who  knows  ? — 

He  that  sees  blowing  the  wild  wood  tree, 
And  peewits  circling  their  watery  glass, 
Dreams  about  Strangers  that  yet  may  be 
Dark  to  our  eyes,  Alas  ! 

After  all,  Geoffrey  Chaucer,  even  in  his  distant  day,  lamented 
that  England  was  bereft  of  the  Silent  Folk.  Whisper,  and  they 
will  return — bringing  with  them  Prince  Oberon,  who  "is  of 
heyght  but  of  III  fote,  and  crokyd  shulderyd.  .  .  .  And  yf  ye 
speke  to  hym,  ye  are  lost  for  ever." 

140.  "  Awm.  '  Who  feasts  tonight  ? '  " 
Another  mere  fragment — from  p.  182  of  Mr.  C.  M.  Doughty 's 
Play,  entitled  The  Cliffs.  For  the  complete  "  feast  "  bestowed 
on  the  world  by  this  great  traveller  and  poet,  the  reader  must 
seek  out  not  only  this  volume,  but  his  Arabia  Deserta,  and  his 
Dawn  in  Britain. 

"  All  in  their  Watchet  Cloaks."  (line  15) 

"  Nan  Page  (my  daughter)  and  my  little  sonne, 
And  three  or  foure  more  of  their  growth,  wee'l  dress 

554 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

Like  Urchins,  Ouphes,  and  Fairies,  greene  and  white, 
With  rounds  of  waxen  Tapers  on  their  heads, 
And  rattles  in  their  hands  ..." 

The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

141.     A  Hunt's-up 

was  in  old  days  the  Tally-ho  blared  at  daybreak  to  rouse  the 
chase. 

My  houndes  are  bred  of  Southern  kinde, 

So  flewed,  so  sanded  they  ; 
With  crooked  knees  and  dew-laps  depe, 
With  eares  the  morning  dew  that  sweepe 

Slowly  they  chase  their  praye  ; 
Their  mouths,  as  tunable  as  belles 
Each  under  each  in  concert  swells. 
The  hunte  is  up,  the  morne  is  bright  and  gray, 
Hunting  ws  hence  with  hunte 's  up  to  the  day.  .  .  . 

Beyond  all  beastys  poor  timorous  Wat 

The  hunter's  skille  doth  trye, 
See  how  the  houndes,  with  many  a  doubte 
The  cold  fault  cleanly  single  out  ! 

Hark  to  their  merrie  crie  ! 
Thev  spende  their  mouthes,  echoe  replies, 
Another  chase  is  in  the  skies. 
The  hunte  is  up,  the  morne  is  bright  and  gray, 
Hunting  us  hence  with  hunte' s  up  to  the  day.  .  .  . 

These  are  two  of  the  seven  stanzas  of  a  song  richlv  larded 
with  Shakesperean  allusions,  to  be  found  in  The  Diary  of  Master 
William  Silence. 

In  his  book  on  English  Poesy,  Puttenham,  who  was  born 
about  1520,  says  that  a  poet  of  the  name  of  Gray  won  the  esteem 
of  Henry  VIII.  and  the  Duke  of  Somerset  for  "  making  certeine 
merry  ballades,  whereof  one  chiefly  was,  '  the  hunte  is  up,  the 
hunte  is  up."  Henry  VIII.,  moreover,  was  himself  a  versifier, 
and  a  musician,  though,  as  I  have  read,  a  dull  one.  Here  is 
the  first  stanza  of  one  of  his  poems  : 

As  the  holly  groweth  green, 
And  never  changeth  hue, 
So  I  am,  ever  hath  been 
Unto  my  lady  true.  .  .  . 
555 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

which,  with  another  equally  surprising  in  sentiment,  may  be 
found  in  full  in  thai  caskel  of  antiquities,  "  Karly  English 
I.viics,  chosm  l>y  E.  K.  Chambers  and  !■'.  Sidgwick." 

143.     "  With  his  Coat  so  gray." 

Though  I  be  now  a  grey,  grey  friar. 
Yet  1  was  once  a  hale  young  knight, 
11  te  cry  of  my  dogs  was  the  only  quoir 
In  which  my  spirit  did  take  delight. 

Thomas  Love  Peacock 

"  D'ye  ken  that  a  Fox  with  his  last  Breath  cursed  them 

ALL   AS    HE   DIED    IN    THE    MORNING." 

'  Hearken,  Reynard,  to  my  words,'  (went  on  the  King  of 
Beasts).  '  To-day  you  shall  answer  with  your  life  for  these 
sins  you  have  committed.'.  .  .  '  But  nay,  my  lord,'  (sighed  the 
fox),  '  I  am  innocent  of  all  these  things.  Your  Majesty  is  great 
and  mighty  ;  I  meagre  and  weak.  If  it  is  the.  King's  pleasure 
to  kill  me,  I  must  die,  for  whether  justly  or  unjustly,  I  am 
your  servant  ;  my  only  strength  is  in  your  justice  and  mercy. 
To  these  I  appeal,  as  none  has  yet  appealed  in  vain.  Yea,  if 
it  be  your  Majesty's  will  that  I  shall  die,  then  do  I  accept  it 
humbly.  I  say  no  more.  But  yet  I  cannot  think  it  a  worthy 
thing  for  so  great  a  King  to  wreak  his  vengeance  upon  a  subject 
so  small.'  " 

148.     "  A  Fulle  Fayre  Tyme." 

What  wonder  May  was  welcome  in  medieval  days — after  the 
long  winters  and  the  black  cold  nights  when  roads  were  all  but 
impassable,  and  men,  "  despisinge  schetes  "  and  nightgear, 
went  to  their  naked  beds  with  nought  but  the  stars  or  a 
dip  for  candle  and  maybe  their  own  bones  and  a  scatter 
of  straw  for  warmth.  Is  not  "  Loud  sing  Cuckoo  !  "  our 
oldest  song  ? 

149.     "  Lubber  Breeze'" 

1  suppose,  is  the  prevalent  wind  in  Lubberland  or  Cocaigne, 
where  "  the  pigs  run  about  ready  roasted,  and  cry,  Come  eat 
me!  " 

And  here  is  a  picture  of  another  land  of  mill,  that  once  long 

550 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

ago  sang  to  its  waters,  and  dreamed  above  its  image  in  the 
weir  : 

Only  the  sound  remains 

Of  the  old  mill  ; 

Gone  is  the  wheel ; 

On  the  prone  roof  and  walls  the  nettle  reigns. 

Water  that  toils  no  more 

Dangles  white  locks 

And,  falling,  mocks 

The  music  of  the  mill-wheel's  busy  roar.  .  .  . 

Only  the  idle  foam 
Of  water  falling 
Changelessly  calling, 

Where  once  men  had  a  work-place  and  a  home. 

Edward  Thomas 

150.     "  The  Ample  Heaven." 

The  unthrifty  sun  shot  vital  gold, 

A  thousand  pieces  ; 
And  heaven  its  azure  did  unfold 
Chequered  with  snowy  fleeces  ; 
The  air  was  all  in  spice, 
And  every  bush 
A  garland  wore  ;  thus  fed  my  eyes, 
But  all  the  earth  lay  hush. 

Only  a  little  fountain  lent 

Some  use  for  ears, 
And  on  the  dumb  shades  language  spent — 
The  music  of  her  tears. 

Henry  Vaughan 

"  The  Time  sa  Tranquil  is  and  Still."  (line  13) 

Clear  had  the  day  been  from  the  dawn, 

All  chequered  was  the  sky, 
Thin  clouds,  like  scarves  of  cobweb  lawn, 

Veiled  heaven's  most  glorious  eye. 

The  wind  had  no  more  strength  than  this, 
— That  leisurely  it  blew — 
557 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

To  make  one  loaf  the  next  to  kiss 
That  closely  by  it  grew. 

The  rills,  that  on  the  pebbles  played. 
Might  now  be  heard  at  will  ; 

I  his  world  the  only  music  made, 
HI  so  everything  was  still.  .  .  . 

Michael  Drayton 

153.     "O  for  a  Booke." 

Nor — says  John  Bunyan  : 

Nor  let  them  fall  under  Discouragement 

Who  at  their  Horn-book  stick,  and  time  hath  spent 

Upon  (their)  A,  B,  C  while  others  do 

Into  their  Primer,  or  their  Psalter  go. 

Some  boys  with  difficulty  do  begin 

Who  in  the  end,  the  Bays,  and  Lawrel  win. 

On  the  other  hand  ; 

Some  Boys  have  Wit  enough  to  sport  and  play, 
Who  at  their  Books  are  Block-heads  day  by  day. 
Some  men  are  arch  enough  at  any  Vice, 
But  Dunces  in  the  way  to  Paradice. 

So  much  for  the  reader,  but  the  writer,  too,  may  fall  under 
discouragement.  Listen  to  Colum  Cille,  an  Irish  scribe  of  the 
eleventh  century,  in  yet  another  translation  from  the  Gaelic  : 

My  hand  is  weary  with  writing, 

My  sharp  quill  is  not  steady, 

My  slender-beaked  pen  pours  forth 

A  black  draught  of  shining  dark-blue  ink. 

A  stream  of  the  wisdom  of  blessed  God 
Springs  from  my  fair-brown  shapely  hand  ; 
On  the  page  it  squirts  its  draught 
Of  ink  of  the  green-skinned  holly. 

My  little  dripping  pen  travels 
Across  the  plain  of  shining  books, 
Without  ceasing  for  the  wealth  of  the  great — 
Whence  my  hand  is  weary  with  writing. 

558 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

But  to  come  back  to  the  reader  in  his  shadie  nooke  : 

Tales  of  my  Nursery  !  shall  that  still  loved  spot, 

That  window  corner,  ever  be  forgot, 

Where  through  the  woodbine — when  with  upward  ray 

Gleamed  the  last  shadow  of  departing  day — 

Still  did  I  sit,  and  with  unwearied  eye, 

Read  while  I  wept,  and  scarcely  paused  to  sigh  ! 

In  that  gay  drawer,  with  fairy  fictions  stored, 

When  some  new  tale  was  added  to  my  hoard, 

While  o'er  each  page  my  eager  glance  was  flung, 

'Twas  but  to  learn  what  female  fate  was  sung  ; 

If  no  sad  maid  the  castle  shut  from  light, 

I  heeded  not  the  giant  and  the  knight. 

Sweet  Cinderella,  even  before  the  ball, 
How  did  I  love  thee — ashes,  rags,  and  all  ! 
What  bliss  I  deemed  it  to  have  stood  beside, 
On  every  virgin  when  thy  shoe  was  tried  ! 
How  longed  to  see  thy  shape  the  slipper  suit  ! 
But,  dearer  than  the  slipper,  loved  the  foot. 

As  for  "  the  streete  cryes  all  about  "  :  according  to  London 
Lickpenny,  among  the  street-cries  in  the  fifteenth  century 
were  :  Hot  Pease  !  Hot  Fine  Oatcakes  !  Whitings  maids, 
Whitings  !  Have  you  any  old  boots  ?  Buy  a  mat  !  New 
Brooms,  green  brooms  !  with  a  general  hullabaloo  of  What 
d'ye  lack  ?  and  now  and  again  a  bawling  of  Clubs  !  to  summon 
the  tag,  rag,  and  bobtail  to  a  row. 

Of  singing  cries,  we  may  still  hear  in  the  sunny  summer 
London  streets  such  sweet  and  doleful  strains  as  W^on't  you  buy 
my  sweet  blooming  lavender  :  Sixteen  branches  a  penny  !  and  in 
the  dusks  of  November  the  muffin-man's  bell.  Besides  these, 
we  have  Rag-a'-bone  !  Milk-o  !  Any  scissors  to  grind  ?  Clo' 
props  !   Water-creeses  !   and,  as  I  remember  years  ago, 

Young  lambs  to  sell,  white  lambs  to  sell  ; 

If  I'd  as  much  money  as  I  could  tell 

I  wouldn't  be  crying,  Young  lambs  to  sell  ! 

155-     "  With  Hey  !  with  How  !  with  Hoy." 

In  Rustic  Speech  and  Folk  Lore  Mrs.  Wright  gives  the  decoys 
with  which  the  country  people  all  over  England  beguile  their 
beasts  and  poultry  into  "  shippon,  sty,  or  pen  "  ;   or  holla  them 

559 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

on  their  way,  but  much,  I  have  fouud,  depends  on  him  who 

hollas  ! 

For  Cows  :  Coop  !  Cush,  cush  ! — while  the  milkmaid  calls — 
Hoaf!   Hobe  !   Mull!    Proo  !   Proochy  !    Prut! 

For  Calves  :  Moddie  !  Mog,  mog,  mog  1  Pui-ho  !  Sook, 
sook  ! 

For  Sheep  :    Co-hobe  !    Ovey  ! 

For  Pigs  :  Check-check  !  Cheat  !  Dack,  dack  !  Giss  !  or 
Gissy  !  Lix  !  Ric-sic  !  Shug,  shug,  shug  !  Tantassa,  tantassa 
pig,  tow  a  row,  a  row  !    Tig,  tig,  tig  ! 

For  Turkeys  :  Cobbler  !  Peet,  peet,  peet  !  Pen  !  Pur,  pur, 
pur  ! 

For  Geese  :   Fly-laig  !   Gag,  gag,  gag  !   Ob-ee  !   White-hoddy  ! 

For  Ducks  :  Bid,  bid,  bid  !  Diddle  !  Dill,  dill  !  Wid  ! 
Wheetie  ! 

For  Pigeons  :  Pees  !  Pod  ! 

And  for  Rabbits  :  Map  ! 

'  Yea,  and  I  do  vow  unto  thee,"  said  the  voice  of  the 
beautiful  virgin  speaking  out  of  the  rock  ;  "  Call  unto  them 
but  in  their  own  names  and  language,  and  the  strong  and 
delicate  creatures  of  the  countries  of  the  mind  will  flock  into 
the  living  field  of  thy  vision,  and  above  the  waters  will  befall 
the  secret  singing  of  birds,  and  thou  shalt  be  a  pilgrim.  Mark 
how  intense  a  shadow  dwells  upon  this  stone  !  Therein  too 
lurk  marvels  to  be  seen."  The  voice  ceased,  and  I  heard 
nothing  but  the  tapping  of  a  fragment  of  dry  lichen  which  in 
the  draught  of  the  hot  air  caused  by  the  burning  sunlight 
stirred  between  rock  and  sand.  And  I  cried,  "  O  unfortunate 
one,  I  thirst !  " 

156.     "  Lavender's  blue." 

"  A  poor  thing,"  as  Audrey  says,  but  homely  and  melodious 
and  once  somebody's  own  :  such  a  somebody  as  inscribed  on 
the  walls  of  Burford  Church  : 

"...  Dove  made  me  Poet 
And  this  I  writt, 
My  harte  did  do  yt 
And  not  my  witt." 


560 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

159.     "  There  is  a  Garden  in  her  Face." 

Thomas  Campion  was  "  borne  upon  Ash  Weddensday  being 
the  twelft  day  of  February.  An.  Rg.  Eliz.  nono  " — 1567.  He 
had  one  sister,  Rose.  He  was  educated  at  Peterhouse,  Cam- 
bridge, and  this  was  his  yearly  allowance  of  clothes  :  A  gowne, 
a  cap,  a  hat,  ii  dubletes,  ii  payres  of  hose,  iiii  payres  of  nether- 
stockes,  vi  payre  of  shoes,  ii  shirts,  and  two  bandes.  He  was 
allowed  also  one  quire  of  paper  every  quarter  ;  and  half  a 
pound  of  candles  every  fortnight  from  Michaelmas  to  Lady 
Day.  He  studied  law,  may  for  a  time  have  fought  as  a  soldier 
in  France,  and  became  a  physician.  He  died  on  March  1, 
1620,  and  was  buried  on  the  same  day  at  St.  Dunstan's  in 
the  West,  Fleet  Street,  the  entry  in  the  register  under  that 
date  being :  "  Thomas  Campion,  doctor  of  Phisicke,  was 
buried." 

I  have  taken  these  particulars  from  Mr.  S.  P.  Vivian's 
edition  of  his  poems,  because  it  is  pleasant  to  share  even  this 
little  of  what  is  known  of  a  man  who  is  not  only  a  rare  and 
true  poet — though  for  two  centuries  a  forgotten  one — but  also 
because  he  was  one  of  the  chief  song-writers  in  the  great  age 
of  English  Music.  Like  all  good  craftsmen,  he  did  his  work 
"  well,  surely,  cleanly,  workmanly,  substantially,  curiously, 
and  sufficiently,"  as  did  the  glaziers  of  King's  College  Chapel, 
which  is  distant  but  a  kingfisher's  flight  over  a  strip  of  lovely 
water  from  his  own  serene  Peterhouse.  It  seems  a  little 
curious  that  being  himself  a  lover  of  music  he  should  have 
at  first  disliked  rhymes  in  verse,  though  he  lived  to  write  such 
delicate  rhymed  poems  as  this. 

In  the  preface  to  his  Book  of  Ayres,  he  tells  the  secret  of  his 
craft  :  "In  these  English  Ayres,"  he  says,  "  I  have  chief  ely 
aymed  to  couple  my  Words  and  Notes  lovingly  together, 
which  will  be  much  for  him  to  doe  that  hath  not  power 
over  both." 

160.     "What  is  there  hid  in  the  Heart  of  a  Rose  ?" 

There  is  a  legend  in  Sir  John  Mandeville's  Travels,  which  in 
our  spelling  runs  thus  :  "  Bethlehem  is  a  little  city,  long  and 
narrow  and  well  walled,  and  on  each  side  enclosed  with  good 
ditches.  It  was  wont  to  be  called  Ephrata.  .  .  .  And  toward 
the  east  end  of  the  city  is  a  full  fair  church  and  a  gracious,  and 

561  2  x 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

it  hath  many  towers,  pinnacles,  and  corners,  full  strong,  and 
curiously  made  ;  and  within  that  church  be  forty-four  pillars 
of  marble,  massive  and  fair. 

"And  between  the  city  and  the  church  is  the  field  Floridus, 
that  is  to  say,  the  '  Field  of  Flowers  '  ;  it  being  so  named  for 
this  reason  :  A  fair  maiden  was  blamed  with  wrong  and 
slandered.  .  .  .  for  which  cause  she  was  demned  to  death  and 
to  be  burnt  in  that  place,  to  the  which  she  was  led.  And,  as 
the  fire  began  to  crackle  about  her,  she  made  her  prayers  to  our 
Lord, — that,  as  assuredly  as  she  was  not  guilty  of  that  sin, 
He  would  help  her  and  make  it  to  be  known  to  all  men,  of  His 
merciful  grace.  And  when  she  had  thus  said,  she  entered  into 
the  fire,  and  anon  was  the  fire  quenched  and  out ;  and  the 
brands  that  were  burning  became  red  rose-trees,  and  the  brands 
that  were  not  kindled  became  white  rose-trees,  full  of  roses. 
And  these  were  the  first  rose-trees  and  roses,  both  white  and 
red,  that  ever  any  man  saw  ;  and  thus  was  this  maiden  saved 
by  the  grace  of  God.  And  therefore  is  that  field  clept  the  field 
of  God,  Floridus,  for  it  is  full  of  roses." 

163.     "  These  Flowers,  as  in  their  causes,  sleep." 

(line  4) 

— while,  also,  flowers  may  themselves  be  the  causes  of  poems, 
as,  in  a  degree,  a  dewdrop  in  a  buttercup  is  of  the  buttercup's 
causing.     There  the  rhodora,  or  rhododendron  : 

In  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  solitudes, 
I  found  the  fresh  Rhodora  in  the  woods, 
Spreading  its  leafless  blooms  in  a  damp  nook, 
To  please  the  desert  and  the  sluggish  brook. 
The  purple  petals,  fallen  in  the  pool, 
Made  the  black  water  with  their  beauty  gay  ; 
Here  might  the  red-bird  come  his  plumes  to  cool, 
And  court  the  flower  that  cheapens  his  array. 
Rhodora  !     Let  the  sages  ask  thee  why 
This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  earth  and  sky  .  .  . 
Why  thou  wert  there,  O  rival  of  the  rose  ! 
I  never  thought  to  ask,  I  never  knew  ; 
But,  in  my  simple  ignorance,  suppose 

The  self-same  Power  that  brought  me  there  brought  you.  .  .  . 

R.  W.  Emerson 
562 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

And  here  anemone  and  cyclamen — in  an  enchanting  little 
poem  of  but  the  day  before  yesterday  : 

Long  ago  I  went  to  Rome 

As  pilgrims  go  in  Spring, 
Journeying  through  the  happy  hills 

Where  nightingales  sing, 
And  where  the  blue  anemones 

Drift  among  the  pines 
Until  the  woods  creep  down  into 

A  wilderness  of  vines. 

Now  every  year  I  go  to  Rome 

As  lovers  go  in  dreams, 
To  pick  the  fragrant  cyclamen 

To  bathe  in  Sabine  streams, 
And  come  at  nightfall  to  the  city 

Across  the  shadowy  plain, 
And  hear  through  all  the  dusty  streets 

The  waterfalls  again. 

Margaret  Cecilia  Furse 

"The  Phoenix  builds  her  Spicy  Nest."   (line  18) 

The  Phoenix,  in  faith  rather  than  by  sight,  is  thus  described 
by  Pliny  :  "  She  is  as  big  as  an  eagle,  in  colour  yellow,  and 
bright  as  gold,  namely  all  about  the  neck,  the  rest  of  the  bodie 
a  deepe  red  purple  ;  the  taile  azure  blue,  intermingled  with 
feathers  among  of  rose  carnation  colour  :  and  the  head  bravely 
adorned  with  a  crest  and  pennache  finely  wrought,  having  a 
tuft  and  plume  thereupon  right  faire  and  goodly  to  be  seene." 

Her  life  is  but  three  hundred  and  nine  years  less  in  duration 
than  that  of  the  many-centuried  patriarch  Methuselah.  When 
the  lassitude  of  age  begins  to  creep  upon  her,  she  wings  across 
sea  and  land  to  the  sole  Arabian  Tree.  There  she  builds  a 
nest  of  aromatic  twigs,  cassia  and  frankincense,  and  enkindling 
it  with  her  own  dying  ardour  she  is  consumed  to  ashes.  And 
yet — while  still  they  are  of  a  heat  beyond  the  tempering  of  the 
sun  that  shines  down  on  them  from  the  heavens,  they  magically 
stir,  take  bod)'-  and  awaken  ;  and  she  rearises  to  life  renewed, 
in  her  gold,  her  rose  carnation,  her  purple  and  azure  blue. 


563 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

164.     "  The  Bower  of  Bliss." 

This  and  No.  348  are  but  the  merest  fragments  of  the 
Faerie  Queene;  bul  they  show  of  what  an  echoing  mutable 
music  are  its  words.  And  were  ever  light  and  colour  so  living, 
natural  and  crystal  clear  ?  Reading  this  verse,  hearing  its 
sounds  and  seeing  its  sights  in  the  imagination,  you  cannot 
think  Thomas  Nash  was  too  fantastical  when  he  wrote  : 
'  Poetry  is  the  Honey  of  all  Flowers,  the  Quintessence  of  all 
Sciences,  the  Marrow  of  Art  and  the  very  Phrase  of  Angels." 
Indeed,  as  Spenser's  epitaph  in  Westminster  Abbey  says  of 
him,  he  was  the  Prince  of  Poets  of  his  time,  whose  divine 
spirit  needs  no  other  witness  than  the  works  which  he  left 
behind  him.  And  poet  of  poets  he  has  always  remained. 
John  Keats,  when  he  was  a  boy,  used  to  sit  in  a  little  summer- 
house  at  Enfield  with  his  schoolfellow  Cowden  Clarke,  simply 
drinking  in  this  verse,  and  laying  up  store  of  purest  English  for 
his  own  brief  life's  matchless  work.    So,  too,  Abraham  Cowley  : 

'  How  this  love  (for  poetry)  came  to  be  produced  in  me  so 
early  is  a  hard  question.  I  believe  I  can  tell  the  particular 
little  chance  that  filled  my  head  first  with  such  chimes  of  verse 
as  have  never  since  left  ringing  there.  For  I  remember  when 
I  began  to  read,  and  to  take  some  pleasure  in  it,  there  was  wont 
to  lie  in  my  mother's  parlour  (I  know  not  by  what  accident, 
for  she  herself  never  in  her  life  read  any  book  but  of  devotion), 
but  there  was  wont  to  lie  Spenser's  works  ;  this  I  happened 
to  fall  upon,  and  was  infinitely  delighted  with  the  stories  of 
the  knights  and  giants  and  monsters  and  brave  houses  which  I 
found  everywhere  there  (though  my  understanding  had  little 
to  do  with  all  this)  ;  and  by  degrees  with  the  tinkling  of  the 
rhyme  and  dance  of  the  numbers,  so  that  I  think  I  had  read 
him  all  over  before  I  was  twelve  years  old.  ..." 

170. 

The  poems  of  Robert  Herrick  and  of  Thomas  Campion 
though  known  well  in  their  own  day  remained  for  many  years 
practically  unread  and  forgotten.  Thomas  Traherne's  (who 
died  in  1674)  bad  an  even  more  curious  fate,  for  they  were 
discovered  in  manuscript  and  by  chance  on  a  bookstall  so  lately 
as  1896,  and  were  first  taken  to  be  the  work  of  Henry  Vaughan. 
Here  is  a  passage  in  prose  from  Centuries  of  Meditation,  by  the 

564 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

same  writer,  repeating  this  reverie  of  his  childhood  in  other 
words"  :  '  The  corn  was  orient  and  immortal  wheat  which 
never  should  be  reaped  nor  was  ever  sown.  I  thought  it  had 
stood  from  everlasting  to  everlasting.  The  dust  and  stones 
of  the  street  were  as  precious  as  gold  ;  the  gates  were  at  first 
the  end  of  the  world.  The  green  trees  when  I  saw  them  first 
through  one  of  the  gates  transported  and  ravished  me ;  their 
sweetness  and  unusual  beauty  made  my  heart  to  leap,  and 
almost  mad  with  ecstasy,  they  were  such  strange  and  wonderful 
things.  The  men  !  oh,  what  venerable  and  reverend  creatures 
did  the  aged  seem  !  Immortal  cherubims  !  And  young  men 
glittering  and  sparkling  angels  !  and  maids  strange  seraphic 
pieces  of  life  and  beauty  !  Boys  and  girls  tumbling  in  the 
street  were  moving  jewels  :  I  knew  not  that  they  were  born 
or  should  die.  But  all  things  abided  eternally  as  they  were 
in  their  proper  places.  Eternity  was  manifest  in  the  light  of 
the  day,  and  something  infinite  behind  everything  appeared, 
which  talked  with  my  expectation  and  moved  my  desire.  .  .  ." 

172.     "  But  silly  we."  (line  9) 

This  poem,  I  think  carries  with  it  the  thought  that  in  study  of 
that  great  book,  that  fair  volume,  called  the  World,  there  is 
no  full  stop,  no  limit,  pause,  conclusion.  Like  bees,  with  their 
nectar  and  honeycomb,  man  stores  up  his  knowledge  and 
experience  in  books.  These  and  his  houses  outlast  him  ;  the 
things  he  makes  ;  and  here  and  there  a  famous  or  happy  or 
tragic  name  is  for  a  while  remembered.  Else,  we  have  our 
Spring  and  Summer — and  dark  cold  skies  enough,  many  of  us 
— then  vanish  away,  seeming  but  restless  phantoms  in  Time's 
enormous  dream.  So  far  at  least  as  this  world  is  concerned. 
And  generations  of  men — as  of  the  grasses  and  flowers — follow 
one  upon  the  other. 

Oh,  yes,  my  dear,  you  have  a  Mother, 
And  she,  when  voung,  was  loved  by  another, 
And  in  that  mother's  nursery 
Played  her  mamma,  like  you  and  me. 
When  that  mamma  was  tiny  as  you 
She  had  a  happy  mother  too  : 
On,  on  .  .  .  Yes,  presto  !     Puff  !     Pee-fee  ! — 
And  Grandam  Eve  and  the  apple-tree. 

565 


AHOUT  AND  KOUNDAHOUT 

O,  into  distance,  smalling,  dimming, 

Think  of  that  endless  row  of  women, 

Like  beads,  like  posts,  like  lamps,  they  seem — 

Grey-green  willows,  and  life  a  stream — 

Laughing  and  sighing  and  lovely  ;    and,  Oh, 

You  to  be  next  in  that  long  row  ! 

And  yet,  "  But  silly  we  "  is  true  of  most  of  us  and  of  most  of 
our  time  on  earth.     As  Coventry  Patmore  says  : 

An  idle  Poet,  here  and  there, 

Looks  round  him,  but,  for  all  the  rest, 
The  world,  unfathomably  fair, 

Is  duller  than  a  witling's  jest. 
Love  wakes  men,  once  a  life-time  each  ; 

They  lift  their  heavy  lids,  and  look  ; 
And,  lo,  what  one  sweet  page  can  teach 

They  read  with  joy,  then  shut  the  book  : 
And  some  give  thanks,  and  some  blaspheme, 

And  most  forget ;  but,  either  way, 
That  and  the  Child's  unheeded  dream 

Is  all  the  light  of  all  their  day. 

Or'again,  in  the  words  of  Sir  John  Davies — long  since  dead  : 

...  I  know  my  Soul  hath  power  to  know  all  tilings, 
Yet  is  she  blind  and  ignorant  in  all  : 
I  know  I  am  one  of  Nature's  little  kings, 
Yet  to  the  least  and  vilest  things  am  thrall. 
I  know  my  life's  a  pain  and  but  a  span, 
I  know  my  sense  is  mocked  with  everything ; 
And,  to  conclude,  I  know  myself  a  man 
Which  is  a  proud  and  yet  a  wretched  thing. 

175.     "For  Soldiers" 

from  an  old  book  entitled,  "  A  Posie  of  Gilloflowers,  eche 
differing  from  other  in  Colour  and  Odour,  yet  all  sweete." 
There  were  pretty  and  sonorous  names  for  collections  of  poems 
in  the  days  of  Humfrey  Gifford  (of  whom  nothing  is  known 
but  that  he  made  this  Posie) — such  as  Wits  Commonwealth  ; 
The  Banket  of  Sapience  ;  The  Paradise  of  Dainty  Devices  ; 
A  Gorgeous  Gallery  of  Gallant  Inventions  ;  and  A  Handfull  of 
Pleasant  Delights. 

566 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

"  Ye  Buds  of  Brutus  land  " 

sons  of  those,  that  is,  who,  according  to  the  ancient  myth 
were  descended  from  Brut  or  Brute,  the  Trojan,  the  conqueror 
of  Albion  and  its  giants,  the  founder  of  London,  after  whom 
the  land  is  named  Britain. 

"Soldiers  are  prest  "  (stanza  i) 

that  is,  seized  by  the  King's  men,  the  press-gangs,  and 
carried  away  by  force  to  fight  in  the  wars. 

"  Your  Queen." 

"  To  the  Most  High,  Mightie  and  Magnificent  Empresse 
Renowmed  for  Pietie,  Vertue,  and  all  Gratious  Government 
Elizabeth  by  the  Grace  of  God  Queene  of  England  Fraunce 
and  Ireland  and  of  Virginia."  So  runs  Spenser's  dedication 
of  "  The  Faerie  Queene,"  while  in  "  The  Shepheardes  Calender  " 
for  April,  are  the  lines  : 

See,  where  she  sits  upon  the  grassie  greene, 

(O  seemely  sight) 
Yclad  in  Scarlot  like  a  mayden  Queene, 

And  Ermines  white. 
Upon  her  head  a  Cremosin  coronet, 
With  Damaske  roses  and  Daffadillies  set  : 

Bayleaves  betweene, 

And  Primroses  greene 
Embellish  the  sweete  Violet. 

In  "  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,"  Oberon  tells  Puck  how 
he  saw  that  "  Faire  Vestall  "  in  danger  of  Love's  sharp  arrows — 
and  "  The  Imperiall  Votresse  passed  on  In  maiden  meditation, 
fancy  free."  But  Shakespeare,  if  actually  invited  to  Court, 
it  is  said,  "  was  in  paine." 

176.     *'  The  Battle-Hymn." 

The  writer  of  this  magnificent  Battle-Hymn  died  in  1910, 
at  the  age  of  ninety-one.  If  Henry  Carey,  who  wrote  our  own 
"  National  Anthem,"  had  realised  how  much  and  how  often 
his  fellow  countrymen  were  to  be  fated  to  use  his  words,  he 
would  perhaps  have  taken  a  little  more  trouble  with  them  (as 
much,  at  any  rate,  as  Shelley  and  Flecker  took  in  their  versions 

567 


\r.OUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

it),  and  would  have  found  a  pleasanter  rhyme  than  "over 
ns  "  for  "  glorious,"  and  than  "  voi<  >■  "  for  "  cause."  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  he  had  read  the  following  Greta  which  Ben  fonson 
made  at  the  moment's  call  before  King  James,  he  might 
perhaps  have  refrained  from  rhyming  altogether,  and  so,  by 
sheer  modesty,  would  have  missed  being  immortalized  : 

Our  King  and  Queen  the  Lord  God  Blcsse, 

The  Paltzgrave,  and  the  Lady  Besse. 

And  God  blesse  every  living  thing 

That  lives,  and  breathes,  and  loves  the  King. 

God  bless  the  Counsell  of  Estate, 

And  Buckingham  the  fortunate. 

God  blesse  them  all,  and  keep  them  safe, 

And  God  blesse  me,  and  God  blesse  Raph. 

'  The  king,"  says  John  Aubrey,  "  was  mighty  enquisitive 
to  know  who  this  Raph  was.  Ben  told  him  'twas  the  drawer 
at  the  Swanne  taverne,  by  Charing-crosse,  who  drew  him  good 
Canarie.  For  this  drollery  his  majestie  gave  Ben  an  hundred 
poundes.  .  .  ." 

177. 

'  To  those,"  is  is  said,  "  who  have  resided  a  long  time  by 
the  falls  of  Niagara,  the  lowest  whisper  is  distinctly  audible." 
Their  hearing  accustoms  itself  to  that  unending  and  enormous 
roar,  and  becomes  more  exquisite.  This  is  untrue  of  those  whose 
finer  sense  is  lulled  by  the  roar  of  war  :  they  become  deafened, 
and  cannot  hear  the  voice  of  the  one  soldier — of  which  human 
"  ones  "  every  army  is  composed.  And  so  war  may  poison 
even  when  its  intention  and  its  cause  are  honour  and  faith. 
In  this  particular  poem  (No.  177),  the  soldier  is  one  of  those 
who  fought  in  the  Transvaal  in  the  years  1 899-1 901. 

180. 

Rupert  Brooke,  Wilfred  Owen,  Edward  Thomas,  Julian 
Grenfell,  Charles  Sorley,  Francis  Ledwidge,  Alan  Seeger,  Joyce 
Kilmer — these  are  the  names  of  but  a  few  of  the  men,  none 
of  them  old,  many  of  them  in  the  heyday  of  their  gifts  and 
genius,  who  besides  proving  themselves  soldiers  in  the  Great 
War  had  also  proved  themselves  poets.     Within  his  powers, 

5C8 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

every  true  poet  lives  in  his  country's  service.  These  in  that 
service  died. 

"...  Old  stairs  wind  upwards  to  a  long  corridor,  the  distant 
ends  of  which  are  unseen.  A  few  candles  gutter  in  the  draughts. 
The  shadows  leap.  The  place  is  so  still  that  I  can  hear  the 
antique  timbers  talking.  But  something  is  without  which  is 
not  the  noise  of  the  wind.  I  listen,  and  hear  it  again,  the 
darkness  throbbing  ;  the  badly  adjusted  horizon  of  outer  night 
thudding  on  the  earth — the  incessant  guns  of  the  great  war. 

And  I  come,  for  this  night  at  least,  to  my  room.  On  the 
wall  is  a  tiny  silver  Christ  on  a  crucifix  ;  and  above  that  the 
portrait  of  a  child,  who  fixes  me  in  the  surprise  of  innocence, 
questioning  and  loveable,  the  very  look  of  warm  April  and 
timid  but  confiding  light.  I  sleep  with  the  knowledge  of  that 
over  me,  an  assurance  greater  than  that  of  all  the  guns  of  all 
the  hosts.  It  is  a  promise.  I  may  wake  to  the  earth  I  user1 
to  know  in  the  morning."  H.  M.  Tomlinson 

184. 

The  reader  may  speculate  how  it  is  that  while  room  has 
been  found  here  for  this  entrancing  rhyme,  none  has  been  made 
for  Macaulay's  longer  Lays,  Browning's  Cavalier  Songs,  and 
a  host  of  poems  equally  gallant  and  spirited.  Perhaps  he 
will  forgive  their  absence  if  he  will  consider  what  is  said  on 
page  xxxiii,  and  if  he  will  also  remember  that  every  chooser 
must  make  his  choice. 

There  is,  too,  the  story  of  the  Woodcutter's  son.  This  fuzz- 
headed  boy,  called  Dick  or  Dickon,  while  playing  on  his  elder 
pipe  the  tune  of  "  Over  the  Hills  "  one  dappled  sunshine 
morning  in  the  woods,  fortuning  to  squinny  his  eye  sidelong 
over  his  pipe,  perceived  a  crooked  and  dwarf  old  man  to  be 
standing  beside  him  where  before  was  only  a  solitary  bearded 
thistle.  This  old  man,  the  twist  of  whose  countenance  showed 
him  to  be  one  with  an  ear  for  woodland  music,  invited  the 
Woodcutter's  son  to  descend  with  him  into  the  orchards  of  the 
Gnomes — and  to  help  himself.  This  he  did,  and  marvellously 
he  fared.  On  turning  out  his  pockets  that  night — the  next 
day  being  a  Sunday — his  Mother  found  (apart  from  the 
wondrous  smouldering  heap  of  fruits,  amethyst,  emerald,  rubies 
and  the  topaz,  which  he  had  given  her)  two  or  three  strange 
unpolished  stones,  and  these  also  from  the  Old  Man's  orchards. 

569 


AHOIJT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

And  she  climbed  up  with  her  candle,  he  being  abed,  and  asked 
him  why  he  had  burdened  himself  with  such  things  of  little 
seeming  value,  when  he  might  have  carried  off  their  weight 
in  diamonds  big  as  dumplings.  Well,  you  see,  mother  dear," 
he  drowsily  replied,  "  I  chose  of  the  best  and  brightest  till  my 
eves  dazzled  ;  and  then  there  was  a  bird  that  called,  Dick  ! 
Dick  !  Dick  !  Dick  !  and  those  magic  pebbles  were  among  her 
eggs." 

185.     "  We  be  the  King's  Men." 

The  Song  of  Soldiers  from  Act  I.,  Scene  1.,  Part  i.  of  that 
mighty  play,  The  Dynasts.  "  The  time  is  a  fine  day  in  March, 
1805.  A  highway  crosses  the  ridge,  which  is  near  the  sea,  and 
the  south  coast  is  seen  bounding  the  landscape  below,  the 
open   Channel  extending  beyond." 

186.     Budmouth  Dears 

—from  The  Dynasts,  Act  II.,  Scene  1.,  Part  iii. — the  song  sung 
in  Camp  on  the  Plain  of  Vittoria  by  Sergeant  Young  (of 
Sturminster  Newton)  of  the  Fifteenth  (King's)  Hussars  on  the 
eve  of  the  longest  day  in  the  year  1813  and  of  Wellington's 
victory. 

187.     "  Trafalgar  " 

— from  The  Dynasts,  Act  V.,  Scene  vn.,  Part  i.  Boatmen 
and  burghers  with  their  pipes  and  mugs  are  sitting  on  settles 
round  the  fire  in  the  taproom  of  the  Old  Rooms  Inn  at  Wey- 
mouth. The  body  of  Nelson  on  board  his  battered  Victory  has 
lately  been  brought  to  England  to  be  sepulchred  in  St.  Paul's. 
And  this  is  the  Song  the  Second  Boatman  sings. 

The  "  Nothe,"  line  8,  is  the  promontory  that  divides  for 
Weymouth,  where  lived  Nelson's  Captain  Hardy,  its  harbour  or 
back-sea  on  the  north,  and  the  Portland  Roads,  its  front-sea 
on  the  south  "  Roads,"  meaning  protected  seas  where  ships  may 
fide  at  anchor.  On  this  tempestuous  and  fateful  night,  October 
21,  1805,  the  breakers  were  sweeping  clean  across  the  spit  of 
land  called  the  Narrows.  On  the  further  side  runs  for  a  round 
ten  miles  that  enormous  wall  of  pebbles — Chesil  Beach,  whose 
stones  the  tides  sort  out  so  precisely — the  least  in  size  towards 
Lyme  Regis — that  a  coast-man  can  tell  even  in  a  thick  mist 
where  he  has  landed  on  the  beach,  merely  by  measuring  them 

570 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

with  his  eye.  About  ten  miles  up  this  water  swim  in  Spring 
the  swans  of  the  Swannery  of  Abbotsbury  with  their  cygnets, 
each  mother-bird  striving  to  decoy  as  many  strange  young 
ones  into  her  train  as  she  can.  So  deals  a  proud  and  powerful 
nation  with  the  lesser  kingdoms  of  the  earth. 

About  four  years  and  a  half  before  Trafalgar,  on  April  2nd, 
i  So  i,  Nelson  and  Parker  had  won  the  Battle  of  the  Baltic — 
as  Thomas  Campbell  (who  was  then  twenty- four),  in  his  well- 
known  poem  tells  : 

.  .  .  Like  leviathans  afloat 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine  ; 

While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  line  : 

It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime  : 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path, 

There  was  silence  deep  as  death  ; 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath, 

For  a  time.  .  .  . 

So  accustomed,  indeed,  are  we  mere  landsmen  to  the  exploits 
of  the  Navy  on  the  High  Seas  that  we  easily  forget  it  was  once 
to  our  forefathers  a  novelty  and  a  wonder — such  a  wonder  as 
might  be  compared  with  the  fabulous  Castles  in  Spain  or  the 
Gardens  of  Babylon,  as  the  old  nameless  poet  of  the  following 
lines  recounts  : 

Cease  now  the  talke  of  wonders  !  nothing  rare 
Of  floateing  ilandes,  castles  in  the  aire  ! 
Of  wooden  walls,  graves  walkeing,  flieing  steedes, 
Or  Trojan  horse  !     The  present  truth  exceeds 
Those  .ancient  fables  ;  floating  iles  great  store, 
Sent  from  the  British  He,  now  guard  her  shore, 
And  castles  strong  without  foundation  stande 
More  safe  on  waters  pavement  then  on  lande.  .  .  . 

189.     "  Brave  Sailors." 

And  here  is  one  of  them — come  home  to  his  sweetheart,  and 
she  (until  stanza  6)  not  recognizing  him  : 

As  I  walked  out  one  night,  it  being  dark  all  over, 
The  moon  did  show  no  light  I  could  discover, 
Down  by  a  river  side  where  ships  were  sailing, 
A  lonely  maid  I  spied,  weeping  and  bewailing. 

571 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

I  boldly  stepl  up  to  her,  and  asked  her  what  grieved  her, 
She  made  me  this  reply,  "  None  could  relieve  her, 
For  my  love  is  pressed,  she  cried,  to  cross  the  ocean, 
My  mind  is  Like  the  Sea,  always  in  motion." 

He  said,  "  My  pretty  fair  maid,  mark  well  my  story, 
For  your  true  love  and  I  fought  for  England's  glory, 
By  one  unlucky  shot  we  both  got  parted, 

And  by  the  wounds  he  got,  I'm  broken  hearted. 

"  He  told  me  before  he  died  his  heart  was  broken, 
He  gave  me  this  gold  ring,  take  it  for  a  token, — 
•  Take  this  unto  my  dear,  there  is  no  one  fairer, 
Tell  her  to  be  kind  and  love  the  bearer.'  " 

Soon  as  these  words  he  spoke  she  ran  distracted, 

Not  knowing  what  she  did,  nor  how  she  acted, 

She  run  ashore,  her  hair  showing  her  anger, 

"  Young  man,  you've  come  too  late,  for  I'll  wed  no  stranger." 

Soon  as  these  words  she  spoke,  her  love  grew  stronger, 
He  flew  into  her  arms,  he  could  wait  no  longer, 
They  both  sat  down  and  sung,  but  she  sung  clearest, 
Like  a  Nightingale  in  spring,  "  Welcome  home,  my  dearest." 

He  sang,  "  God  bless  the  wind  that  blew  him  over." 
She  sang,  "  God  bless  the  ship  that  brought  him  over," 
They  both  sat  down  and  sung,  but  she  sung  clearest, 
Like  a  Nightingale  in  spring,  Welcome  home,  my  dearest. 

To  get  any  rhythm  into  this  doggerel  is  like  persuading  a 
donkey  to  gallop.  And  yet  how  clearly  one  sees  the  dark 
night,  the  disguised  sailor  and  his  sweetheart  talking  together 
on  the  river  strand,  and  the  ships  on  its  bosom  in  the  gloom  ; 
while  the  wistful,  deceitful  tale  he  tells  her  is  as  old  as 
Romance.    Once  get  cantering,  too ;  how  pleasing  is  the  motion  ! 

192.     "  Dark  Rosaleen." 

From  his  childhood,  which  was  spent  in  a  little  shop  in 
Dublin,  Mangan  had  a  dark  and  troubled  life.  But  always  a 
passionate  love  for  his  country,  Ireland — his  Dark  Rosaleen — 
burned  on  in  his  imagination  as  it  is  revealed  in  the  wild  and 
haunting  music  of  this  poem. 

572 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

197. 

There  are  so  many  words  in  this  poem  strange  to  an  English 
ear  that  it  seems  better  to  explain  them  here  so  as  not  to 
interrupt  the  actual  reading  of  it  too  much.  After  all,  the 
little  that  is  not  plain  speaks  in  its  music,  and  that  is  a  very- 
large  part  of  what  we  call  its  "  meaning."  For  the  meaning 
of  a  poem  is  all  the  interest,  thought,  pictures,  music,  and 
happiness  that  we  can  get  out  of  it — it  is  all  that  it  does  to  us. 

Stanza  (1)  "  loaning  "  is  a  green  path  in  the  fields,  and 
"  ilka  "  means  every  ;  "  wede  "  means  faded  or  vanished. 
(2)  "  bught  "  is  a  sheep-fold  ;  "  scorning  "  I  suppose  means 
cracking  jokes  at  one  another  ;  "  dowie  "  means  sad  and 
drooping  ;  "  daffing  "  and  "  gabbing  "  is  larking  and  gossiping ; 
a  "  leglin  "  is  a  milkpail.  (3)  "  hairst  "  means  harvest ; 
"  bandsters  ,"  sheaf-binders  ;  "  lyart  "  is  faded  with  age  ; 
"  runkled  "  wrinkled  ;  "  fleeching  "  is  wheedling  or  coaxing 
or  flirting.  (4)  "  swankies  "  means  the  blithe  lads  of  stanza  2  ; 
"  bogle  "  means  goblin  or  bogey — an  evening  game  like  "  I 
spy,"  I  should  think.  (5)  "  Dool  and  wae  "  means  sorrow  or 
grief  and  woe. 

199. 

Robert  Hay  man,  a  Merchant  of  Bristol  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
five,  was  a  nephew  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's.  He  became 
Governor  of  a  Plantation  called  The  British  Hope  in  Newfound- 
land. In  1628  he  settled  in  Guiana  (of  whose  gilded  and 
barbaric  Amazonian  princesses  his  uncle  tells  in  Hakluyt's 
Voyages).  He  made  his  will  in  1633,  and  nothing  more  was 
afterwards  heard  of  him — at  least  by  the  people  of  Bristol. 

Poetry  shines  out  of  his  stumbling  verses  like  the  setting  sun 
through  a  thicket  of  thorns.  Their  "  Totnes  "  is  an  un- 
commonly old  town,  mainly  consisting  of  that  "  long  street  " 
where,  when  a  boy,  he  met  "  godly  Drake."  At  its  East-Gate 
is  the  Brutus-stone — for  here  Brut  of  Troy  is  said  first  to  have 
trodden  English  soil,  having  landed  from  the  Dart.  Twenty 
miles  distant  to  westward  of  the  town  lies  on  its  rivers  Ply- 
mouth— the  Spaniards'  wasps'  nest — its  Drake  in  stone  now 
gazing  out  to  sea  from  its  Hoe.  Twenty  miles  to  the  east  on 
the  coast  is  Hayes  Barton,  where  Raleigh  was  born  about 
1552.     And  seven  miles  down  the  Dart  is  the  village  of  Green- 

573 


ABOUT  AM)   KOrxnAlUHT 

way,  the  home  of  his  half-brother  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert,  the 
discoverer  of  Newfoundland,  who  was  in  that  year  a  boy  of 
aboul  Bixteen.  Here  amid-stream  juts  up  the  Anchor  Rock 
upon  \\  Inch,  runs  the  story,  the  discos  erej  of  tobacco  and  of  the 
potato  used  to  sit  and  smoke  his  pipe.  In  1587  Gilbert  and 
Raleigh  sailed  together  in  search  of  the  as  yet  Unfoundland, 
but  on  that  voyage  in  vain. 

200.     "  For  Hally  now  is  dead." 

Hally  was  Henry,  Prince  of  Wales,  the  eldest  son  of  James  I., 
<  Jueen  Elizabeth's  godson,  and  a  beloved  patron  of  the  arts 
and  poetry  to  whom  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  looked  for  happy 
favours.  He  was  little  of  body  and  quick  of  spirit,  and,  like 
Alexander,  delighted  "  to  witch  the  World  with  noble  horse- 
manship." He  died  when  he  was  nineteen.  In  Windsor 
Castle  may  be  seen  a  suit  of  armour  made  for  this  young 
prince  when  he  was  a  boy — a  suit  which  for  grace  and  crafts- 
manship is  said  to  be  one  of  the  most  beautiful  things  of  its 
kind  in  the  world. 

202,     "  Henry  before  Agincourt." 

Here,  again,  the  verse  of  this  ancient  fragment  jolts,  jars, 
and  moves  cumbrously  as  a  cannon  over  rocky  ground.  But 
how  wide  and  moving  a  picture  it  presents,  and  how  noble  is 
its  utterance. 

203.     "  Alexander  the  Great." 

This  is  the  translaton  of  another  ancient  Irish  poem  made  by 
Kuno  Meyer.  Plutarch  wrote  Alexander's  Life  (comparing 
him  with  Julius  Caesar),  in  which  the  young  prince  is  pictured 
as  if  by  Velasquez.  Here  are  a  few  words  from  the  translation 
of  this  life  which  Sir  Thomas  North  made  from  the  French 
of  Amiot : 

"  The  ambition  and  desire  he  (Alexander)  had  of  honour 
showed  a  certain  greatness  of  mind  and  noble  courage,  passing 
his  years.  .  .  .  For  when  he  was  asked  one  day  (because  he 
was  swift  of  foot)  whether  he  would  assay  to  run  for  victory 
at  the  Olympian  Games,  '  I  could  be  content '  (said  he),  '  so  I 
might  run  with  Kings  '."  When,  too,  "  they  brought  him 
news  that  his  Father  had  taken  some  famous  city,  or  had  won 

574 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

some  great  battle,  he  was  nothing  glad  to  hear  it,  but  would 
say  to  his  playfellows  :  '  Sirs,  my  Father  will  have  all  :  I 
shall  have  nothing  left  me  to  conquer  with  you  that  shall  be 
ought  worth  '  .  .  ." 

"  Is  it  even  so  ?  "  said  my  lady. 
"  Even  so  !"  said  my  lord. 

205.     "  And  the  Kings  asleep." 

.  .  .  Not  a  stone-cast  from  the  summit  of  the  hill  where  all 
snow  was  now  parched  and  evaporated  away,  stood  a  cairn  of 
boulders  and  thereon  sate  three  Eagles  whose  eyes  surveyed 
the  kingdoms  of  the  world,  its  seas  and  Man's  lost  posses- 
sions. And  the  Eagle  that  was  eastwards  of  the  three,  a  little 
rimpled  her  wings  and  cried  :  '  Where  now  ?  where  now  ?  " 
And  the  Eagle  that  shook  upon  her  plumes  the  dazzle  of  the 
dying  sun  stretched  out  her  corded  neck  and  yelped  :  "  Man  ! 
Man  !  "  And  the  midmost  Eagle  stooped  low  its  golden  head 
and  champed  between  its  talons  with  its  beak  upon  the 
boulder  :  "  The  Earth  founders,"  she  mewed.  And  a  stillness 
was  upon  the  hill  as  though  of  a  myriad  watching  eyes. 

207.     "  Dance  sedately  " 

— and  here  are  two  old  rhymes  for  the  dancing  to.  One  for  a 
Morris  Dance  : 

Skip  it  and  trip  it  nimbly,  nimbly, 

Tickle  it,  tickle  it  lustily  ; 
Strike  up  the  tabour  for  the  wenches'  favour, 

Tickle  it,  tickle  it  lustily. 

Let  us  be  seene  in  Hygate  Freene, 

To  dance  for  the  honour  of  Holloway. 
Since  we  are  come  hither,  let  us  spare  for  no  leather 

To  dance  for  the  honour  of  Holloway. 

And  this  for  a  Flower  Dance  : 

Where's  my  lovely  parsley,  say  ? 
My  violets,  roses,  where  are  they  ? 
My  parsley,  roses,  violets  fair, 
Where  are  my  flowers  ?     Tell  me  where  ? 
575 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

And  yet   another  for  one's  Lonesome   Low  I 

'i'lie  king's  young  doehter  was  sitting  in  her  window. 

Sewing  at  her  silken  scam  ; 
She  lookt  out  o'  the  bow-window, 

And  she  saw  the  leaves  growing  green, 

.My  hive  ; 
And  she  saw  the  leaves  growing  green. 

She  stuck  her  needle  into  her  sleeve, 

Her  seam  down  by  her  tae, 
And  she  is  awa'  to  the  merrie  greenwood, 

To  pu'  the  nit  and  the  slae, 
My  luve  ; 

To  pu'  the  nit  and  the  slae. 

The  "  doehter  "  is  of  course  daughter,  "  nit  "  is  nut,  and 
"  slae"  sloe. 

209. 

Pause  an  instant  on  the  fifth  word  in  the  third  stanza  and 
you  can  actually  hear  the  birds  laughing — yaffle,  blackcap, 
bullfinch  and  jay,  and  the  droning  and  the  whistling  and  the 
whir-r-r. 

210.     Fa  la  la. 

Scattered  through  this  volume  are  many  songs,  a  few  of 
them — both  words  and  music— exceedingly  ancient.  Mr. 
Nahum  had  a  cofferful  of  old  hand-written  music  (square 
crotchets  and  quavers  and  handsome  clefs)  ;  and  many  out- 
landish instruments  were  hung  up  in  the  dust  and  silence  in 
one  of  his  cupboards.  I  remember  some  small  living  thing 
set  a  string  jangling  when  for  the  first  time  the  door  admitted 
me  to  a  sight  of  their  queer  shapes  and  appearances.  In  an 
old  book  of  1548,  The  Complaynt  of  Scotland,  there  is  a  list  of 
names,  not  only  of  old  folk-tales  such  as  "  The  tayl  of  the  wolfe 
of  the  varldes  end  "  ;  and  "  The  tayl  of  the  giantes  that  eit 
quyk  men,"  but  of  songs  and  dances  for  long  in  common  love 
and  knowledge  even  in  those  old  times.  Here  are  a  few  of 
the  songs  : 

God  You,  Good  Day,  Wild  Boy. 
Broom,  Broom  on  Hill. 
576 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

Trolly  lolly  leman,  dow. 

All  musing  of  Marvels,  amiss  have  I  gone. 

O  Mine  Heart,  hey,  this  is  my  Song. 

Shall  I  go  with  You  to  Rumbelow  Fair  ? 

That  Day,  that  Day,  that  Gentle  Day. 

Alas,  that  Samyn  Sweet  Face  ! 

In  ane  Mirthful  Morrow. 

And  here  some  Dances  : 

All  Christian  Men's  Dance. 

Long  Flat  Foot  of  Garioch. 

The  Lamb's  Wind. 

Leaves  Green. 

The  Bace  of  Voragon. 

The  Loch  of  Slene. 

The  Bee. 

Shake  a  Trot,  and 

The  Vod  and  the  Val. 

The  tunes  to  these  were  played  at  that  day  on  four  kinds 
of  bagpipe  (including  a  drone  bagpipe),  a  trump,  a  recorder, 
a  "  fiddell,"  and  a  "  quhissil  " — which  is  the  pleasantest  way 
of  spelling  whistle  I  have  yet  seen.  The  melodies  and  words 
of  most  of  them  are,  apparently,  all  now  clean  forgotten. 

"Fa  la  la"  (No.  210)  is  of  a  different  kind,  being  one  of 
hundreds  of  madrigals,  "  ayres  "  and  ballets  of  which  both  the 
words  and  the  music  were  written  in  England  in  the  first  twenty 
years  or  so  of  the  seventeenth  century.  There  is,  of  course,  a 
hoard  of  learning  that  one  may  study  on  this  English  music — 
William  Byrd's,  John  Dowland's,  Thomas  Ford's,  Thomas 
Campion's,  John  Bartlet's,-  Philip  Rosseter's,  Robert  Ayres' 
and  others — which  in  its  own  day  was  as  famous  in  the  countries 
of  Europe  as  English  poetry  is  now.  It  was  the  coming  of 
foreign  music  and  musicians  to  England — the  Italians  and 
Handel  and  Mendelssohn — that  put  it  ungratefully  out  of  mind. 
To-day  its  dust  has  at  last  been  brushed  away.  The  Madrigals 
are  being  printed  and  sung  again,  and  Dr.  Fellowes  has  lately 
published  a  volume  containing  the  words  of  hundreds  of  such 
lively,  nimble  and  heart-entrancing  rhymes — intended  by  their 
writers  to  carry  with  them  a  double  charm — not  only  their  own 
verbal  melody,  grace  and  beauty,  but  also  their  music's. 

My  own  knowledge  is  scanty  indeed,  but  I  gather  that  a 

577  2o 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

madrigal  is  intended  to  be  sung,  unaccompanied  with  instru- 
ments, by  voices  only — three  to  five,  six,  or  seven,  it  may  be, 
and  nun's  and  women's  or  boys',  coursing,  echoing,  inter- 
weaving,  responding  and  rilling  together  like  the  countless 
runnels  and  wavelets  of  a  brook  over  its  stones,  or  a  wood  full 
of  pinging  birds  at  evening.  An  Ayre  is  different.  It  is  for 
the  voice— singing  its  melody  to  the  accompaniment  of  lute, 
viol  or  virginal,  as  a  nightingale  may  sing  at  dusk  above  the 
murmur  of  a  softly-brawling  brook.  A  Ballet,  the  most 
ancient  of  all  three,  went  hand  in  hand  and  foot  to  foot  with  a 
dance. 

All  I  wish  to  make  clear  is  that  the  printed  words  of  Nos. 
210  and  212,  for  instance,  can  give  only  a  fraction  of  the 
pleasure  their  poets  intended,  who  in  writing  had  always  the 
singing  voice  and  often  the  twangling  string  in  mind.  Their 
verv  age  to  my  fancy  gives  them  an  enticing  strangeness, 
grace,  and  freshness.  For  in  their  company  the  imagination 
returns  to  the  days  when  first  they  rang  out  in  the  taverns  and 
parlours  and  palaces  and  streets  of  a  London  that  from  every 
steeple  and  tow^er  was  within  sight  of  green  fields  ;  a  noble  city 
ui  but  about  three  hundred  thousand  people  (including  children) 
wherein  you  might  any  day  find  William  Shakespeare,  Ben 
Johnson,  Chapman  and  the  rest  talking  together  in  its  taverns, 
the  Mermaid  or  the  Triple  Tun,  while  that  ill-fortuned  traveller 
and  statesman,  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  fallen  upon  evil  days,  sat 
mewed  up  in  the  Tower  of  London,  engrossed  in  his  History  of 
the  World. 

None  the  less  there  are  human  beings  who  remain  deaf  to 
the  magic  both  of  words  and  music — that,  like  the  deaf  adder, 
stop  their  ears  :  "I  know  very  well,"  wrote  Sir  William 
Temple,  "  that  many  who  pretend  to  be  wise  by  the  forms  of 
being  grave,  are  apt  to  despise  both  poetry  and  music  as  toys 
and  trifles  too  light  for  the  use  or  entertainment  of  serious 
men.  But  whoever  find  themselves  wholly  insensible  to  these 
charms,  would  I  think  do  well  to  keep  their  own  counsel,  for 
.  .  .  while  this  world  lasts,  I  doubt  most  but  the  pleasure  and 
requests  of  these  two  entertainments  will  do  so  too  ;  and 
happy  those  that  content  themselves  with  these,  or  any  other 
so  easy  and  so  innocent ;  and  do  not  trouble  the  world  or  other 
men,  because  they  cannot  be  quiet  themselves,  though  nobody 
hurts  them  ! 

578 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

"  When  all  is  done,  human  life  is  at  the  greatest  and  the 
best  but  like  a  froward  child,  that  must  be  played  with 
and  humoured  a  little  to  keep  it  quiet  till  it  falls  asleep,  and 
then  the  care  is  over." 

211.     "  The  onely  pretty  ring  time." 

"  Amo,  amas, 
I  love  a  lass, 

As  cedar  tall  and  slender  ; 
Sweet  cowslip's  face 
Is  her  nominative  case, 
And  she's  of  the  feminine  gender. 
Horum  quorum, 
Sunt  divorum, 
Harum,  scarum,  Divo  ; 
Tag  rag,  merry  deny,  periwig  and  hatband, 
Hie — hoc— harum,  genitivo." 

John  O'Keefe 

There  was  a  mayde  come  out  of  Kent, 

Deintie  love,  deintie  love  ; 
There  was  a  mayde  cam  out  of  Kent, 

Daungerous  be  : 
There  was  a  mayde  cam  out  of  Kent, 
Fayre,  propre,  small  and  gent, 
As  ever  upon  the  grounde  went, 

For  so  should  it  be. 

"  When  you  speake  (Sweet) 
I'ld  have  you  do  it  ever.     When  you  sing, 
I 'Id  have  you  buy  and  sell  so  :  so  give  Almes, 
Pray  so  :  and  for  the  ord'ring  your  Affayres, 
To  sing  them  too.     When  you  do  dance,  I  wish  you 
Nothing  but  that  :  move  still,  still  so  : 
And  owne  no  other  function.  .  .  . 

My  prettiest  Perdita." 

The  Winter's  Tale. 

"  Such  pretie  things  would  soon  be  gon 
If  we  should  not  so  them  remembre." 


579 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

2X2. 

There  might  be  an  instant's  check  or  Faltering  at  the  eighth 

line,  but  make  it  "  when  tin-  winds  blow  and  the  SEAS  FLOW  " 
— the  great  Hood  of  air  and  water  banking  up  as  it  were  into 
the  words  as  does  the  Atlantic  in  a  gale  at  the  Spring  Equinox — 
and  all's  well. 

213.     "  And  the  fleas  that  tease  in  the  High 

Pyrenees." 
"  The  flee  is  a  hit  ell  worme,  and  greveth  men  mooste  ;   and 
scapeth  and  voideth  peril  with  lepynge  and  not  with  runnynge, 
and  wexeth  slowe  and  fayleth  in  eolde  tymc,  and  in  somer  tyme 
it  wexeth  quiver  and  swyft  ;    and  spareth  not  k}rnges." 

214.     "  I  loved  a  Lass." 

George  Wither,  says  Aubrey,  could  make  verses  as  fast  as 
he  could  write  them.  So,  too,  could  Shakespeare.  "  What 
he  thought,"  said  his  editors,  "  he  uttered  with  that  easinesse 
that  we  have  scarse  received  from  him  a  blot  in  his  papers." 

Still  : — "  So,  So-a  !  fair  and  softly  !  "  said  the  old  Shropshire 
farmer  to  Job  his  plough-horse  when  he  kicked  up  his  heels  as 
if  to  break  into  a  gallop  ;  "  So,  So-a  !  When  thou'rt  a  racer, 
my  dear,  or  born  a  high-blood  Arab,  there'll  be  time  enough  for 
that.     Some  goes  their  best  slow." 

If  the  lass's  "  fives  "  in  the  fourth  stanza  (of  214)  were  the 
fives  of  to-day  she  must  have  had  a  quite  comfortable  foot,  a 
size  or  two  larger,  at  any  rate,  than  the  bride's  in  Sir  John 
Suckling's  Ballad  upon  a  Wedding  : 

.  .  .  Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat 
Like  little  mice  stole  in  and  out, 

As  if  they  feared  the  light  ; 
But  oh,  she  dances  such  a  way  ! 
No  sun  upon  an  Easter-day 
Is  half  so  fine  a  sight. 

Her  cheeks  so  rare  a  white  was  on, 
No  daisy  makes  comparison  ; 

Who  sees  them  is  undone  ; 
For  streaks  of  red  were  mingled  there, 
Such  as  are  on  a  Catharine  pear, 

The  side  that's  next  the  sun. 
580 


ABOUT'  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

Her  lips  were  red  ;  and  one  was  thin 
Compared  to  that  was  next  her  chin 

(Some  bee  had  stung  it  newly)  ; 
But,  Dick,  her  eyes  so  guard  her  face, 
I  durst  no  more  upon  them  gaze, 

Than  on  the  sun  in  July.  .  .  . 

218.     "  And  St.  John's  Bell  kings  for  Matins.'' 

June  24  is  not  only  the  birthday  of  St.  John  the  Baptist,  but 
also  the  year's  Sun  Day,  for  about  this  day,  following  through 
the  night  but  a  little  way  beneath  the  horizon,  he  rises  at  dawn 
furthest  North  of  East  in  his  annual  journey  (seep.  xiv).  As 
once  on  May-day  so  it  was  then  formerly  the  custom,  all 
England  over,  to  set  bonfires  blazing  on  the  hilltops,  around 
which  the  country  people  danced  and  sang.  The  dairy-maid 
who  had  the  breath,  and  was  fleet  enough  of  foot  to  ring 
around,  between  dusk  and  daybreak,  nine  such  merry  bonfires 
before  they  were  burnt  out,  assured  her  heart  of  a  happy 
marriage  within  the  year. 

219.     "  O  it's  daebling  in  the  Dew  makes  the  Milkmaids 

fair  ! " 

The  air  to  gi'e  your  cheaks  a  hue 

O'  rwosy  red,  so  feai'r  to  view, 

Is  what  do  sheake  the  grass-bleades  grae 

At  break  o'  dae,  in  mornen  dew  ; 

Vor  vo'k  that  will  be  rathe  abrode, 

"Will  meet  wi'  health  upon  their  road. 

But  biden  up  till  dead  o'  night, 

When  han's  o'  clocks  do  stan'  upright, 

By  candlelight,  do  soon  consume 

The  feace's  bloom,  an'  turn  it  white. 

An'  moon-beams  cast  vrom  midnight  skies 

Do  blunt  the  sparklen  ov  the  eyes. 

Vor  health  do  weake  vrom  nightly  dreams 

Below  the  mornen's  early  beams, 

An'  leave  the  dead-ai'r'd  houses'  eaves, 

Vor  quiv'ren  leaves,  an'  bubblen  streams, 

A-glitt'ren  brightly  to  the  view, 

Below  a  sky  o'  cloudless  blue. 

William  Barnes 
581 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

The  words  in  this  poem  are  spelt  as  they  are  spoken  in  the 
(.\uintv  of  Dorset.  '  K.ithe"  means  early;  and  "below" 
beneath.     There  is  a  half  secret  rhyme  in  each  fourth  line. 

223.      '  Music,  when  soft  Voices  die,  vibrates  in  the 

Memory." 

There  is  sweet  music  here  that  softer  falls 

Than  petals  from  blown  roses  on  the  grass, 

Or  night-dews  on  still  waters  between  walls 

Of  shadowy  granite,  in  a  gleaming  pass  ; 

Music  that  gentlier  on  the  spirit  lies, 

Than  tir'd  eyelids  upon  tir'd  eyes  ; 

Music  that  brings  sweet  sleep  down  from  the  blissful  skies. 

Tennyson 

224.     "  A  Bell  in  Moscow."  (stanza  4) 

Of  this  I  saw  the  picture  in  Thrae.  It  was  named  Czar 
Kolokol,  and,  when  cast,  was  of  the  weight  of  about  twenty- 
six  hundred  heavy  men.  It  now  stands  clapperless  on  the 
ground  with  a  breach  in  its  metal  side.  Through  this  breach 
the  people  go  into  its  silence  to  pray. 

225. 

This  "  Country  Rhime,"  with  Nos.  121  and  434,  is  taken  from 
A  Book  for  Boys  and  Girls,  written  by  John  Bunyan.  It  came 
out  into  the  world  on  May  12th,  1686,  two  years  before  Bunyan 
died  on  Snow  Hill  in  London  ;  and  two  years  after  the  publi- 
cation of  the  Second  Part  of  The  Pilgrim's  Progress,  "  wherein 
is  set  forth  the  manner  of  the  setting  out  of  Christian's  Wife 
and  Children,  their  dangerous  journey,  and  safe  arrival  at  the 
Desired  Country." 

When  Bunyan  was  young  he  loved  ringing  the  bells  with 
the  ringers  in  the  steeple  of  the  village  church  of  Elstow,  where 
he  was  born,  and  where  his  grandfather,  Thomas  Bonyon,  was 
"  a  common  baker  of  human  bread." 

All  these  "  Homely  rhimes  "  are  followed  in  this  particular 
Book  for  Boys  and  Girls  by  comparisons  "  ;  as  here  :  first  the 
bells  ;  then  a  lesson  about  them.  They  are  parables.  But 
in  Mr.  Nahum's  copying,  many  of  the  lessons  were  omitted  ; 

582 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

perhaps  because  he  preferred  to  think  out  his  own.  Not  that 
the  poetry  that  is  intended  to  teach,  to  praise  virtue,  and  to 
instil  wisdom  in  the  heart  and  mind  of  its  readers  is  any  the  less 
poetry  for  this  reason.  Nevertheless,  every  beautiful  thing  in 
this  world — the  hyssop  in  the  wall  and  the  cedar  of  Lebanon, 
Solomon  in  all  his  glory  and  the  ring  on  his  finger,  carries  with 
it  joy  and  wonder  of  the  life  that  is  ours,  and  gratitude  to  the 
Maker  of  all.  And  poets  who,  when  writing,  are  too  intent 
upon  teaching,  are  apt  to  forfeit  their  rarest  poetry. 

232. 

Dorothy  was  William  Wordsworth's  only  sister  and  his 
friend  Coleridge's  close  friend.  What  she  squandered  on  these 
two  poets — her  self,  her  talk,  her  imagination,  her  love — only 
they  could  tell.  "  She  gave  me  eyes,  she  gave  me  ears,"  once 
wrote  her  brother  ;  she  shared  his  visionary  happiness.  With 
Coleridge  she  used  to  walk  and  talk  so  nearly  and  dearly  that 
again  and  again  in  her  Journal  she  uses  all  but  the  very  words — 
that  "  thin  gray  cloud,"  the  line  on  Spring,  or  on  the  one  red 
leaf,  for  instance — which  are  so  magically  his  own  in  Christabel 
(No.  345). 

233.     "  To  Autumn." 

I  read  this — perhaps  the  loveliest  of  John  Keats's  odes, 
many  times  before  I  realised  that  the  whole  of  it  is  addressed 
to  the  musing  apparition  or  phantasm  of  Autumn  whom  in 
its  second  stanza  he  describes  as  if  she  were  in  image  there 
before  him.  This,  perhaps,  was  partly  because  the  poem  is 
usually  printed  with  a  full  stop  after  "  clammy  cells,"  and  partly 
because  of  my  own  stupidity. 

Thomas    Hood,    in    his   scarcely   less    beautiful    Ode,    sees 
Autumn  first  as  an  old  man  : 

I  saw  old  Autumn  in  the  misty  morn 
Stand  shadowless  like  Silence,  listening 
To  silence,  for  no  lonely  bird  would  sing 
Into  his  hollow  ear  from  woods  forlorn, 
Nor  lowly  hedge  nor  solitary  thorn  ; 
Shaking  his  languid  locks  all  dewy  bright 
With  tangled  gossamer  that  fell  by  night, 
Pearling  his  coronet  of  golden  corn. 

583 


ABOUT  AM)  ROUNDABOUT 

And  later,  in  ins  fourth  Btanza  : 

The  squirrel  k'"-1,s  on  ln^  a<  complished  hoard, 

The  ants  have  brimmed  their  garners  with  ripe  grain, 

And  honey  Iris  have  stored 
The  Bweets  of  Summer  in  their  lus<  ious  cells  ; 
The  swallows  all  have  winged  across  the  main  ; 
But  here  the  Autumn  melancholy  dwells, 

And  sighs  her  tearful  spells 
Amongst  the  sunless  shadows  of  the  plan). 
Alone,  alone, 
1  j  on  a  mossy  stone, 
She  sits  and  reckons  up  the  dead  and  gone, 
With  the  last  leaves  for  a  love-rosary, 
Whilst  all  the  withered  world  looks  drearily, 
Like  a  dim  picture  of  the  drowned  past 
In  the  hushed  mind's  mysterious  far  away, 
Doubtful  what  ghostly  thing  will  steal  the  last 
Into  that  distance,  gray  upon  the  gray.  .  .  . 

237.     "  A  Foolish  Thing." 

I  thee  advise 
If  thou  be  wise 
To  keep  thy  wit 
Though  it  be  small  : 
'Tis  rare  to  get. 
And  far  to  fet, 
'Twas  ever  yet 
Dear'st  ware  of  all. 

George  Turberville 

'  Far  to  fetch  "  it  certainly  is  ;  but  here  is  a  little  counsel 
to  this  end  from  the  old  Irish  Instructions  of  King  Cormac  (of 
the  ninth  century).  Of  Carbery  I  know  no  more,  but  doubtless 
there  is  much  to  hear  : 

"  O  Cormac,  grandson  of  Conn,"  said  Carbery,  "  what  is 
the  worst  for  the  body  of  man  ?" 

"  Not  hard  to  tell,"  said  Cormac.  "  Sitting  too  long,  lying 
too  long,  long  standing,  lifting  heavy  things,  exerting  oneself 
beyond  one's  strength,  running  too  much,  leaping  too  much, 
frequent  falls,  sleeping  with  one's  leg  over  the  bed-rail,  gazing 
at  glowing  embers,  wax,  biestings  [very  new  milk],  new  ale, 

584 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

bull-flesh,  curdles,  dry  food,  bog-water,  rising  too  early,  cold, 
sun,  hunger,  drinking  too  much,  eating  too  much,  sleeping 
too  much,  sinning  too  much,  grief,  running  up  a  height, 
shouting  against  the  wind,  drying  oneself  by  a  fire,  summer- 
dew,  winter-dew,  beating  ashes,  swimming  on  a  full  stomach, 
sleeping  on  one's  back,  foolish  romping.".  .  . 

"  O  Cormac,  grandson  of  Conn,"  said  Carbery,  "  I  desire 
to  know  how  I  shall  behave  among  the  wise  and  the  foolish, 
among  friends  and  strangers,  among  the  old  and  the  young, 
among  the  innocent  and  the  wicked." 

"  Not  hard  to  tell,"  said  Cormac. 

"  Be  not  too  wise,  nor  too  foolish, 
Be  not  too  conceited,  nor  too  diffident, 
Be  not  too  haughty,  nor  too  humble, 
Be  not  too  talkative,  nor  too  silent, 
Be  not  too  hard,  nor  too  feeble. 

If  you  be  too  wise,  men  will  expect  too  much  of  you  ; 

If  you  be  too  foolish,  you  will  be  deceived  ; 

If  you  be  too  conceited,  you  will  be  thought  vexatious  ; 

If  you  be  too  humble,  you  will  be  without  honour  ; 

If  you  be  too  talkative,  you  will  not  be  heeded  ; 

If  you  be  too  silent,  you  will  not  be  regarded  ; 

If  you  be  too  hard,  you  will  be  broken  ; 

If  you  be  too  feeble,  you  will  be  crushed." 

But  what  the  exact  total  of  all  these  "  too's  "  may  be  is  a 
riddle  only  the  Higher  Mathematics  can  solve. 

"  Our  Play  is  done  " 

— after  which,  in  Elizabeth's  day,  "  the  characters  (one  or 
more)  were  wont  to  kneel  down  upon  the  stage  and  to  offer  a 
solemn  prayer  for  the  sovereign,  or  other  patron  "  : 

"  My  tongue  is  wearie  ;  when  my  Legs  are  too,  I  will  bid 
you  good  night ;  and  so  kneele  down  before  you  :  But  (indeed) 
to  pray  for  the  Queene."  Henry  IV. 

245.     "  Ah  !  would  'twere  so." 

I  know  that  all  beneath  the  moon  decays, 
And  what  by  mortals  in  this  world  is  brought 
In  Time's  great  periods  shall  return  to  nought  ; 
That  fairest  states  have  fatal  nights  and  days  ; 

585 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

I  know  how  all  the  Muse's  heavenly  lays, 
With  toil  of  spright  which  is  so  dearly  bought, 

As  idle  sounds,  of  few  or  none  are  sought  ; 
And  thai  nought  lighter  is  than  airy  praise. 

1  know  frail  beauty's  like  the  purple  flower, 

To  which  one  morn  oft  birth  and  death  affords  ; 
Thai  love  a  jarring  is  of  minds'  accords, 
Where  sense  and  will  invassall  reason's  power. 

Know  what  I  list,  this  all  can  not  me  move, 
But  that — O  me  !  I  both  must  write  and  love  ! 

William  Drummond 

246.     "  No  Crane  talks."  (line  16) 
"  I  hear  the  crane,  if  I  mistake  not,  cry 
Who  in  the  clouds  forming  the  forked  Y, 
By  the  brave  orders  practized  under  her, 
Instructeth  souldiers  in  the  art  of  war. 
For  when  her  troops  of  wand  ring  cranes  forsake 
Frost-firmed  Strymon,  and  (in  autumn)  take 
Truce  with  the  northern  dwarfs,  to  seek  adventure 
In  southern  climates  for  a  milder  winter  ; 
A-front  each  band  a  forward  captain  flies, 
Whose  pointed  bill  cuts  passage  through  the  skies, 
Two  skilful  sergeants  keep  the  ranks  aright, 
And  with  their  voyce  hasten  their  tardy  flight  ; 
And  when  the  honey  of  care-charming  sleep 
Sweetly  begins  through  all  their  veines  to  creep 
One  keeps  the  watch,  and  ever  carefull-most, 
Walks  many  a  round  about  the  sleeping  hoast, 
Still  holding  in  his  claw  a  stony  clod, 
Whose  fall  may  wake  him  if  he  hap  to  nod. 
Another  doth  as  much,  a  third,  a  fourth, 
Untill,  by  turns  the  night  be  turned  forth." 
So  also,  according  to  travellers,  talk,  argue  in  parliament, 
camp,  and  keep  watch  the  wandering  tribes  of  the  gaudy-dyed 

Baboons. 

249. 

If  this  poem  is  read  softly,  pausingly,  without  haste,  the  very 
words  will  seem  like  snowflakes  themselves,  floating  into  the 
mind  ;    and  then,  the  beauty  and  the  wonder. 

586 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

251- 

Here  again,  as  in  music,  there  are  rests  in  the  second,  fourth 
and  fifth  lines  of  each  stanza.  Is  there  any  magic  to  compare 
with  that  still  solemn  unearthly  radiance  when  the  world  is 
masked  with  snow  ;  and  the  very  sparkling  of  the  mind  is  like 
hoar-frost  on  the  bark  of  a  tree. 

253.     "  The  Wild  Woods." 

Allan  Cunningham's  in  Scotland,  and  these — Mr.  Robert 
Frost's — in  Vermont  U.S.A.  : 

Whose  Woods  these  are  I  think  I  know, 
His  house  is  in  the  village  though 
He  will  not  see  my  stopping  here 
To  watch  his  woods  fill  up  with  snow. 

My  little  horse  must  think  it  queer, 
To  stop  without  a  farmhouse  near 
Between  the  woods  and  frozen  lake 
The  darkest  evening  of  the  year. 

He  gives  his  harness  bells  a  shake 
To  ask  if  there  is  some  mistake, 
The  only  other  sounds  the  sweep 
Of  easy  wind  and  downy  flake. 

The  woods  are  lovely  dark  and  deep  ; 
But  I  have  promises  to  keep 
And  miles  to  go  before  I  sleep  : 
And  miles  to  go  before  I  sleep. 

255- 

There  may  be  a  few  small  verbal  puzzles  in  this  fifteenth- 
century  carol — otherwise  as  clear,  sharp  and  shining  as  a 
winter  moon. 

Kechoun  is  kitchen,  and  Stephen  (who  waited  on  the  King 
at  bed  and  board)  stepped  out  of  it  into  the  hall,  "  boar's  head 
on  hand."  Kyst,  means  cast ;  eylet,  aileth  ;  wod  is  mad.  So 
too  brede,  I  fancy.  When  the  roasted  capon  or  cock  crowed 
in  its  dish,  Herod,  in  wrath  and  fear  cried  on  his  torturers,  "  by 
two  and  all  by  one  "  to  rise  up  and  kill. 

587 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

In  latei  i  inns  ,i  clay  or  earthenware  box  made  all  of  a  piece, 

with  .1  Bli<  in  it,  was  carried  by  apprentices  through  the  streets 
on  St.  Stephen's  day,  for  money.  And  never  a  Catholic 
missionary  once  sailed  for  the  [ndies,  Barbary,  or  the  Islands 
of  the  Anthropophagites,  bul  a  box  was  hung  by  the  |>riests 
in  the  church  fur  alms  against  his  return.  From  tin-  former 
old  custom  comes  our  "  Boxing  Day." 

In  the  Isle  of  .Man,  however,  the  Christinas  Box  was  called 
the  Wren  Box,  ami  for  this  reason:  There  dwell  oi  old  a 
Lorelei,  siren  or  sea-elf,  in  the  emerald  green  creeks  and  caves 
<>f  a  solitary  precipitous  island.  She  was  as  lovely  as  she  was 
cruel,  and  her  shrill  sweet  voice  rose  amid  the  roaring  and 
soughing  of  the  waves  in  her  steep  rocky  habitation  as  shines 
a  poisonous  flower  in  the  dark  of  a  forest.  Thus  she  would 
at  davbreak  enchant  to  their  doom  sailors  following  their  craft 
on  the  sea.  Leaning  to  listen  to  this  music  creeping  by  them 
on  the  waters,  they  drew  in  to  her  haunts.  Of  their  bones 
were  coral  made  ;  while  she  lived  on  ;  sang  on.  She  was 
hunted  down  at  last  in  her  sea-grottoes  by  those  who,  like 
Ulysses,  had  stopped  their  ears  against  her  incantations. 
Brought  finally  to  bay,  her  beauty  and  bright  hair  suddenly 
dwindled  and  dimmed,  and  she  escaped  in  the  shape  of — Jenny 
Wren.  Alas,  for  Jenny  Wren  !  condemned  ever  after  for  the 
woes  of  this  siren  to  be  pursued  with  sticks  and  stones  by  young 
loons,  cullions  and  Jerry  Sneaks,  on  every  St.  Stephen's  Day. 
As  goes  the  rhyme  : 

"  Oh,  where  are  you  going  ?  "  says  milder  to  melder  ; 
"  Oh,  where  are  you  going  ?  "  says  the  younger  to  the  elder. 
"  Oh,  I  cannot  tell,"  says  Festel  to  Fose  ; 
"  We're  going  to  the  woods,"  says  John  the  Red  Nose. 
"  WTe're  going  to  the  woods,"  says  John  the  Red  Nose. 

"  Oh,  what  will  you  do  there  ?  "  says  milder  to  melder  ; 
"  Oh,  what  will  you  do  there  ?  "  says  the  younger  to  the 

elder. 
"  Oh,  I  do  not  know,"  says  Festel  to  Fose  ; 
"'  To  shoot  the  cutty  wren,"  says  John  the  Red  Nose. 
"  To  shoot  the  cutty  wren,"  says  John  the  Red  Nose. 

"  Oh,  fwhat  of  her  corpsums  ?  "  etc.  etc., 

and  a  sinister  company  they  look,  especially  "  milder  "  ! 

588 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

257- 

Ltillay,  lullay,  thou  lytill  child, 

Sleep  and  be  well  still  ; 
The  King  of  bliss  thy  father  is, 

As  it  was  his  will. 

The  other  night  I  saw  a  sight, 

A  mayd  a  cradle  keep  : 
"  Lullay,"  she  sung,  and  said  among, 

"  Lie  still,  my  child,  and  sleep." 

"  How  should  I  sleep  ?     I  may  not  for  weep, 

So  sore  am  I  begone  : 
Sleep  I  would  ;  I  may  not  for  cold, 

And  clothes  have  I  none. 

"  For  Adam's  guilt  mankind  is  spilt 

And  that  me  rueth  sore  ; 
For  Adam  and  Eve  here  shall  I  live 

Thirty  winter  and  more." 

258.     "Welcome  Twelfth  Day" 

and  here  is  a  rhyme  (entitled  Jolagiafir)  for  a  memory-game 
they  used  to  play  in  old  times  on  Twelfth  Night  after  the  bean 
or  silver-penny  had  been  discovered  in  the  Twelfth  Cake,  and 
the  Wassail  Bowl  has  gone  round  with  the  Mince  Pies. 

On  the  first  day  of  Christmas,  my  true  love  sent  to  me 
A  partridge  in  a  pear-tree. 

On  the  second  day  of  Christmas,  my  true  love  sent  to  me 
Two  turtle  doves  and  a  partridge  in  a  pear-tree. 

On  the  third  day  of  Christmas,  my  true  love  sent  to  me 
Three  French  hens,  two  turtle  doves  and 
A  partridge  in  a  pear-tree. 

And  so  on  to- — 

On  the  twelfth  day  of  Christmas,  my  true  love  sent  to  mc 
Twelve  lords  a-leaping,  eleven  ladies  dancing, 
Ten  pipers  piping,  nine  drummers  drumming, 
Eight  maids  a-milking,  seven  swans  a-swimming, 
Six  geese  a-laying,  five  gold  rings, 

581) 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

1  our  colly  birds,  three  French  hens, 

Two  turtle  doves,  and 
A  partridge  in  a  pear-tree. 

And  here  is  a  recipe  for  Lamb's  Wool,  with  which  to  till 
'  the  Bowl  "  :  Take  "  the  pulpe  of  rosted  apples,  in  number 
four  or  five  according  to  the  greatnesse  of  the  apples  (especially 
the  pome  water),  and  mix  it  heartily  in  a  wine  quart  of  faire 
water  " — or  old  ale — "  with  a  due  and  fair  lacing  of  nutmegs, 
sugar  and  ginger  " — until  the  company  can  wait  no  longer. 

And  here's  another  "  Twelve  "  ;  from  Scotland  : 

What  will  be  our  twelve,  boys  ? 
What  will  be  our  twelve,  boys  ? 
Twelve's  the  Twelve  Apostles  ; 
'Eleven's  maidens  in  a  dance  ; 
Ten's  the  Ten  Commandments  ; 
Nine's  the  Muses  o'  Parnassus  ; 
Eight's  the  table  rangers  ; 
Seven's  the  stars  of  heaven  ; 
Six  the  echoing  waters  ; 
Five's  the  hymnlers  o'  my  bower  ; 
Four's  the  gospel-makers  ; 
Three,  three  thrivers  ; 
Twa's  the  lily  and  the  rose, 
That  shine  baith  red  and  green,  boys  : 
My  only  ane,  she  walks  alane, 
And  evermair  has  dune,  boys. 

259- 

It  looks  as  if  this  carol — of  Henry  VI. 's  reign — was  once  a 
singing  game  :  On  the  one  side  in  the  blaze  of  the  Yule  Log 
the  Holly  men  with  gilded  and  garlanded  pole  ;  and  on  the 
other  Ivy  with  her  maidens  ;  each  side  taunting  the  other,  and 
maybe  tugging  for  prisoners.  "  Ivy-girls,"  too,  used  to  be 
burned  by  companies  of  boys,  and  Holly-boys  by  girls — all 
yawping  and  jodelling  at  the  sport. 

"  Poppynguy  "  may  perhaps  be  the  jay,  but  it  would  be 
pleasanter  company  for  the  lark,  if  here  it  means  the  green 
woodpecker.  His  other  names  are  rain-bird,  hew-hole,  wood- 
sprite,  woodweele,  woodspeek   and  yaffle,  the   very  sound  of 

590 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

which  is  like  the  echo  of  his  own  laughter  in  the  sunny  green 
tops  of  the  wood. 

260.     "  When  Isicles  hang  by  the  Wall." 

There  is  a  peculiar  magic  (which  may  perhaps  be  less  apparent 
to  the  Greenlanders)  in  icicles.  Nor  are  its  effects  unknown 
to  the  four-footed.  In  certain  remote  regions  of  Siberia  there 
is  said  to  be  a  little  animal  called  the  Icce-vulff  (or  Ice-wolf). 
He  has  prick-ears,  is  a  fierce  feeder,  and  wears  a  coat  so 
wondrous  close  and  dense  that  three  or  four  of  our  English 
moles'  skins  laid  one  atop  the  other  would  yet  fall  short  of  its 
match.  But  he  seldom  attains  to  a  ripe  age,  and  for  this 
reason.  As  soon  as  he  is  freed  from  his  dam's  snow-burrow, 
he  hastes  off  to  the  dwellings  of  the  men  of  those  parts,  snuffing 
their  dried  seal-steaks  and  blubber,  being  a  most  incorrigible 
thief  and  a  very  wary.  And  such  is  his  craft  that  he  mocks 
at  gins,  traps  and  pitfalls.  But  he  has  a  habit  which  is 
often  to  his  undoing.  It  is  in  this  wise  :  The  heat  of  these 
hovels  is  apt  to  melt  a  little  the  snow  upon  them,  its  water 
trickling  and  coursing  softly  down  till  long,  keen  icicles  are 
formed,  upon  which,  whether  hungry  or  fed,  taking  up  his 
station  in  a  plumb  line  beneath  them,  he  will  squat  and  gloat 
for  an  hour  together,  having  a  marvellous  greedy  pleasure  in 
clear  glasslike  colours.  Hearing  his  breathing  or  faint  snuffing, 
any  human  who  wakes  within  will  of  a  sudden  violently  shake 
the  wall  between.  This  dislodges  the  pendent  icicles,  and  the 
squatting  Icce-vulff  is  pierced  to  his  death  as  with  a  sword. 

Winter  indeed  makes  crystal  even  of  ink.  It  has  the 
power  of  enchanting  every  imagination ;  and  particularly 
Coleridge's  : 

Therefore  all  seasons  shall  be  sweet  to  thee, 
Whether  the  summer  clothe  the  general  earth 
With  greenness,  or  the  redbreast  sit  and  sing 
Betwixt  the  tufts  of  snow  on  the  bare  branch 
Of  mossy  apple-tree,  while  the  nigh  thatch 
Smokes  in  the  sun-thaw  ;  whether  the  eave-drops  fall 
Heard  only  in  the  trances  of  the  blast, 
Or  if  the  secret  ministry  of  frost 
Shall  hang  them  up  in  silent  icicles, 
Quietly  shining  to  the  quiet  Moon.  .  .  . 

591 


ABOUT  AM)  KOI  NDAIUHT 

264,     "  Wob  WEEPS  out  Her  Division  when  She  sings." 

Tins  moans,  I  think,  that  she  adds  her  own  grieved  cadences 
to  the  melody,  as  may  one,  among  many  voices,  singing  in 
harmony. 

265.  "  Is  like  a  Bubble." 

This  rainbow  "  bubble  "—like  Shelley's  "  many-coloured 
dome  of  glass  "  in  his  Adonais — seems,  ln-fore  our  very  eyes,  to 
be  floating  up  into  the  empty  blue  heavens,  until  it  smalls  into 
a  bead  oi  gold,  and  vanishes.  It  brings  to  memory — though 
I  am  uncertain  of  the  first  line — an  epitaph  in  the  church  at 
Zennor,  a  village  clustered  above  the  Atlantic  on  the  dreamlike 
coast  of  Cornwall — an  epitaph  cut  in  fine  lettering  into  its  slate 
slab,  while  at  each  corner  of  the  slab  Cherubs'  heads  puff  out 
their  round  cheeks,  representing  the  winds  of  the  world  : 

Sorrow,  and  sin,  false  hope,  and  trouble — 
These  the  Four  Winds  that  daily  vex  this  Bubble  : 
His  breath  a  Vapour,  and  his  life  a  Span  ; 
'Tis  Glorious  Misery  to  be  born  a  Man. 

266.  "  O,  Sweet  Content." 
There  is  a  jewel  which  no  Indian  mines 
Can  buy,  no  chymic  art  can  counterfeit ; 
It  makes  men  rich  in  greatest  poverty  ; 
Makes  water  wine,  turns  wooden  cups  to  gold, 
The  homely  whistle  to  sweet  music's  strain  : 

Seldom  it  comes,  to  few  from  heaven  sent, 
That  much  in  little,  all  in  naught — Content. 

"  Art  Thou  poor  .  .  .  Art  Thou  rich." 
The  subject   being  riches,   here  from   Hugh   Rhodes,   is   a 
nourishing  crumb  or  two  of  advice.     Cautions  the  poem  is 
called,  and  it  may  be  found  in  the  Book  of  Nurture  : 

He  that  spendeth  much  , 

And  getteth  nought  ; 
He  that  oweth  much, 

And  hath  nought  ; 
He  that  looketh  in  his  purse 

And  findeth  nought, — 
He  may  be  sorry, 

And  say  nought. 
£92 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

He  that  may  and  will  not, 
He  then  that  would  shall  not. 
He  that  would  and  cannot 
May  repent  and  sigh  not. 

He  that  sweareth 

Till  no  man  trust  him  ; 
He  that  lieth 

Till  no  man  believe  him  ; 
He  that  borroweth 

Till  no  man  will  lend  him  ; 
Let  him  go  where 

No  man  knoweth  him. 

He  that  hath  a  good  master, 

And  cannot  keep  him  ; 
He  that  hath  a  good  servant, 

And  is  not  content  with  him  ; 
He  that  hath  such  conditions, 

That  no  man  loveth  him  ; 
May  well  know  other, 

But  few  men  will  know  him. 

And,  to  make  trebly  sure  : 

Three  false  sisters  :    "  Perhaps,"  "  May  be,"  "  I  dare  say." 

Three  timid  brothers  :    "  Hush!"  "  Stop  !"  "  Listen  !" 

269.     "  Lord  Rameses  of  Egypt  sighed." 

The  most  ancient  poem  I  know  of  consists  of  such  a  sigh. 
It  comes  from  an  Egyptian  tomb,  was  composed  about  5000 
years  ago,  and  might  have  been  written  by  some  melancholy 
soul  at  his  sick-room  window  yesterday  afternoon.  For,  after 
all,  these  ancients  whose  mummies  are  now  a  mere  wonder 
for  the  curious,  all  lived,  as  Raleigh  says,  "  in  the  same  newness 
of  time  which  we  call  '  old  time.'  " 

"  Death  is  before  me  to-day 
Like  the  recovery  of  a  sick  man, 
Like  going  forth  into  a  garden  after  sickness. 

"  Death  is  before  me  to-day 

Like  the  odour  of  myrrh, 

Like  sitting  under  the  sail  on  a  windy  day.  .  .  . 

593  2p 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

heath  is  before  me  to  day 
Like  the  course  of  the  freshet, 
!  .ike  the  return  of  a  man  from  the  war-galley  to  his  house.  .  .  . 

"  Death  is  before  me  to-day 
\  s  a  man  longs  to  see  his  house 
When  he  has  spent  years  in  captivity." 

272.     "  These  Strong  and  Fair.  .  .  ." 

And  here  is  another  poem  by  William  Barnes  which  I  have 
ventured  to  spell  not  as  it  appears  in  its  original  dialect,  but 
in  the  usual  way  : 

If  souls  should  only  shine  as  bright 
In  heaven  as  in  earthly  light, 
And  nothing  better  were  the  case, 
How  comely  still,  in  shape  and  face, 
Would  many  reach  that  happy  place, — 
The  hopeful  souls  that  in  their  prime, 
Have  seemed  a-taken  before  their  time — 
The  young  that  died  in  beauty. 

But  when  one's  limbs  have  lost  their  strength 
A-toiling  through  a  lifetime's  length, 
And  over  cheeks  a-growing  old 
The  slowly-wasting  years  have  rolled 
The  deepening  wrinkles'  hollow  fold  ; 
When  life  is  ripe,  then  death  do  call 
For  less  of  thought,  than  when  it  fall 
On  young  folks  in  their  beauty.  .  .  . 

But  still  the  dead  shall  more  than  keep 
The  beauty  of  their  early  sleep  ; 
Where  comely  looks  shall  never  wear 
Uncomely,  under  toil  and  care, 
The  fair,  at  death  be  always  fair, 
Still  fair  to  living,  thought  and  love, 
And  fairer  still  to  God  above, 
Than  when  they  died  in  beauty. 

273- 
I  remember  actually  coming  upon  this  poem  (in  Mr.  Nahum's 
second  book),  and  how  I  twisted  my  head  and  looked  up  at 

594 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

the  quiet  dark-socketed  skull  in  its  alcove  in  the  turret  room. 
It  had  no  alarm  for  me  then,  though  I  can  recall  cold  moments 
of  dread  or  confusion,  when  I  was  a  boy,  at  the  thought  of 
death.  Then— or  was  it  some  time  after  ? — I  turned  the  page 
and  found  the  following  poem  by  Thomas  Campion,  and,  in 
Mr.  Nahum's  writing,  this  scrawl  at  the  foot  of  it  :  "  Yes, 
but  the  vision  first." 

The  man  of  life  upright, 

Whose  guiltless  heart  is  free 
From  all  dishonest  deeds, 

Or  thought  of  vanity  ; 

The  man  whose  silent  days 

In  harmless  joys  are  spent, 
Whom  hopes  cannot  delude 

Nor  sorrow  discontent  : 

That  man  needs  neither  towers 

Nor  armour  for  defence,    - 
Nor  secret  vaults  to  fly 

From  thunder's  violence  : 

He  only  can  behold 

With  unaffrighted  eyes 
The  horrors  of  the  deep 

And  terrors  of  the  skies. 

Thus  scorning  all  the  cares 

That  fate  or  fortune  brings, 
He  makes  the  heaven  his  book, 

His  wisdom  heavenly  things  ; 

Good  thoughts  his  only  friends, 

His  wealth  a  well-spent  age, 
The  earth  his  sober  inn 

And  quiet  pilgrimage. 

"  .  .  .  Yet  suffer  us,  O  Lord,  not  to  repine,  whether  in  the 
morning,  at  noon,  or  at  midnight,  that  is  to  say,  in  our  cradle, 
in  our  youth,  or  old  age,  we  go  to  take  our  long  sleep  ;  but 
let  us  make  this  reckoning  of  our  years,  that  if  we  can  live  no 
longer,  that  is  unto  us  our  old  age  ;  for  he  that  liveth  so  long 
as  thou  appointest  him  (though  he  die  in  the  pride  of  his 
beauty)  dieth  an  old  man.  ..." 

595 


AUDIT  AM)   HOrNDAliDlT 


274.     "  Adieu  I  FAREWELL  Earth's  Bliss." 

This  solemn  dirge  was  written  in  "  time  of  pestilence," — such 
a  time  as  Daniel  Defoe  tells  of  in  his  "  Journal  of  the  Plague 
Year."  The  Elizabethan  poets  brooded  endlessly  on  the 
mystery  of  death.  A  music  haunts  1  heir  words  like  that  of 
muffled  bells,  as  in  John  Fletcher's  poem  : 

.  .  .  Come  hither,  you  that  hope,  and  you  that  cry, 

Leave  off  complaining  ! 
Youth,  strength,  and  beauty,  that  shall  never  die, 

Are  here  remaining. 
Come  hither,  fools,  and  blush  you  stay  so  long 

From  being  blessed. 
And  mad  men,  worse  than  you,  that  suffer  wrong, 

Yet  seek  no  rest  !  .  .  . 

And  in  William  Davenant's  : 

Wake,  all  the  dead  !     What  ho  !  what  ho  ! 
How  soundly  they  sleep  whose  pillows  lie  low  ! 
They  mind  not  poor  lovers,  who  walk  above 
On  the  decks  of  the  world  in  storms  of  love. 
No  whisper  now  nor  glance  shall  pass 
Through  wickets  or  through  panes  of  glass, 
For  our  windows  and  doors  are  shut  and  barred. 
Lie  close  in  the  church,  and  in  the  churchyard  ! 
In  every  grave  make  room,  make  room  ! 
The  world's  at  an  end,  and  we  come,  we  come  !  .  .  . 


275.       "  I    WHO    LOVED    WITH    ALL    MY    LIFE    LOVE    WITH    ALL 

MY   DEATH." 

Not  full  twelve  years  twice-told,  a  weary  breath 
I  have  exchanged  for  a  wished  death. 
My  course  was  short,  the  longer  is  my  rest, 
God  takes  them  soonest  whom  he  loveth  best ; 
For  he  that's  born  to-day  and  dies  to-morrow, 
Loseth  some  days  of  mirth,  but  months  of  sorrow. 

And  this  reminds  me  of  an  epitaph  I  chanced  on  in  the 
graveyard  at  Manorbier  whose  ruinous  castle  towers  above  the 

596 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

green  turf  of  its  narrow  ocean  inlet,  as  if  it  were  keeping  a 
long  tryst  with  the  clocked  church  tower  on  the  height : 

Weep  not  for  her  ye  friends  that's  dear, 
Weep  for  your  sins,  for  death  is  near — 
You  see  by  her,  she  [was]  cut  down  soon. 
Her  morning  Sun  went  down  at  noon. 

And  then  there  are  these  two  unforgettable  fragments,  the 
one  from  the  Scots  of  John  Wedderburn  (1542),  and  the  other 
of  a  century  before,  its  authorship  unknown  : 

Who's  at  my  Window  ? 

Who's  at  m}'  window,  who,  who  ? 
Go  from  my  window,  go,  go  ! 
Who  calleth  there  so  like  a  stranger  ? 
Go  from  my  window — go  ! 

Lord,  I  am  here,  a  wretched  mortal 
That  for  Thy  mercy  does  cry  and  call — 
Unto  Thee,  my  Lord  Celestial, 
See  who  is  at  my  window,  who. 

The  Call. 

.  .  .  Come  home  again,  come  home  again  ; 
Mine  own  sweet  heart,  come  home  again  ! 

You  are  gone  astray 

Out  of  your  way, 
Therefore,  sweet  heart,  come  home  again  ! 

277.     "  Hark  !  now  everything  is  still." 

Death  stands  above  me,  whispering  low 

I  know  not  what  into  my  ear  ; 
Of  his  strange  language  all  I  know 

Is,  there  is  not  a  word  of  fear. 

Walter  Savage  Landor 

"  'TlS    NOW    FULL    TIDE    'TWEEN    NlGHT    AND    Day." 

(line  17) 

Leave  me,  O  Love,  which  readiest  but  to  dust ; 
And  thou,  my  mind,  aspire  to  higher  things  ; 
Grow  rich  in  that  which  never  taketh  rust ; 
Whatever  fades,  but  fading  pleasure  brings. 

597 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

Draw  in  thy  beams,  and  humble  all  thy  mighl 
To  thai  sweet  yoke  where  lasting  freedoms  be; 
Which  breaks  the  clouds,  and  opens  forth  the  light, 
1  'hat  doth  both  shine  and  give  ns  sight  to  see. 

O,  take  last  hold  !  let  that  light  be  thy  guide 

In  this  small  <  ourse  which  birth  draws  out  to  death — 

And  think  how  evil  beeometh  him  to  slide, 

Who  seeketh  heaven,  and  comes  of  heavenly  breath. 

Then  farewell,  world  ;  thy  uttermost  I  see  : 
Eternal  Love,  maintain  thy  life  in  me. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney 

278. 

Of  the  Lyke-wake  Dirge  is  known  neither  the  age  nor  the 
author.  The  body  from  which  the  "  saule  "  or  spirit  within  is 
fled  away  lies  in  its  shroud,  and  the  dirge  tells  of  that  spirit's 
journey.  Its  word  "  sleet,"  says  Mr.  Sidgwick,  means  either 
salt,  for  it  was  the  custom  to  place  in  a  wooden  platter  beside 
the  dead,  earth  and  salt  for  emblems,  the  one  of  corruption,  the 
other  of  the  immortal  ;  or,  as  some  suppose,  "  sleet  "  should 
be  fleet,  meaning  embers  or  water  or  house-room.  "  Whinnies  " 
means  gorse.  To  explain  the  full  meaning  of  Bridge  of  Dread 
would  need  many  pages — but  does  not  much  of  that  meaning 
haunt  in  the  very  music  and  solemnity  of  the  words  ? 

279. 

Next  this  poem  in  Mr.  Nahum's  book  was  "  Lead,  Kindly 
Light,"  and  there  was  a  strange  picture  for  it  hanging  in  the 
round  tower — the  picture  of  a  small  becalmed  ship,  clumsy  of 
rig  and  low  in  the  water  which  was  smooth  and  green  as  glass. 
In  the  midst  of  the  ship  there  was  piled  high  what  might  be 
taken  for  a  vast  heap  of  oranges,  their  fair  reddish  colour 
blazing  in  the  rays  of  the  sun  that  was  about  to  plunge  out  of 
the  greenish  sky  below  the  line  of  the  west.  But  what  even 
more  particularly  attracted  my  eye  at  the  time  was  that  ship's 
figurehead — a  curious  head  and  shoulders  as  if  with  wings,  and 
of  a  kind  of  far  beauty  or  wonder  entirely  past  me  to  describe. 
Many  years  afterwards  I  read  that  this  poem  was  written 
by  John  Henry  Newman  (one  who  even  in  his  young  days 
at  Oxford  was  "  never  less  alone  than  when  alone  "),  when  his 

598 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

mind  was  perplexed  and  unhappy,  and  he  himself  had  time 
to  ponder  awhile,  because  the  boat  in  which  he  was  sailing  to 
England  had  been  for  some  days  becalmed  off  the  coast  of  Spain. 

281.     "  Fear  no  more." 

Philaster.      Fie,  fie, 

So  young  and  so  dissembling  !    fear'st  thou  not 

death  ? 
Can  boys  contemn  that  ? 

Bellario.       O,  what  boy  is  he 

Can  be  content  to  live  to  be  a  man, 

That  sees  the  best  of  men  thus  passionate. 

Thus  without  reason  ? 

Philaster.      O,  but  thou  dost  not  know  what  'tis  to  die. 

Bellario.        Yes,  I  do  know,  my  Lord  ! 

'Tis  less  than  to  be  born  ;  a  lasting  sleep, 

A  quiet  resting  from  all  jealousy  ; 

A  thing  we  all  pursue  ;  I  know  besides 

It  is  but  giving  over  of  a  game 

That  must  be  lost. 
From  Philaster  :  Francis  Beaumont  and  John  Fletcher 

284.     "  All  the  Flowers." 

"...  But  those  which  perfume  the  air  most  delightfully, 
not  passed  by  as  the  rest,  but  being  trodden  upon  and  crushed, 
are  three — that  is,  burnet,  wild  thyme,  and  watermints. 
Therefore  you  are  to  set  whole  alleys  of  them,  to  have  the 
pleasure  when  you  walk  or  tread." 

An  Essay  on  Gardens,  Francis  Bacon 

Bring,  too,  some  branches  forth  of  Daphne's  hair, 
And  gladdest  myrtle  for  the  posts  to  wear, 
With  spikenard  weaved  and  marjorams  between 
And  starred  with  yellow-golds  and  meadows-queen. 

The  very  names  indeed  of  the  aromatic  herbs  seem  to  "  per- 
fume the  air  " — bergamot,  lavender,  meadowsweet,  costmary, 
southernwood,  woodruff,  balm,  germander.  And  flowers  even 
though  dead  remain  sweet  in  their  dust,  as  every  bowl  of  pot- 
pourri proclaims.     To  have  "  a  repository  of  odours  "  always 

599 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDAHOIT 

with  them,  when  streets  wen-  foul  and  pestilence  was  a  peril, 
itle-people  would  in  Old  times  carry  fresh  nosegays  or 
I  omanders.  The  pomanders  were  of  many  kinds;  an  orange 
Stuffed  with  cloves,  etc.,  for  the  hand;  or— for  pocket  or 
chatelaine  some  little  curiously-devised  receptacle  of  silver 
.  ontaining  tiny  phials  of  precious  essences — possibly  no  bigger 
than  a  plum.  Or  they  might  be  compounded  of  rare  ingre- 
dients: "  Your  only  way  to  make  a  j^ooil  pomander  is  this. 
Take  an  ounce  of  the  purest  garden  mould,  cleansed  and 
steeped  seven  days  in  change  of  motherless  rose  water.  Then 
take  the  best  labdanum,  benjoin,  both  storaxes,  ambergris, 
civet,  and  musk.  Incorporate  them  together,  and  work  them 
into  what  form  you  please.  This,  if  your  breath  be  not  too 
valiant,  will  make  you  smell  as  sweet  as  any  lady's  dog." 

285. 
I  have  pondered  over  the  thirteenth  and  eighteenth  lines  of 
this  poem,  but  am  not  yet  certain  of  all  that  they  were  intended 
to  convey.  But  what  scope  for  the  imagination  is  in  it  ! 
The  next  epitaph  is  by  Stephen  Hawes,  whose  Passetyme  of 
Pleasure  or  History  of  Graitnde  Amour e,  and  La  Bel  Pucel,  was 
printed  by  Wynkyn  de  Worde  in  1509  ; 

O  mortal  folk,  you  may  behold  and  see 

How  I  lie  here,  sometime  a  mighty  knight. 
The  end  of  joy  and  all  prosperity 

Is  death  at  last,  thorough  his  course  and  might  : 
For  though  the  day  be  never  so  long, 
At  last  the  bells  ringeth  to  evensong. 

And  the  lines  following  are  said  to  have  been  found  between 
the  pages  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's  Bible  in  the  Gate  House  at 
Westminster,  having  been  written  by  him,  it  is  surmised,  during 
the  night  before  he — an  ageing  man  of  sixty-six — was  beheaded : 

Even  such  is  Time,  that  takes  in  trust 
Our  youth,  our  joys,  our  all  we  have, 

And  pays  us  but  with  earth  and  dust ; 
Who,  in  the  dark  and  silent  grave, 

When  we  have  wandered  all  our  ways, 

Shuts  up  the  story  of  our  days. 

But  from  this  earth,  this  grave,  this  dust, 
My  God  shall  raise  me  up,  I  trust. 
600 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 


286.     "  Sidney,  O  Sidney  is  dead." 

"  Sir  Philip  Sydney,  Knight,"  says  John  Aubrey,  "  was  the 
most  accomplished  courtier  of  his  time.  He  was  not  only  of 
an  excellent  witt,  but  extremely  beautiful ;  he  much  resembled 
his  sister.  He  was  a  person  of  great  courage.  Among  others 
Mr.  Edmund  Spenser  made  his  addresse  to  him,  and  brought 
his  Faery  Queen.  Sir  Philip  was  busy  at  his  study,  and  his 
servant  delivered  Mr.  Spenser's  booke  to  his  master,  who  layd 
it  by,  thinking  it  might  be  such  kind  of  stuffe  as  he  was 
frequently  troubled  with.  When  Sir  Philip  perused  it,  he  was 
so  exceedingly  delighted  with  it,  that  he  was  extremely  sorry 
he  was  gonne,  and  where  to  send  for  him  he  knew  not.  After 
much  enquiry  he  learned  his  lodgeing,  and  sent  for  him,  and 
mightily  caressed  him.  .  .  .  From  this  time  there  was  a  great 
friendship  between  them,  to  his  dying  day.  .  .  .  His  body  was 
putt  in  a  leaden  coffin  (which  after  the  firing  of  Paule's,  I 
myself  sawe),  and  with  wonderfull  greate  state  was  carried  to 
St.  Paule's  church,  when  he  was  buried  in  our  Ladie's  Chapell. 
There  solempnized  this  funerall  all  the  nobility  and  great 
officers  of  Court." 

Here  is  part  of  a  letter  written  to  him,  by  his  father,  Sir 
Henry  Sidney,  in  1566,  when  Philip  was  a  boy  at  Shrewsbury 
School : 

Son  Philip.  .  .  .  Above  all  things,  tell  no  untruth.  No, 
not  in  trifles.  The  custom  of  it  is  nought :  and  let  it  not 
satisfy  you  that,  for  a  time,  the  hearers  take  it  for  a  truth  ; 
yet  after  it  will  be  known  as  it  is,  to  your  shame.  For  there 
cannot  be  a  greater  reproach  to  a  gentleman,  than  to  be 
accounted  a  liar.  .  .  .  Remember,  my  son  !  the  noble  blood 
you  are  descended  of  by  your  mother's  side  :  and  think  that 
only  by  virtuous  life  and  good  action  you  may  be  an  ornament 
to  that  illustrious  family  ;  otherwise,  through  vice  and  sloth, 
you  may  be  counted  labes  generis,  "  a  spot  of  your  kin,"  one 
of  the  greatest  curses  that  can  happen  to  man. 

This  next  fragment  is  from  a  letter  written  on  October  18, 
1580,  by  Sir  Philip  Sidney  himself  to  his  younger  brother 
Robert  (then  seventeen).  This  Robert  six  years  afterwards 
fought  with  him  at  Zutphen.     He  grew  up  a  gallant  gentleman, 

601 


ABOUT    VM)  ROUNDABOUT 

was  created  Earl  of  Leicester,  and  In  his  leisure  wrote  words  to 
in  the  music  i>f  John  Dowland     afterwards lutenist  to  Charles  I. 

My   Mi  ak   I '.  i-:..i  in  k. 

For  the  money  you  have  received,  assure  yourself 
(for  it  is  true),  there  is  nothing  I  spend  so  pleaseth  me  ;  as 
that  which  is  for  you.  If  ever  I  have  ability,  you  shall  find 
it  so  :  if  not,  yet  shall  not  any  brother  living  be  better  beloved 
than  you,  of  me.  .  .  .  Look  to  your  diet,  sweet  Robin  !  and 
hold  your  heart  in  courage  and  virtue.  Truly,  great  part  of 
my  comfort  is  in  you  !  .  .  .  .  Be  careful  of  yourself,  and  I 
shall  never  have  cares.  ...  I  write  this  to  you  as  one,  that  for 
myself  have  given  over  the  delight  in  the  world  ;  but  wish  to 
you  as  much,  if  not  more,  than  to  myself.  .  .  .  God  bless  you, 
sweet  Boy  !  and  accomplish  the  joyful  hope  I  conceive  of 
you.  .  .  .  Lord  how  I  have  babbled  !  Once  again,  farewell, 
dearest  Brother  ! 

Your  most  loving  and  careful  brother, 

Philip  Sidney 

And  here  in  a  few  words  is  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  this  renowned 
man  as  he  appeared  amidst  the  splendour  and  magnificence 
of  the  Tournament,  during  the  Anjou  Fetes  in  London,  in  1581, 
five  years  before  his  death  : 

'  Then  proceeded  Master  Philip  Sidney,  in  very  sumptuous 
manner  with  armour  part  blue  and  the  rest  gilt  and  engraven. 
.  .  .  He  had  four  pages  that  rode  on  his  four  spare  horses  " 
(richly  caparisoned  in  gold  and  pearls  and  feathers  of  silver) 
"  who  had  cassock  hats  and  Venetian  hose  all  of  cloth  of  silver 
laid  with  gold  lace  and  hats  of  the  same  with  gold  bands  and 
white  feathers  :  and  each  one  a  pair  of  white  buskins.".  .  .  . 
There  followed  him  in  as  rich  and  splendid  array  his  gentlemen, 
yeomen,  and  trumpeters. 

287.     "  His  Picture  in  a  Sheet." 

Of  John  Donne's  Book  of  Poems  there  was  nothing  in  Mr. 
Nahum's  first  volume,  much  in  the  others.  But  what  I  then 
read  of  them  I  little  understood.  It  is  a  poetry  that  awaits  the 
mind  as  the  body  grows  older,  and  when  we  have  ourselves 
learned  the  experience  of  life  with  which  it  is  concerned.  Not 
that  the  simplest  poetry  will  then  lose  anything  of  its  grace 

602 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

and  truth  and  beauty — far  rather  it  shines  the  more  clearly, 
since  age  needs  it  the  more. 

"  His  Picture  in  a  sheet  "  refers  to  a  drawing  (prefixed  to 
Donne's  Poems)  of  his  stone  effigy.  This  shows  him  draped  with 
a  shroud,  and  may  now  be  seen  in  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  of  which 
he  was  the  dean,  and  in  whose  pulpit  a  few  days  before  his 
death  he  preached  his  last  valedictory  or  farewell  sermon. 

"  Living  to  Eternity." 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 
That  serveth  not  another's  will ; 
Whose  armour  is  his  honest  thought, 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill  !  .  .  . 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  his  grace  than  gifts  to  lend  ; 
And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  well  chosen  book  or  friend  ; 

This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 
Of  hope  to  rise  or  fear  to  fall  : 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands, 
And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 

Sir  Thomas  More  was  such  a  man.  On  Monday,  July  5th, 
1535,  the  night  before  he  was  beheaded,  he  wrote  (  with  a 
cole  ")  this  letter  of  farewell  to  his  daughter  Margaret  Roper. 
He  had  seen  her  for  the  last  time  when  she  openly  met  and 
kissed  him  in  the  midst  of  his  enemies  and  of  the  throngs  on 
Tower  Wharf,  as  he  came  from  Judgment  : 

"  Oure  Lorde  Blesse  you  good  daughter,  &  youre  good 
husbande,  &  youre  lyttle  boye,  &  all  yours,  &  all  my  children, 
&  all  my  Godde  chyldren  and  all  oure  frendes.  ...  I  cumber 
you  good  Margaret  much,  but  I  would  be  sory,  if  it  should  be 
any  longer  than  to  morow.  For  it  is  saint  Thomas  even,  & 
the  utas  of  saint  Peter  :  &  therfore  to  morow  long  I  to  go  to 
God  :  it  were  a  day  verye  mete  &  convenient  for  me.  I  never 
liked  your  maner  toward  me  better,  than  whan  you  kissed  me 
laste  :  for  I  love  when  doughterly  love,  and  deere  charitye, 
hath  no  leysure  to  loke  to  worldlye  curtesy.  Farewell  my  dere 
chylde,  &  pray  for  me  &  I  shall  for  you  &  all  youre  frendes, 
that  we  maye  merilye  mete  in  heaven.  .  .  ." 

603 


ABOUT  AM)  ROUNDABOUT 

288.    "  Do  Thou  the  same." 
So  too  Waller  Savage  Landor  : 

.  .  .  Quieter  is  his  brcatli,  his  breast  more  cold 

Than  daisies  in  the  mould, 
Where  children  spell,  athwart  the  churchyard  gate, 

His  name,  and  life's  brief  date. 
Pray  fur  him,  gentle  souls,  whoe'er  you  be, 

And,  O,  pray  too  for  me  ! 

290.  "  A  pretty  Bud." 

'  To  die  young,"  in  William  Drummond's  words,  "  is  to  do 
that  soon,  and  in  some  fewer  days,  which  once  thou  must  do  ; 
it  is  but  the  giving  over  of  a  game,  that  after  never  so  many 
hazards  must  be  lost." 

291.  "  A-LEFT    ASLEEP." 

May  !     Be  thou  never  graced  with  birds  that  sing, 

Nor  Flora's  pride  ! 
In  thee  all  flowers  and  roses  spring — 

Mine,  only  died. 
In  obitum  MS.  X°  Maij.  1614,  William  Browne 

293.     "  Sunk  Lyonesse." 

There  is  a  legend — recorded  in  an  ancient  monastic  chronicle 
— that  in  the  days  of  Arthur  there  stretched  between  Land's 
End  and  the  Scillies  a  country  of  castles,  of  fair  towns,  and 
landscapes,  named  Lyonesse.  When  the  tumult  of  the  last 
great  Arthurian  battle  was  over,  there  befell  a  cataclysm  of 
nature,  and  in  a  night  of  tempest  this  whole  region  was  engulfed 
beneath  the  seas. 

What  truth  is  in  this  legend  no  certain  history  relates. 
But  when  the  vast  Atlantic  breakers  begin  to  lull  after  storm, 
to  lie  listening  in  the  watches  of  the  night  is  to  hear,  it  would 
seem,  deep-sunken  belfries  of  bells  sounding  in  the  waters, 
and  siren-like  lamentations.  I  have  myself  heard  this,  and 
fantasy  though  it  may  be,  if  the  ear  is  once  beguiled  into  its 
deceit,  the  bells  clash  and  chime  on  and  on  in  the  imagination, 
mingled  with  the  enormous  lully  of  the  surges,  until  at  last, 
one  falls  asleep. 

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ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

299.     "  Sing  no  sad  Songs  for  Me  " 

— and  here  is  another  such  happy  and  tender  word  of  farewell — 
but  from  one  unknown  : 

When  from  the  world  I  should  be  ta'en, 
And  from  earth's  necessary  pain, 
Then  let  no  blacks  be  worn  for  me, 
Not  in  a  ring,  my  dear,  by  thee. 
But  this  bright  diamond,  let  it  be 
Worn  in  rememberance  of  me. 
And  when  it  sparkles  in  your  eye, 
Think  'tis  my  shadow  passeth  by. 

302.       "  E.EADEN    OV    A    HeAD-StWONE." 

This  poem,  again,  is  spelt  as  the  words  would  be  pronounced 
by  the  country  people  of  Dorset,  the  country  in  which  William 
Barnes  was  born  and  lived  nearly  all  his  long  life.  Their  way 
of  speech  is  slower  than  in  common  English,  and  the  words, 
especially  those  with  the  two  dots,  or  diaeresis,  over  them, 
should  be  lingered  over  a  little  in  pronouncing  them. 

Londoners  have  a  way  of  being  scornfully  amused  at  country 
speech — in  their  ignorance  that  it  is  older  and  far  more  beautiful 
than  their  own  clipped  and  nasal  manner  of  talking.  But 
half  an  hour  with  the  great  Dialect  Dictionary  will  prove  how 
inexhaustibly  rich  the  English  language  once  was  and  still  is 
in  words  made,  used,  and  loved  by  folk  unlearned  in  books,  but 
with  keen  and  lively  eyes  in  their  heads,  quick  to  see  the 
delight  and  livingness  of  a  thing,  and  with  the  wits  to  give  it 
a  name  fitting  it  as  close  as  a  skin. 

303.     "  Care  is  heavy." 

Dear  God,  though  Thy  all-powerful  hand 
Should  so  direct  my  earthly  fate 
That  I  may  seem  unfortunate 
To  them  who  do  not  understand 
That  all  things  follow  Thy  decree, 
Staunchly  I'll  bear  what  e'er's  Thy  will — 
Praying  Thee  but  to  grant  me  still 
That  none  shall  come  to  harm  through  me  ; 
For,  God,  although  Thou  knowest  all, 
605 


ABOUT  AM)  ROUNDABOUT 

I  .m\  too  young  to  comprehend 

I  be  windings  to  my  journey's  end  ; 

1  fear  upon  the  road  to  f.ill 
In  the  worst  sin  of  all  that  be 
And  thrust  my  brother  in  the  sea. 

CONAL    O'RlORDAN 

304.     "  Mother,  never  mourn." 

'  It  was  my  own  mother  (wrote  Thomas  Cantimpratanus 
about  1260)  who  told  me  the  story  which  I  am  about  to  relate. 
My  grandmother  had  a  firstborn  son  of  most  excellent  promise, 
comely  beyond  the  wont  of  children,  at  w-hose  death  she 
mourned  .  .  .  with  a  grief  that  could  not  be  consoled,  until  one 
day,  as  she  went  by  the  way,  she  saw  in  her  vision  a  band  of 
youths  moving  onwards,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  with  exceeding 
great  joy  ;  and  she,  remembering  her  son  and  weeping  that 
she  saw  him  not  in  this  joyful  band,  suddenly  beheld  him 
trailing  weary  footsteps  after  the  rest.  Then  with  a  grievous 
cry  the  mother  asked  :  '  How  comes  it,  my  son,  that  thou 
goest  alone,  lagging  thus  behind  the  rest  ?  '  Then  he  opened 
the  side  of  his  cloak  and  showed  her  a  heavy  water-pot,  saying  : 
'  Behold,  dear  mother,  the  tears  which  thou  hast  vainly  shed 
for  me,  through  the  weight  whereof  I  must  needs  linger  behind 
the  rest  !  Thou  therefore  shalt  turn  thy  tears  to  God  :  then 
only  shall  I  be  freed  from  the  burden  wherewith  I  am  now 
grieved.'  " 

But  not  all  dreamers  are  so  rebuked  or  so  comforted.  St. 
Augustine,  a  loving  son,  pined  in  vain  : 

'  If  the  dead  could  come  in  dreams,"  he  wrote,  "  my  pious 
mother  would  no  night  fail  to  visit  me.  Far  be  the  thought 
that  she  should,  by  a  happier  life,  have  been  made  so  cruel 
that,  when  aught  vexes  my  heart,  she  should  not  even  console 
in  a  dream  the  son  whom  she  loved  with  an  only  love." 

310.     Tom  o'  Bedlam. 

This  poem  has  been  at  hide-and-seek  with  the  world  for 
many  years  past.  Mr.  Frank  Sidgwick  has  now  played  Seek, 
however,  and  has  tracked  it  down  in  the  British  Museum  in  a 
manuscript,  No.  24665,  inscribed  "  Giles  Earle — his  book, 
1615."     In  this  manuscript  the  poem  consists  of  eight  stanzas 

606 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

of  ten  lines  each,  with  a  chorus  of  five  lines.  The  version  in 
this  book  is  only  of  twenty-five  lines,  as  they  were  arranged 
by  Mrs.  Meynell  in  her  beautiful  Anthology,  The  Flower  of 
the  Mind.  Here  are  the  chief  differences  which  Mr.  Sidgwick 
has  very  kindly  allowed  me  to  collect  from  his  account  of  his 
search  : 

Line  i,  "moon"  is  mom.  Line  2,  "lovely"  is  lonely, 
"  marrow  "  is  morrow.  Line  10,  "  rounded  "  is  wounded.  Line 
16,  "  a  heart "  is  a  host.  And  line  21,  "  with  "  is  by.  It  is  a 
happy  exercise  of  the  wits  to  choose  between  them  and  to  find 
reasons  for  one's  choice.  When  and  by  whom  the  poem  was 
written  is  not  yet  known.  It  remains  a  shining  jewel  in  the 
crown  of  the  most  modest  of  all  men  of  genius,  Mr.  Anon. 

314.     "  What's  in  there." 

This  far-carrying  rhyme  belongs  to  the  ancient  and  famous 
game  of  Dump.  "  He  who  speaks  first  in  it,  "  says  Dr.  Gregor, 
"  or  laughs  first,  or  lets  his  teeth  be  seen,  gets  nine  nips,  nine 
nobs,  nine  double  douncornes,  an'  a  gueed  blow  on  the  back  o' 
the  head." 

The  faht  and  fahr,  I  suppose,  are  the  pleasant  Scots  way  of 
saying  what  and  where. 

316. 

So  may  the  omission  of  a  few  commas  effect  a  wonder  in 
the  imagination.  To  the  imagination  indeed  there  is  nothing 
absurd  in,  "  I  saw  the  sun  at  twelve  o'clock  at  night  " — for  one 
can  actually  see  in  the  "  little  nowhere  of  the  mind  "  both 
burning  sun  and  black  night  together  :  as  once  in  a  dream  I 
myself  was  enchanted  by  three  moons  in  the  sky,  shining  in 
their  silver  above  waters  as  wide  as  those  of  Milton's  curfew. 
So,  too,  even  mere  day-by-day  objects  whl  take  on  themselves 
a  strangeness  and  beauty  never  seen  or  "  marked  "  before,  if 
(like  Marcus  Aurelius  and  his  loaf  of  bread)  we  will  only  "  glut  " 
the  eye  on  them.  "  I  see  a  rose,"  said  an  old  woman  on  her 
deathbed,  "  but  if,  in  childhood  and  youth,  I  had  seen  it  closer, 
what  a  rose  on  the  threshold  it  had  been  !  " 

Here  is  another  old  nursery  "  nonsense  "  rhyme  that  makes 
almost  as  lively  pictures  in  the  mind  : 

There  was  a  man  of  double  deed 
Who  sowed  his  garden  full  of  seed  ; 
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ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

And  when  the  seed  began  to  i;row, 
'  1  w.is  like  ;i  garden  full  of  snow  ; 
And  when  the  snow  began  to  fall, 
Like  birds  it  was  upon  the  wall  ; 
And  when  the  birds  began  to  Hy  , 
'Twas  like  a  shipwreck  in  the  sky  ; 
And  when  the  sky  began  to  crack, 
'Twas  like  a  stick  upon  my  back  ; 
And  when  my  back  began  to  smart, 
'Twas  like  a  pen-knife  in  my  heart  ; 
And  when  my  heart  began  to  bleed, 
Then  I  was  dead — and  dead  indeed. 

319.     "  It  had  become  a  glimmering  Girl." 

'  The  Tuatha  De  Danaan — the  divine  Children  of  Danu 
which  forgotten  centuries  ago  invaded  Ireland — can  take  all 
shapes,  and  those  that  are  in  the  waters  take  often  the  shape 
of  fish.  A  woman  of  Burren,  in  Galway,  says,  '  There  are  more 
of  them  in  the  sea  than  on  the  land  .  .  .,'  and  another  Galway 
woman  says,  '  Surely  those  things  are  in  the  sea  as  well  as  on 
land.  My  father  was  out  fishing  one  night  off  Tyrone.  And 
something  came  beside  the  boat  that  had  eyes  shining  like 
candles.  And  then  a  wave  came  in,  and  a  storm  rose  all  in  a 
minute,  and  whatever  was  in  the  wave,  the  weight  of  it  had 
like  to  sink  the  boat.  And  then  they  saw  that  it  was  a  woman 
in  the  sea  that  had  the  shining  eyes.  So  my  father  went  to 
the  priest,  and  he  bid  him  always  to  take  a  drop  of  holy  water 
and  a  pinch  of  salt  out  in  the  boat  with  him,  and  nothing 
could  harm  him.'  " 

W.  B.  Yeats 

321.     "  One  without." 

Was  it  the  sound  of  a  footfall  I  heard 
On  the  cold  flag  stone  ? 
Or  the  cry  of  a  wandering  far  night  bird, 
On  the  sea-winds  blown  ? 
Was  that  a  human  shape  that  stood  ? 
In  the  shadow  below, 
Or  but  the  mist  of  the  moonlit  wood 
As  it  hovered  low  ? 
608 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

Was  it  the  voice  of  a  child  that  called 
From  the  hill  side  steep  ? 
Or,  O,  but  the  wind  as  it  softly  lulled 
The  world  to  sleep  ? 

Elizabeth  Ramal 

325.     "  Broome,  Broome  on  Hill." 

The  story  is  of  how  a  bright  lady  comes  to  keep  her  tryst 
with  a  knight-at-arms  in  the  golden  broom  of  Hive  Hill.  She 
finds  him  under  a  charm,  an  enchantment,  asleep  ;  and  having 
left  her  ring  on  his  finger  for  proof  of  her  coming,  she  steals 
away.  Presently  after  he  awakes — her  presence  gone.  To 
leave  a  quiet  and  happy  room  vacant  at  night  is  sometimes  to 
have  this  experience,  as  it  were,  reversed.  There  comes  a 
feeling  that  you  being  gone,  gentler  visitants  may  enter  and 
share  its  solitude— while  its  earthly  occupant  sleeps  overhead, 
and  one  by  one  the  stars  sink  to  their  setting. 

326.     "  The  Changeling." 

When  larks  gin  sing 

Away  we  fling, 
And  babes  new-born  steal  as  we  go  ; 

An  elf  instead 

We  leave  in  bed, 
And  wind  out,  laughing,  Ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

329.     "  Mariana." 

It  is  difficult  to  read  this  poem  slowly  and  intently  enough 
if  one  is  to  experience  to  the  full  the  living  things  and  sights 
and  sounds  that  by  its  words  are  charmed  into  the  mind — the 
hushed  solitude,  the  desolation.  Take  even,  of  all  there  is, 
but  the  "  peering  mouse  "  in  the  sixth  stanza— his  sharp  nose 
sniffing  the  air  beneath  the  small  wooden  arch  of  his  dark- 
glimmering  mousery,  where  miche  and  shriek  and  gambol  his 
fellows  behind  the  mouldering  wainscot.  Or  stay  for  a  moment 
looking  down  on  the  "  marsh  mosses  "  in  the  third  stanza — 
of  a  green  as  lively  as  a  fairy's  mantle  in  the  sunlight,  gilding 
the  waters  of  the  blackened  sluice.  So  piece  by  piece  the 
words  of  the  poem  build  up  in  the  imagination  this  solitary 
house  with  its  forsaken  Mariana,  whom  Tennyson  himself  had 

609  2q 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

seen  in  the  dream  conferred  on  him  by  another  poet,  Shake- 
ire,  in  Measure  for  Measure  : 

Isabella.    Can  this  be  so  ?    did  Angclo  so  leave  her  ? 

Duke.  Left  her  in  her  teares,  and  dried  not  one  of  them 
with  his  comfort  :  swallowed  his  vowes  whole, 
pretending  in  her  discoveries  of  dishonour  :  in 
few,  bestowed  on  her  her  owne  lamentation, 
which  she  yet  weares  for  his  sake  :  and  he,  a 
marble  to  her  teares,  is  washed  with  them,  but 
relents  not. 

Isabella.  What  a  merit  were  it  in  death  to  take  this  poore 
maid  from  the  world.  .  .  . 

332.     "  Yes  Tor." 

Turn  your  back  on  Okehampton  and  break  out  due  South 
into  the  wilds  of  Dartmoor,  and  there,  "  summering  "  together 
'  beneath   the  empty    skies,"   lie   titanic   Yes  Tor  and   High 
Willes,  rearing  their  bare  vast  shapes  700  yards  into  the  air. 

333.       "  TO    HEARE    THE    MANDRAKE    GRONE."   (stanza  2) 

Of  the  dangerous  plant  Mandrake  ("  its  root  in  something 
the  shape  and  appearance  of  a  man  ")  is  concocted  Mandra- 
gora,  one  of  the  "  drowsy  syrups."  "  The  leaves  and  fruit 
be  also  dangerous,  for  they  cause  deadly  sleep,  and  peevish 
drowsiness."  The  fruit  is  "  of  the  bigness  of  a  reasonable  pippin, 
and  as  yellow  as  gold  when  it  is  thoroughly  ripe  "  :  fair  without, 
ashes  within.  It  is  said  that  the  mandrake's  screams,  when  it 
is  dragged  out  of  the  ground,  will  send  the  hearer  mad.  So  the 
gatherer  should  first  seal  his  ears,  then  tie  the  plant  to  a  dog's 
tail  and  hike  him  on  to  haul  it  out  of  its  haunt !  "  Avicenna 
the  Arabian  physician  asserts  that  a  Jew  at  Metz  had  a  man- 
dragore  with  a  human  head,  and  the  legs  and  body  of  a  cock, 
which  lived  five  weeks,  and  was  fed  on  lavender  and  earth- 
worms, and,  when  dead,  was  preserved  in  spirits."  Even  up  to 
the  nineteenth  century  dreaders  or  wishers  of  witchcraft  were 
wont  to  carry  these  monstrous  little  Erdmannikens  in  bosom 
or  pocket  for  an  amulet  or  charm. 

The  "  Basilisk,"  old  books  maintain,  is  a  fabulous  beast 
whose  icy  glare  freezes  the  gazer,  and  is  mortal.  Approach 
her  then  with  a  mirror  ;   and  courage  be  your  guide  ! 

610 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

"  Hemlock,  Henbane,  Adders-tongue."  (line  10) 

Hemlock  is  that  tall,  dim-spotted  plant  of  a  sad  green  colour, 
and  of  a  scent  "  strong,  heady  and  bad,"  which  is  "  very  cold 
and  dangerous,"  especially  when  "  digged  in  the  dark." 

Clammy  henbane  is  woolly-leafed,  with  hollow  dark-eyed 
flowers  of  a  purple-veined  dingy  yellow.  '  It  lusts  to  grow 
in  rancid  soil,  To  'stil  its  deadly  oil." 

Moonwort  is  the  meek-looking  little  flowering  fern  that  has 
the  power  to  break  locks,  and  to  make  any  horse  that  chances 
to  tread  upon  it  cast  his  shoes. 

The  livid-flowered,  cherrylike-fruited  dwale,  enoron,  or  night- 
shade is  the  most  "  daungerous  "  plant  in  England.  While 
leopard's  bane — though  it  bears  a  bright-yellow  daisy-like  flower, 
and  witches  are  said  to  fear  sun-colour — is  venomous  to  animals. 

I  am  uncertain  of  adder's  tongue,  for  the  fern  of  this  name 
cures  sore  eyes  ;  and  cuckoo-pint  which  is  also  so  called,  is 
"  a  remedy  for  poison  and  the  plague  "  ! 

Of  these  six  insidious  plants  only  one  is  openly  mentioned  by 
Shakespeare,  and  they  appear  to  have  few  country  names, 
unlike,  for  example,  the  purple  orchis,  "  which  has  so  many," 
says  Nicholas  Culpeper,  "  that  they  would  fill  a  sheet  of  paper  "  : 
long-purples,  dead-men's  fingers,  crake-feet,  giddy-gandy,  neat- 
legs,  geese  and  goslings,  and  gander-gooses,  being  a  few  choice 
specimens. 

334.     "  The  Raven." 

Underneath  an  old  oak  tree 

There  was  of  swine  a  huge  company, 

That  grunted  as  they  crunched  the  mast : 

For  that  was  ripe,  and  fell  full  fast. 

Then  they  trotted  away,  for  the  wind  grew  high  : 

One  acorn  they  left,  and  no  more  might  you  spy. 

Next  came  a  Raven,  that  liked  not  such  folly  : 

He  belonged,  they  did  say,  to  the  witch  Melancholy  ! 

Blacker  was  he  than  blackest  jet, 

Flew  low  in  the  rain,  and  his  feathers  not  wet. 

He  picked  up  the  acorn  and  buried  it  straight 
By  the  side  of  a  river  both  deep  and  great. 

Where  then  did  the  Raven  go  ? 

He  went  high  and  low, 
Over  hill,  over  dale,  did  the  black  Raven  go. 

611 


ABOUT  AM)  ROUNDABOUT 

Many  Autumns,  many  Springs 
Travelled  he  with  wandering  wings  : 

Many  Summers,  m.uiv  Winters — 
I  can't  tell  half  his  adventures. 

At  length  he  came  back,  an<!  with  him  a  She, 

And  the  acorn  was  grown  to  a  tall  oak  tree, 

They  built  thorn  a  nest  in  the  topmost  bough, 

And  young  ones  they  had,  and  were  happy  enow. 

But  soon  came  a  Woodman  in  leathern  guise, 

His  brow,  like  a  pent-house,  hung  over  his  eyes. 

He'd  an  axe  in  his  hand,  not  a  word  he  spoke, 

But  with  many  a  hem  !  and  a  sturdy  stroke, 

At  length  he  brought  down  the  poor  Raven's  own  oak. 

His  young  ones  were  killed  ;    for  they  could  not  depart, 

And  their  mother  did  die  of  a  broken  heart. 

The  boughs  from  the  trunk  the  WToodman  did  sever  ; 
And  they  floated  it  down  on  the  course  of  the  river. 
They  sawed  it  in  planks,  and  its  bark  they  did  strip, 
And  with  this  tree  and  others  they  made  a  good  ship. 
The  ship,  it  was  launched  ;  but  in  sight  of  the  land 
Such  a  storm  there  did  rise  as  no  ship  could  withstand. 
It  bulged  on  a  rock,  and  the  waves  rush'd  in  fast : 
Round  and  round  flew  the  raven,  and  cawed  to  the  blast. 
He  heard  the  last  shriek  of  the  perishing  souls — 
See  !  see  !  o'er  the  topmast  the  mad  water  rolls  ! 

Right  glad  was  the  Raven,  and  off  he  went  fleet, 
And  Death  riding  home  on  a  cloud  he  did  meet, 
And  he  thanked  him  again  and  again  for  this  treat : 

They  had  taken  his  all,  and  revenge  it  was  sweet  ! 

S.  T.  Coleridge 

"  Seventeen  or  eighteen  years  ago,"  wrote  Coleridge  in  1817, 
"  an  artist  of  some  celebrity  was  so  pleased  with  this  doggerel 
that  he  amused  himself  with  the  thought  of  making  a  Child's 
Picture  Book  of  it ;  but  he  could  not  hit  on  a  picture  for  the 
four  lines  beginning,  '  Many  Autumns,  many  Springs.'  I 
suggested  a  Round-about  with  four  seats,  and  the  four  seasons, 
as  children,  with  Time  for  the  shew-man." 


612 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

335.     "  A  thousand  darling  Imps."   (stanza  19) 

"  Aeriel  spirits,"  says  Robert  Burton,  "  are  such  as  keep 
quarter  most  part  in  the  air,  cause  many  tempests,  thunder, 
and  lightnings,  tear  oaks,  fire  steeples,  houses,  strike  men  and 
beasts,  make  it  rain  stones,  .  .  .  wool,  frogs,  etc.,  counterfeit 
armies  in  the  air,  strange  noises,  swords,  etc." 

Nothing  vexed  Linnet  Sara  more  than  to  be  asked  if  there 
were  any  such  darling  imps  or  spectres  or  ghosts  or  blackamoors 
in  Thrae.  All  such  to  her  were  nothing  but  idle  fiddle-faddle. 
But  Reginald  Scot,  who  wrote  The  Discoverie  of  Witchcraft 
(1584),  had  another  kind  of  kitchen  company  when  he  was 
young. 

"...  Our  mothers  maide,"  he  says,  of  his  childhood,  "so 
terrified  us  with  .  .  .  bull  beggers,  spirits,  witches,  urchens, 
elves,  hags,  fairies,  satyrs,  pans,  faunes,  sylens,  kit  with  the 
cansticke,  tritons,  centaurs,  dwarfes,  giants,  imps,  calcars, 
conjurors,  nymphes,  changlings,  Incubus,  Robin  goodfellowe, 
the  spoorne,  the  mare,  the  man  in  the  oke,  the  hellwaine,  the 
fierdrake,  the  puckle,  Tom  thombe,  hob  gobblin,  Tom  tumbler, 
boneles,  and  such  other  bugs,  that  we  were  afraid  of  our  own 
shadowes  :  in  so  much  as  some  never  feare  the  divill,  but  in  a 
dark  night ;   ..." 

There  seems  to  be  no  mention  here  of  the  salamander — a 
creature  at  least  as  rarely  seen  by  mortal  eyes  as  the  puckle  or 
firedrake. 

"  When  I  was  about  five  years  old,"  says  Benvenuto  Cellini, 
"  my  father  happened  to  be  in  a  basement-chamber  of  our 
house,  where  they  had  been  washing,  and  where  a  good  fire  of 
oak  logs  was  still  burning ;  he  had  a  viol  in  his  hand  and  was 
playing  and  singing  alone  beside  the  fire.  The  weather  was 
very  cold.  Happening  to  look  into  the  fire,  he  espied  in  the 
middle  of  the  most  burning  flames  a  little  creature  like  a 
lizard,  which  was  sporting  in  the  core  of  the  intensest  coals. 
Becoming  aware  of  what  the  thing  was,  he  had  my  sister  and 
me  called,  and  pointing  it  out  to  us  children,  gave  me  a  great 
box  on  the  ears,  which  caused  me  to  cry  with  all  my  might. 
Then  he  pacified  me  by  saying,  '  My  dear  little  boy,  I  am  not 
striking  you  for  anything  that  you  have  done,  but  only  to  make 
you  remember  that  the  lizard  you  see  in  the  fire  is  a  salamander, 
a  creature  which  has  never  been  seen  before  by  any  of  whom 

613 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

we  have  credible  information.'  So  sa\ing  he  gave  me  some 
pieces  of  money,  and  kissed  me." 

"  Bell  and  Whip  and  Horse's  Tail  "  (stanza  22) 

— siuh  in  old  days  was  the  Witch's  vile  punishment  if  she 
escaped  drowning:  to  be  whipped,  tied  to  a  horse's  tail,  and 
rung  through  the  crowded  streets. 

"  Agramic,"  I  suppose,  is  agrimony,  which,  if  worn  by  the 
wary,  will  enable  the  wearer  to  detect  witches.  Their  eyes  too 
will  betrav  them,  for  there  you  will  find  no  tiny  image  of  your- 
self reflected  as  in  the  eyes  of  the  honest.  And  if  you  would 
be  rid  of  their  company,  pluck  a  sprig  of  scarlet  pimpernel,  and 
repeat  this  charm  : 

Herbe  pimpernell,  I  have  thee  found 

Growing  upon  Christ  Jesus'  ground  : 

The  same  guift  the  Lord  Jesus  gave  unto  thee, 

When  he  shed  his  blood  on  the  tree. 

Arise  up,  pimpernell,  and  goe  with  me. 

And  God  blesse  me, 
And  all  that  shall  wear  thee.     Amen. 

"  Say  this  fifteen  dayes  together,  twice  a  day,  morning 
earlye  fasting,  and  in  the  evening  full." 

Indeed,  at  last,  whatever  the  peril,  a  quiet  heart  and  heaven's 
courage,  are  charm  enough  : 

I  say  that  we  are  wound 
With  mercy  round  and  round 
As  if  with  air  :  .  .  . 

Gerald  Manley  Hopkins 

336.     "  The  Water  Kelpy  "   (stanza  8) 

is  a  fiend  that  haunts  in  rivers  and  desolate  waters.  It  is  of 
horse-shape,  and  the  sound  of  its  neighings  is  a  boding  of  death 
to  the  traveller. 

"  Thus  did  the  evil  creatures  often  press  me  hard,  but,  as 
was  meet,  I  served  them  well  with  my  war-sword  ;  they  had 
no  joyous  fill  by  eating  me,  wicked  destroyers,  sitting  round 
their  feast  nigh  the  bottom  of  the  sea  ;  but  in  the  morning, 
wounded  by  the  sword,  slain  by  the  dagger,  they  lay  up  along 
the  sea-strand,  so  that  they  could  never  more  hinder  sea- 
farers on  their  course  in  the  deep  channel. 

614 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

Light  came  from  the  east,  the  bright  beacon  of  the  Lord  ; 
the  waves  were  stilled,  and  I  could  descry  the  sea-headlands, 
those  wind-swept  walls." 

Beowulf,  translated  by  C.  B.  Tinker 

"  '  And  what  is  the  sea  ?'  asked  Will. 

'  The  sea  ! '  cried  the  miller.  '  Lord  help  us  all,  it  is  the 
greatest  thing  God  made  !  That  is  where  all  the  water  in  the 
world  runs  down  into  a  great  salt  lake.  There  it  lies,  as  flat 
as  my  hand  and  as  innocent-like  as  a  child  ;  but  they  do  say 
when  the  wind  blows  it  gets  up  into  water-mountains  bigger 
than  any  of  ours,  and  swallows  down  great  ships  bigger  than 
our  mill,  and  makes  such  a  roaring  that  you  can  hear  it  miles 
away  upon  the  land.  There  are  great  fish  in  it  five  times  bigger 
than  a  bull,  and  one  old  serpent  as  long  as  our  river  and  as  old 
as  all  the  world,  with  whiskers  like  a  man,  and  a  crown  of 
silver  on  her  head.'  " 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

341.     "  The  Wandering  Spectre." 

"...  The  usewall  Method  for  a  curious  Person  to  get  a 
transient  Sight  of  this  otherwise  invisible  Crew  of  Subter- 
raneans, ...  is  to  put  his  left  Foot  under  the  Wizard's  right 
Foot,  and  the  Seer's  Hand  is  put  on  the  Inquirer's  Head,  who 
is  to  look  over  the  Wizard's  right  Shoulder  .  .  .  then  will  he 
see  a  Multitude  of  Wights,  like  furious  hardie  Men,  flocking  to 
him  haistily  from  all  Quarters,  as  thick  as  Atoms  in  the  Air.  .  .  . 
Thes  thorow  Fear  strick  him  breathless  and  speechless." 

So  says  "  Mr.  Robert  Kirk,  Minister  at  Aberfoill,"  in  his 
Secret  Commonwealth  of  1691. 

Of  these  invisible  wights  the  womenkind  "  are  said  to  Spin 
very  fine,  to  Dy,  to  Tossue,  and  Embroyder,  but  whether  only 
curious  Cob-webs,  impalpable  Rainbows  ...  I  leave  to  con- 
jecture." 

343.     "  And  Clootie's  waur  nor  a  Woman  was." 

(stanza  19) 

A  strip  or  patch  of  wild  weedy  uncropped  ground  (like  the 
Sluggard's  garden)  that  in  England  is  called  No  Man's  Land, 
the  Scots  country  folk  call  Clootie's  Croft  (or  Clootie's  little 
field).     They  hand  it  over  by  name,  as  it  were,  to  the  Fiend, 

615 


ABOUT  AM)  ROUNDABOUT 

hoping  tint   he  may  rest  content  with  its  harvesi  <>f  nettle 

and  bramble  and  burr,  and  not  range  elsewhere.  It  is  an  old 
belief  that  it",  like  t  hristian,  tin-  wayfarer  meets  Apollyon 
straddling  across  his  path,  lie  may  have  to  withstand  him  not 
only  with  sword  and  staff,  but  with  his  wits.  Just  so,  too, 
m  old  times,  sovereign  princes  would  test  strangers  with  dark 
questions  and  riddles.  In  this  ball. id  the  Fiend  disguised  as 
a  knighl  comes  wooing  .it  a  Widow's  door,  in  the  next  he  is 
abroad  on  the  high  road.  Jennifer  ami  the  wee  boy 
kept  up  their  hearts,  their  wits  about  them,  their  eyes 
open,  and  "  had  the  last  word  "  ;  which,  says  Mr.  Sidgwick, 
is  a  mighty  powerful  charm  against  evil  spirits — as  against 
Witches  are  the  herbs  vervain,  dill,  basil,  hyssop,  periwinkle 
and  rue.      Iron,  too  ;    the  cross,  and  running  water. 

Here  is  another  such  encounter  from  The  White  Wallet — 
packed  with  poems  new  and  old.  You  can  almost  hear  the 
voices  of  the  two  speakers  standing  together  in  the  quiet  and 
dust  of  the  morning  road  : 

M  KET-ON-THE-ROAD. 

"  Now,  pray,  where  are  you  going,  child  ?"  said  Meet-on-the- 
Road. 
'  To  school,  sir,  to  school,  sir,"  said  Child-as-It-Stood. 

'  What  have  you  in  your  basket,  child  ?"  said  Meet-on-the- 

Road. 
"  My  dinner,  sir,  my  dinner,  sir,"  said  Child-as-It-Stood. 

'  What  have  you  for  your  dinner,  child  ?"  said  Meet-on-the- 

Road. 
"  Some   pudding,    sir,    some   pudding,    sir,"   said   Child-as-It- 
Stood. 

•'  Oh,  then  I  pray,  give  me  a  share,"  said  Meet-on-the-Road. 
"  I've  little  enough  for  myself,  sir,"  said  Child-as-It-Stood. 

'  What  have  you  got  that  cloak  on  for  ?"  said  Meet-on-the 

Road. 
'  To  keep  the  wind  and  cold  from  me,"  said  Child-as-It-Stood. 

"  I  wish  the  wind  would  blow  through  you,"  said  Meet-on- 
the-Road. 

"Oh,   what  a  wish!     Oh,   what  a  wish!"   said    Child-as-It 
Stood. 

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ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

"  Prav  what  are  those  bells  ringing  for  ?"  said  Meet-on-the- 

Road. 
"  To  ring  bad  spirits  home  again,"  said  Child-as-It-Stood. 

"  Oh,  then,  I  must  be  going,  child  !  "  said  Meet-on-the-Road. 
"  So  fare  you  well,  so  fare  you  well,"  said  Child-as-It-Stood. 

And  here,  for  titbits  and  bonnes  bouches,  are  Seven  Ancient 
Riddles  from  Popular  Rhymes — in  case  : 

i. 

The  fiddler  and  his  wife, 

The  piper  and  his  mother, 
Ate  three  half-cakes,  three  whole  cakes, 

And  three  quarters  of  another. 

ii. 
A  house  full,  a  yard  full, 
And  ye  can't  catch  a  bowl  full. 

iii. 
As  I  was  going  o'er  London  Bridge, 

I  heard  something  crack  ; 
Not  a  man  in  all  England 

Can  mend  that ! 

iv. 
I  had  a  little  sister, 

They  called  her  Pretty  Peep  ; 
She  wades  in  the  waters, 

Deep,  deep,  deep  ! 
She  climbs  up  the  mountains, 

High,  high,  high  ; 
My  poor  little  sister, 

She  has  but  one  eye. 

v. 
As  I  was  going  o'er  yon  moor  of  moss, 
I  met  a  man  on  a  gray  horse  ; 
He  whipp'd  and  he  wail'd, 
I  ask'd  him  what  he  ail'd  ; 
He  said  he  was  going  to  his  father's  funeral,. 
Who  died  seven  years  before  he  was  born  ! 

617 


ABOUT  AM)  ROUNDABOUT 

vi. 
As  I  looked  out  o'  my  chamber  window, 

I  heard  something  fall  ; 
I  sent  my  maid  to  pick  it  up, 

But  she  couldn't  pick  it  all. 

vii. 
Black  within,  and  red  without, 
Four  corners  round  about. 

Answers. 

i.  i|  cakes  each  ;  since,  if  Mr.  Piper  marries,  his  wife  will 
be  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fiddler's  dear  daughter-in-law.  ii.  Smoke  ; 
iii.  Ice  ;  iv.  A  Star  ;  v.  The  poor  soul  in  the  coffin  was  by- 
trade  a  dyer  ;  vi.  Snuff  (!) ;  vii.  A  Chimney  (in  Days  of  Yore). 

344.     "  The  Fause  Knicht." 

Such  visitants,  it  would  appear,  have  marvellous  power  even 
over  faces  or  shapes  in  stone  : 

He's  tied  his  steed  to  the  kirk-stile, 

Syne  wrang-gaites  round  the  kirk  gaed  he  ; 

When  the  Mer-Man  entered  the  kirk-door, 
Away  the  sma'  images  turned  their  e'e.  .  .  . 

Wrang-gaites  must  mean  widdershins,  left  to  right,  West 
to  East,  the  opposite  to  deiseal  (deshal) — to  the  right,  Sunwards. 

Here  is  another  such  visitor — one  who  considerately  intrudes 
not  all  at  once  but  little  by  little,  bone  by  bone  : 

The  Strange  Visitor. 

A  wife  was  sitting  at  her  reel  ae  night ; 

And  aye  she  sat,  and  aye  she  reeled,  and  aye  she  wished  for 
company. 

In  came  a  pair  o'  braid  braid  soles,  and  sat  down  at  the  fire- 
side ; 
And  aye  she  sat,  and  aye  she  reeled,  and  aye  she  wished  for 
company. 
In  came  a  pair  o'  sma'  legs,  and  sat  down  on  the  braid  braid 
soles  ; 
And  aye  she  sat,  and  aye  she  reeled,  and  aye  she  wished  for 
company. 

618 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

In  came  a  pair  o'  muckle  muckle  knees,  and  sat  down  on  the 
sma'  sma'  legs  ; 
And  aye  she  sat,  and  aye  she  reeled,  and  aye  she  wished  for 
company. 

In  came  a  pair  o'  sma'  sma'  thees,  and  sat  down  on  the  muckle 
muckle  knees  ; 
And  aye  she  sat,  and  aye  she  reeled,  and  aye  she  wished  for 
company. 

In  came  a  pair  o'  muckle  muckle  hips,  and  sat  down  on  the 
sma'  sma'  thees  ; 
And  aye  she  sat,  and  aye  she  reeled,  and  aye  she  wished  for 
company. 

In   came  a  sma'   sma'   waist,   and  sat  down  on  the  muckle 
muckle  hips  ; 
And  aye  she  sat,  and  aye  she  reeled,  and  aye  she  wished  for 
company. 

In  came  a  pair  o'  braid  braid  shouthers,  and  sat  down  on  the 
sma'  sma'  waist ; 
And  aye  she  sat,  and  aye  she  reeled,  and  aye  she  wished  for 
company. 

In  came  a  pair  o'  sma'  sma'  arms,  and  sat  down  on  the  braid 
braid  shouthers  ; 
And  aye  she  sat,  and  aye  she  reeled,  and  aye  she  wished  for 
company. 

In  came  a  pair  o'  muckle  muckle  hands,  and  sat  down  on  the 
sma'  sma'  arms  ; 
And  aye  she  sat,  and  aye  she  reeled,  and  aye  she  wished  for 
company. 

In  came  a  sma'  sma'  neck,  and  sat  down  on  the  braid  braid 
shouthers  ; 
And  aye  she  sat,  and  aye  she  reeled,  and  aye  she  wished  for 
company. 

In  came  a  great  big  head,  and  sat  down  on  the  sma'  sma'  neck  ; 
And  aye  she  sat,  and  aye  she  reeled,  and  aye  she  wished  for 
company. 

"  What  way  hae  ye  sic  braid  braid  feet  ?"  quo'  the  wife. 
"  Muckle  ganging,  muckle  ganging." 
"  What  way  hae  ye  sic  sma'  sma'  legs  ?" 
"  Aih-h-h  ! — late — and  wee-e-e  moul." 

619 


AHOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

What  way  hac  ye  sic  muckle  tnuckle  knees  ?" 
Muckle  praying,  tnuckle  praying." 

What  way  ha<-  ye  sic  sma'  sma'  thees  ?" 

Aih-h-h  1 — late    and  wee-e-e  moul." 

What  way  hae  ye  sic  big  big  hips  ?  " 

Muckle  sitting,  muckle  sitting." 

What  way  hac  ye  sic  a  sma'  sma'  waist  ?" 

Aih-h-h  ! — late — and  wee-e-e  moul." 

What  way  hae  ye  sic  braid  braid  shouthers  ?" 

Wi1  carrying  broom,  wi'  carrying  broom." 

What  way  hae  ye  sic  sma'  sma'  arms  ?" 

Aih-h-h  ! — late — and  wee-e-e  moul." 

What  way  hae  ye  sic  muckle  muckle  hands  ?" 

Threshing  wi'  an  iron  flail,  threshing  wi'  an  iron  flail." 

What  way  hae  ye  sic  a  sma'  sma'  neck  ?" 

Aih-h-h  ! — late — and  wee-e-e  moul." 

What  way  hae  ye  sic  a  muckle  muckle  head  ?" 

Muckle  wit,  muckle  wit." 

What  do  you  come  for  ?" 

For  YOU  !  " 

345.     "  Christabel." 

I  have  included  only  these  few  stanzas  of  this  familiar 
magical  poem  because  a  book  is  but  one  book,  and  to  print 
everything  as  lovely  or  almost  as  lovely  would  need  many. 

In  reading  it,  as  Coleridge  explained,  all  that  is  neces- 
sary to  ensure  its  lilt  and  cadence  is  to  remember  that 
every  line,  however  few  or  many  its  words  or  syllables,  has 
four  accents,  and  that  these  fall  in  accord  with  the  meaning 
of  the  lines  as  one  reads  them  with  clear  eyes,  attentive  ear, 
and  understanding.  In  his  tale  of  Genevieve  there  is  yet 
another  false  and  lovely  Fiend  : 

.  .  .  But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  Knight, 
And  that  he  crossed  the  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night  ; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, — 
620 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright  ; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend, 
This  miserable  Knight 


"  A    TOOTHLESS    MASTIFF    BlTCH." 

Here  is  a  description  of  one  with  teeth — a  dog  seldom  seen 
now.  It  is  taken  from  a  German  book  on  husbandry,  trans- 
lated by  Barnaby  Goodge,  and  is  quoted  in  Animal  Lore  : 

"  First  the  mastie  that  keepeth  the  house  :  for  this  purpose 
you  must  provide  you  such  a  one,  as  hath  a  large  and  a  mightie 
body,  a  great  and  a  shrill  voyce,  that  both  with  his  barking 
he  may  discover,  and  with  his  sight  dismay  the  theefe,  yea, 
being  not  seene,  with  the  horror  of  his  voice  put  him  to  flight  ; 
his  stature  must  neither  be  long  nor  short,  but  well  set,  his 
head  great,  his  eyes  sharpe,  and  fiery,  .  .  .  his  countenance  like 
a  lion,  his  brest  great  and  shaghayrd,  his  shoulders  broad,  his 
legges  bigge,  his  tayle  short,  his  feet  very  great ;  his  disposition 
must  neither  be  too  gentle,  nor  too  curst,  that  he  neither  fawne 
upon  a  theefe,  nor  flee  (fly)  upon  his  friends  ;  very  waking, 
no  gadder  abroad,  not  lavish  of  his  mouth,  barking  without 
cause.  Neither  maketh  it  any  matter  though  he  be  not  swift : 
for  he  is  but  to  fight  at  home,  and  to  give  warning  of  the 
enemie."     And  his  name  is  little  Bingo  ! 

347.     "  Once  a  fair  and  stately  Palace." 

The  radiant  palace  of  this  poem  is  indeed  far  away — the 
other  side  of  dream  and  night.  Its  monstrous  word,  Porphyro- 
gene,  means  a  prince,  a  child-Royal,  one  born  in  the  chamber 
of  some  Eastern  palace  walled  with  rare  porphyry. 

350.     "  Sweet  Whispers  are    heard  by  the  Traveller." 

(stanza  6) 

On  a  poet's  lips  I  slept 
Dreaming  like  a  love-adept 
In  the  sound  his  breathing  kept  ; 
Nor  seeks  nor  finds  he  mortal  blisses, 
But  feeds  on  the  aerial  kisses 
Of  shapes  that  haunt  thought's  wildernesses. 

621 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

He  will  watch  from  dawn  to  gloom 

The  lake-rctlccted  sun  illume 

The  yellow  bees  in  the  ivy-bloom, 

Nor  herd  nor  see,  what  tilings  they  be  ; 

But  from  these  create  he  can 

Forms  more  real  than  living  man, 

Nurslings  of  immortality  !  .  .  . 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

352.     "  My  a  dildin." 

This,  353,  355  and  356  are  four  more  Singing-Game  Rhymes, 
worn  down  into  almost  nonsensical  jingle  by  multitudinous 
tongues  in  long  long  usage.     (See  No.  41,  page  36). 

And — since  in  my  humble  opinion  it  is  not  easy  to  get  too 
much  of  this  kind  of  good  thing — here  is  another  : 

Bobby  Shaft  is  gone  to  sea, 
With  silver  buckles  at  his  knee  ; 
When  he'll  come  home  he'll  marry  me, 
Pretty  Bobby  Shaft ! 

Bobby  Shaft  is  fat  and  fair, 
Combing  down  his  yellow  hair  ; 
He's  my  love  for  evermair, 

Pretty  Bobby  Shaft  ! 

352.     "  We  are  come  to  court." 

King  Edelbrode  cam  owre  the  sea, 

Fa  la  lilly. 
All  for  to  marry  a  gay  ladye, 

Fa  la  lilly. 

Her  lilly  hands,  sae  white  and  sma', 

Fa  la  lilly. 
Wi'  gouden  rings  were  buskit  braw, 

Fa  la  lilly.  .  .  . 

And  here  is  a  Bride  of  Elizabeth's  day  whom  I  chanced  on 
in  that  packed  and  inexhaustible  book,  Shakespeare' s  England. 
When  "  buskit  braw,"  she  must  have  been  as  lovely  to  see  as  a 
hawthorn  in  May  or  a  wax  candle  in  a  silver  shrine  : 

'  The  bride  being  attired  in  a  gown  of  sheeps  russet,  and  a 
kirtle  of  fine  worsted,  her  head  attired  with  a  billiment  of  gold, 
and  her  hair  as  yellow  as  gold  hanging  down  behind  her,  which 

622 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

was  curiously  combed  and  pleated,  according  to  the  manner  in 
those  days  :  she  was  led  to  church  between  two  sweet  boys, 
with  bride-laces  and  rosemary  tied  about  their  silken  sleeves.  .  .  . 
Then  was  there  a  fair  bride-cup  of  silver  and  gilt  carried  before 
her  wherein  was  a  goodly  branch  of  rosemary,  gilded  very  fair, 
hung  about  with  silken  ribands  of  all  colours  :  next  was  there 
a  noise  of  musicians,  that  played  all  the  way  before  her  :  after 
her  came  all  the  chiefest  maidens  of  the  country,  some  bearing 
great  bride-cakes,  and  some  garlands  of  wheat,  finely  gilded, 
and  so  she  passed  to  the  Church." 

As  for  the  silken  ribands  they  may  have  been  of  Drakes 
colour  or  Ladies  blush  or  Gozelinge  colour  or  Marigold  or  Isabel 
or  Peas  porridge  tawny  or  Popingay  blew  or  Lusty  gallant, 
but  they  were  certainly  not  Judas  colour,  Devil  in  the  hedge, 
or  Dead  Spaniard. 

355.     "  And  feed  Her  wi'  new  Milk  and  Bread." 
The  Yellow-haired  Laddie  sat  down  on  yon  brae, 
Cries — Milk  the  ewes,  Lassie  !    let  nane  o'  them  gae  ! 
And  ay  she  milked,  and  ay  she  sang — 
The  Yellow-haired  Laddie  shall  be  my  gudeman  ! 
And  ay  she  milked,  and  ay  she  sang — 
The  Yellow-haired  Laddie  shall  be  my  gudeman  !  .  .  . 

Allan  Ramsay 

357.     Quoth  John  to  Joan. 

This  old  song,  which  was  set  to  music  in  the  reign  of  Henry 

VIII.,  comes  (like   Dallyaunce  of  No.  35),  out  of  a  Morality 

Play,  Lusty  Juventus,  the  author  of  which  is  said  to  be  one 

'  R.  Wever,"  whose  body  has  now  for  many  a  century  been 

slumbering  on  in  its  cocoon. 

358.     Milk-white  Fingers,  Cherry  Nose. 

This  is  the  only  poem  I  have  ever  seen  in  which  the  midmost 
feature  of  a  pretty  face  is  compared  to  a  cherry.  And  yet  a 
frosty  morning  must  have  given  many  a  dainty  nose  that  fair 
bright  coral  colour. 

So  too,  Bob  Cherry,  in  these  lines  To  His  Lady  : 
Black-heart  were  mine  to  love  not  thy 
White-heart  so  sweet  and  tender  ; 
Be  kind,  my  dear,  for — Summer  by — 
What  fruits  hath  cold  December  ? 
623 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

359.     "Or  the  Bii  .  nii.iR  careful  King." 

In  old  times  tin-  "  C.overnor  "  of  a  IVe  I  live  was  sometime 
referred   to  as  t lie   King  and  sometimes  as  the  Queen.     The 
choice  depended  in  part  on  which  kind   of  monarch  was  on 
the  throne.     There  is  an  entrancing  story  of  the  middle  ages, 
told  by  Mr.  Tickner  Edwardes  in  his  hook  on  the  Honey  Bee. 

"  A  certaine  simple  woman,  on  finding  that  her  hees 
were  storing  little  honey  for  her  and  were  perishing  of  "  the 
murrainc,"  stole  one  of  the  holy  wafers  from  the  priest,  and 
for  miraculous  remedy  concealed  it  in  one  of  her  hives. 
"  Whereupon  the  Murraine  ceased  and  the  Honie  abounded. 
The  Woman,  therefore  lifting  up  the  hive  at  the  due  time  to 
take  out  the  Honie,  saw  there  (most  strange  to  be  seene)  a 
Chappell  built  by  the  Bees,  with  an  altar  to  it,  the  wals  adorned 
by  marvellous  skill  of  architecture,  with  windowes  conveniently 
set  in  their  places  :  also  a  doore  and  a  steeple  with  bells.  And 
the  Host  being  laid  upon  the  altar,  the  Bees  making  a  sweet 
noise,  flew  around  it."  Apart  from  "  the  singing  masons 
building  roofs  of  gold,"  the  gluttonous  drones,  the  sentries, 
wax-makers,  bread-kneaders,  nurses,  etc.,  there  are  the  Queen's 
Ladies-in-waiting  .  "  For  difference  from  the  rest  they  beare 
for  their  crest  a  tuft  or  tossell,  in  some  coloured  yellow,  in 
some  murrey,  in  manner  of  a  plume  ;  whereof  some  turne 
downward  like  an  Ostrich-feather,  others  stand  upright  like 
a  Hern-top."  But  for  truths  even  stranger  than  fantasy 
regarding  bees  and  their  kind,  go  to  Henri  Fabre. 

360.     "  And  here,  and  here." 

As  Flora  slept  and  I  lay  waking, 
I  smiled  to  see  a  bird's  mistaking, 
For  from  a  bough  it  down  did  skip 
And  for  a  cherry  pecked  her  lip.  .  .  . 

362.     "  My  Heart  is  gladder  than  all  these." 
How  many  times  do  I  love  thee,  dear  ? 
Tell  me  how  many  thoughts  there  be 
In  the  atmosphere 
Of  the  new  fall'n  year, 
Whose  white  and  sable  hours  appear 

The  latest  flake  of  eternity  : 
So  many  times  do  I  love  thee,  dear  ! 
624 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

How  many  times  do  I  love  again  ? 
Tell  me  how  many  beads  there  are 
In  a  silver  chain 
Of  evening  rain 
Unravelled  from  the  tumbling  main, 

And  threading  the  eye  of  a  yellow  star  : 
So  many  times  do  I  love  again  ! 

Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes 

363- 
The  word  screen  (line  4)  means,  I  think,  "  Hide  and  shelter 
those  smiles  away  that  in  their  beauty  seem  to  burn  in  the 
air  "  :  for  all  beauty  resembles  radiance  in  its  influence  on 
the  mind.  And  this  recalls  to  memory  Southwell's  poem,  The 
Burning  Babe,  No.  256. 

364.     "  A  Sonnet  of  the  Moon." 

The  closer  one  looks  at  and  examines  a  fine  sonnet — its  way 
of  rhyming,  its  rise,  poise,  flight  and  fall,  the  ease  and  exacti- 
tude with  which  what  is  said  in  it  fills  its  mould  or  form — 
the  more,  I  was  going  to  say,  one  should  hesitate  before 
attempting  to  write  another.  This  particular  sonnet  (like 
No.  361),  is  of  the  English  or  Shakespearean  kind,  and  is  so 
lovely  a  thing  that  only  a  close  attention  would  notice  the 
carelessness  of  its  rhymes.  No.  342  is  an  example  of  the  form 
which  our  sixteenth  century  poets  borrowed  from  Italy. 
Comparison  of  them  shows  that,  as  with  the  old  Chinese  ginger 
jars,  so  in  poetry  :  not  only  is  the  syrup  delightful,  but  even 
the  pot  may  be  interesting. 

Coleridge  wrote  few  sonnets,  and  this  is  his  explanation  of 
the  length  one  must  be  :  "  It  is  confined  to  fourteen  lines, 
because  as  some  particular  number  is  necessary,  and  that 
particular  number  must  be  a  small  one,  it  may  as  well  be  four- 
teen as  any  other  number.  When  no  reason  can  be  adduced 
against  a  thing,  Custom  is  a  sufficient  reason  for  it." 

When  I  read  this  last  remark  for  the  first  time  it  was  as  if 
my  mind  had  been  startled  into  attention  as  one's  body  is 
when  it  collides  with  a  stranger  in  the  street.  There  is  a 
wide  wisdom  in  it.  How  many  natural,  human  and  delightful 
things  there  are  in  this  world  indeed  for  which  Custom  is  a 
sufficient  reason  :   Children,  for  instance,  daisies  in  the  grass, 

625  2r 


ABOUT  AM)  ROUNDABOUT 

skylarks  in  the  clouds,  dreams  in  Bleep,  rhymes,  gay  clothes, 
friendship,  laughter. 

"  The  Pale  Queen." 

There  is  the  apparition  of  a  lovely  face  in  the  Moon — proud 
and  mute — to  be  discovered  by  careful  eyes  usually  on  the 
reme  right  of  the  disc,   her  own  eyes  gazing  towards  the 
left. 

36S.  "  It  was  in  and  about  the  Martinmas  time." 
This  old  Scottish  song  was  a  favourite  of  Oliver  Goldsmith's 
in  his  childhood.  "  The  music  of  the  finest  singer,"  he  said, 
"  is  dissonance  to  what  I  felt  when  our  old  dairy-maid  sung  me 
into  tears  with  Johnny  Armstrong's  Last  Good-night,  or  The 
Cruelly  of  Barbara  Allen. 

As  with  the  Scottish  ballads  so  with  this  last  poem — it  is 
the  brevity  and  bareness  with  which  the  story  is  told  and  is 
not  told  that  sets  it  apart.  Without  one  express  word  to  prove 
it  so,  we  know  that  Sir  John  had  always  loved  the  proud 
Barbara  even  though  he  had  spoken  lightly  of  her,  and  that 
she  too  had  always  loved  him,  though  she  refuses  the  word  that 
would  have  saved  his  life. 

37I.   "  I  NEVER  HAD  BUT  ONE  TRUE  I.OVE,  IN  COLD 
GRAVE  SHE  WAS  LAIN." 

Yet  another  tragic  and  sorrowful  poem  of  which,  to  some 
fancies,  there  may  be  too  many  in  this  book  already.  Well, 
here  is  the  story  of  the  beautiful  Princess  Uillanita  :  She 
cared  only  for  flowers  white  and  colourless  as  dew  in  the 
first  light  of  day,  or  as  laundered  linen  blanching  on  a  hedge 
of  thorn.  And  she  came  one  still  evening,  when  she  was  in 
search  of  what  she  could  not  find,  to  a  valley  wherein  a  forest 
gloomed  above  a  deep  but  placid  river.  Within  the  forest, 
refreshed  by  the  mists  of  the  river,  grew  none  but  flowers  blue 
and  dark  and  purple,  and  such  was  the  young  Princess's 
hatred  of  them  that  she  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands,  fled 
on,  and  so  lost  her  way. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  and  long  after  she  had  wept 
herself  to  sleep,  the  wailing  of  a  nocturnal  bird  pierced  into 
her  dreams,  and  she  woke  to  find  one  solitary  star  of  the  colour- 
lessness of  Vega  shining  alone  in  radiance  in  the  space  of  sky 

626 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

betwixt  the  branches  above  her  head.  Its  thin  ray  silvered 
down — spearlike  in  its  straightness — and  of  a  beam  easily 
sufficing  to  irradiate  a  tiny  clustering  flower  which  stood 
scarcely  visible  in  the  moss  at  her  hand's  side,  and  was  drench- 
ing the  air  with  its  fragrance.  It  was  a  flower  utterly  strange 
to  her,  whiter  than  hoarfrost,  fairer  than  foam. 

The  enravished  Princess  gazed  spellbound.  "  Why," 
whispered  she  to  herself,  in  the  quiet  of  the  dark  gigantic 
forest ;  '*  if  I  had  not  wept  at  the  flowers  of  this  sombre  forest, 
if  I  had  not  lost  my  way,  if  I  had  not  been  moved  in  my  sleep 
to  awaken,  I  never  should  have  seen  this  crystal  thing  ;  that 
is  lovelier  than  I  deemed  Paradise  itself  could  bring  to  bloom." 
And  she  kissed  the  thin-spun  petals,  and  happily  fell  again 
asleep. 

372.     "  A  Lament." 

Only  two  stanzas  out  of  six,  and  these,  maybe,  a  little 
difficult  in  the  old  Scots  : 

Depart,  depart,  depart ! 

Alas  !  I  must  depart 

From  her  that  has  my  heart 

With  heart  full  sore  ; 
Against  my  will  indeed 
And  can  find  no  remede — 
I  wait  the  pains  of  death — 

Can  do  no  more.  .  .  . 

Adieu  mine  own  sweet  thing, 
My  joy  and  comforting, 
My  mirth  and  solacing 

Of  earthly  gloir : 
Farewell,  my  lady  bright, 
And  my  remembrance  right, 
Farewell,  and  have  good  night — 

I  say  no  more. 

380.     To  Helen. 

Who  "  the  wayworn  wanderer  "is,  I  am  uncertain  ;  but 
apart  from  its  rare  music,  how  long  a  journey  awaits  the 
imagination  in  this  poem,  and  how  closely  inwoven  is  its 
thought.  Yet  it  is  said  to  have  been  written  when  Poe  was 
in  his  early  'teens. 

627 


ABOUT  AM)  ROUNDABOUT 

381.     "  There  is  a  Lady." 

Mr.  Nalium's  picture  for  this  poem  was  of  a  little  winged 
boy  at  evening,  his  quiver  of  arrows  on  his  back,  his  bow  the 
percli  of  a  nightingale,  and  himself  lying  fast  asleep  under  a 
hawthorn  bush  in  full  flower  a  narrow  green  sun-dappled  river 
near-by,  rosy  clouds  and  birds  in  the  air,  and  strange  snow- 
peaked  hills  afar. 

"  Till  I  die." 

.  .  .  Only  our  love  hath  no  decay  ; 
This  no  to-morrow  hath,  nor  yesterday  ; 
Running  it  never  runs  from  us  away, 
But  truly  keeps  his  first,  last,  everlasting  day. 

John  Donne 

383.     "  It  is  not  so." 

Silly  boy  'tis  ful  Moon  yet,  thy  night  as  day  shines  clearely. 
Had  thy  youth  but   wit  to  feare,  thou   couldst   not  love  so 

dearely. 
Shortly  wilt  thou  mourne  when  all  thy  pleasures  are  bereaved  ; 
Little  knows  he  how  to  love  that  never  was  deceived.  .  .  . 

Yet  be  just  and  constant  still  !    Love  may  beget  a  wonder, 
Not  unlike  a  Summer's  frost,  or  Winter's  fatall  thunder. 
He  that  holds  his  Sweethart  true,  unto  his  day  of  dying, 
Lives,  of  all  that  ever  breathed,  most  worthy  the  envying. 

Thomas  Campion 

385- 
In  this  poem,  as  in  all  Christina  Rossetti's  work,  there  is  a 
rhythm  and  poise,  a  serpentining  of  music,  so  delicate  that  on 
clumsy  lips  it  will  vanish  as  rapidly  as  the  bloom  from  a  plum. 
Indeed,  each  stanza  is  like  a  branch  (with  its  twigs)  of  a  wild 
damson-tree,  its  wavering  line  broken  and  beautified  with  bud, 
flower  and  leaf.  And  certainly  as  fresh  an  air,  and  as  clear 
a  light,  stirs  and  dwells  in  the  poem  as  on  the  tree  itself  in 
April. 

387- 
This   is   from   Part   II.,   Act   II.,    Scene   i.   of    "  Zapolya." 
Glycine  sings  unseen  in  a  cavern — her  voice  comforting  her 
lover  wandering  forlorn  by  night  "in  a  savage  wood." 

628 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

389. 
For  I'll  cut  my  green  coat  a  foot  above  my  knee, 
And  I'll  clip  my  yellow  locks  an  inch  below  mine  ee. 
Hey,  nonny,  nonny,  nonny. 

I'll  buy  me  a  white  cut,  forth  for  to  ride, 
And  I'll  go  seek  him  through  the  world  that  is  so  wide. 
Hey,  nonny,  nonny,  nonny. 

391.     "  Chimborazo,  Cotopaxi." 

In  medieval  days  it  seems  that  a  traveller  here  and  there, 
happily  supposing  the  world  to  be  a  floating  island  of  indiscover- 
able  dimensions,  hung  in  the  wilds  of  space,  and  not  knowing  that 
it  was  merely  an  "  oblate  spheroid,"  would  journey  clean  round 
it  and  so  come  back,  to  his  amazement,  to  the  place  from  which 
he  started.  Here  is  such  an  experience  from  Sir  John  Mande- 
ville,  in  his  own  words  :  "It  was  told  that  a  certain  worthy 
man  departed  some  time  from  our  Country  for  to  go  search 
the  World.  .  .  .  He  passed  India  and  the  Isles  beyond  it, 
where  are  more  than  5000  Isles,  and  so  long  and  for  so  many 
seasons  he  went  by  Sea  and  Land,  and  so  environed  the  World, 
that  he  came  at  last  to  an  Isle  whereon  he  heard  spoken  his 
own  language — a  calling  of  oxen  in  the  Plough — such  Words  in 
fact  as  men  were  wont  to  speak  to  Beasts  in  his  own  country. 
Whereof  he  greatly  marvelled,  knowing  not  how  that  might  be." 
For  there — as  if  it  were  a  ghost  or  spectre — there  was  the 
chimney  of  his  own  house  smoking  up  into  the  clear  morning 
air  !  And  what  did  he  do,  maybe  ?  He  stared  ;  he  sighed  ;  he 
grew  pale  ;    he  shuddered  :  and — he  turned  back  ! 

392.     "  Hallo  my  fancy." 

For  the  first  sight  of  this  poem  I  most  gratefully  thank  my 
friend  Mr.  Ivor  Gurney,  though  no  doubt  it  was  in  Mr.  Nahum's 
Book  somewhere,  and  I  was  too  indolent  at  the  time  to  copy 
it  out.  The  poem  was  written  by  William  Cleland  while  he 
was  still  at  St.  Andrews.  All  else  I  know  of  him  is  that  he  was 
born  about  1661,  and  fell  at  Dunkeld  in  1689.  There  is  nothing 
in  English  to  my  knowledge  that  resembles  it.  Erra  Pater 
(stanza  4)  was  the  name  given  to  a  busy  astrologer  and  almanac  - 
concocter,  William  Lilly,  of  the  time.  King  Phalaris's  mon- 
strous bull  was  of  brass  :  he  perished  in  it. 

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ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

By  "  the  tapers  "  (stanza  2)  is  meant,  I  fancy,  those  phos- 
phor-like fires  thai  gather  <>n  the  yard-arms  of  ships  at  sea 
when  the  air  is  electric  with  tempest.  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert's 
sailors  were  fearful  at  sight  <>f  tins  apparition,  and  of  a  monster, 
too,  that  appeared  swimming  in  the  waves  beside  their  frigate, 
the  Squirrel,  a  little  before  she  and  her  riding  lights  disappeared 
for  ever. 

"...  Men  which  all  their  life  time  had  occupied  the  Sea, 
never  saw  more  outragious  Seas.  We  had  also  upon  our  maine 
yard,  an  apparition  of  a  little  fire  by  night,  which  seamen  doe 
call  Castor  and  Pollux.  But  we  had  onely  one,  which  they 
take  an  evill  signe  of  more  tempest  .  .  .  The  same  Monday 
night,  about  twelve  of  the  clocke  .  .  .  suddenly  her  lights  were 
out  .  .  .  and  withall  our  watch  cryed,  the  Gcnerall  was  cast  away, 
which  was  too  true.  For  in  that  moment,  the  Frigat  was 
devoured  and  swallowed  up  of  the  Sea  ..." 

As  for  Cupid  (stanza  5),  he  is  said  to  be  the  slyest  archer  that 
ever  shot  arrow — and  a  dangerous  child  either  to  entertain  (as 
the  poem  proves  that  begins  as  follows)  : 

Cupid  abroade  was  'lated  in  the  night, 

His  wings  were  wet  with  ranging  in  the  raine  ; 
Harbour  he  sought,  to  mee  hee  took  his  flight, 
To  dry  his  plumes  I  heard  the  boy  complaine. 
I  opte  the  doore  and  graunted  his  desire, 
I  rose  my  selfe,  and  made  the  wagge  a  fire  .... 

or — as  yet  another  poem  shows — to  take  as  a  scholar  : 

I  dreamt  by  me  I  saw  fair  Venus  stand. 
Holding  young  Cupid  in  her  lovely  hand, 
And  said,  kind  Shepherd,  I  a  scholar  bring 
My  little  son,  to  learn  of  you  to  sing.  .  .  . 

And  last,  the  pelican  (in  stanza  7).  She  was  supposed  in  old 
days  to  be  "  the  lovingest  bird  that  is,"  since  at  need  she  would 
pierce  her  breast  with  her  bill  to  feed  her  young  ones.  The 
plaintive  singing  of  the  dying  swan  I  have  never  heard,  except 
in  Tennyson's  words  : 

The  plain  was  grassy,  wild  and  bare, 
Wide,  wild,  and  open  to  the  air, 
Which  had  built  up  everywhere 
An  under-roof  of  doleful  gray. 

630 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

With  an  inner  voice  the  river  ran, 
Adown  it  floated  a  dying  swan, 

And  loudly  did  lament. 
It  was  the  middle  of  the  day. 
Ever  the  weary  wind  went  on, 

And  took  the  reed-tops  as  it  went.  .  .  . 
Some  blue  peaks  in  the  distance  rose, 
And  white  against  the  cold-white  sky, 
Shone  out  their  crowning  snows. 

One  willow  over  the  river  wept, 
And  shook  the  wave  as  the  wind  did  sigh  ; 
Above  in  the  wind  was  the  swallow, 

Chasing  itself  at  its  own  wild  will, 

And  far  thro'  the  marish  green  and  still 

The  tangled  water-courses  slept, 
Shot  over  with  purple,  and  green,  and  yellow. 

Hearke  canst  thou  heare  me  ?  I  will  play  the  Swan, 
And  dye  in  Musicke  :  Willough,  Willough,  Willough.  .  . 

Othello 


393.     "Columbus's  doom-burdened  caravels."  (line  13) 

"...  The  next  day,  Thursday,  October  11,  1492,  was 
destined  to  be  for  ever  memorable  in  the  history  of  the  world.  .  .  . 
The  people  on  the  Santa  Maria  saw  some  petrels  and  a  green 
branch  in  the  water  ;  the  Pinta  saw  a  reed  and  two  small 
sticks  carved  with  iron,  and  one  or  two  other  pieces  of  reeds 
and  grasses  that  had  been  grown  on  shore,  as  well  as  a  small 
board.  Most  wonderful  of  all,  the  people  of  the  Nina  saw 
'  a  little  branch  full  of  dog  roses  '  ;  .  .  .  The  day  drew  to  its 
close  ;  and  after  nightfall,  according  to  their  custom,  the  crews 
of  the  ships  repeated  the  Salve  Regina.  Afterwards  the 
Admiral  addressed  the  people  and  sailors  of  his  ship,  '  very 
merry  and  pleasant,'.  .  .  The  moon  was  in  its  third  quarter, 
and  did  not  rise  until  eleven  o'clock.  The  first  part  of  the 
night  was  dark,  and  there  was  only  a  faint  starlight  into  which 
the  anxious  eyes  of  the  look-out  men  peered  from  the  fore- 
castles of  the  three  ships.  At  ten  o'clock  Columbus  was 
walking  on  the  poop  of  his  vessel,  when  he  suddenly  saw  a  light 
right  ahead.     The  light  seemed   to  rise  and  fall  as  though  it 

631 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

.1  I'amlle  or  a  lantern  held  in  some  one's  hand  and  waved 
up  and  down.  The  Admiral  called  Pedro  Gutierrez  to  him 
and  asked  him  whether  he  saw  anything  ;  and  he  also  saw  the 
light.  Then  he  sent  for  RodrigO  Sanchez  and  asked  him  if  he 
s.iw  the  light  ;  but  he  did  not.  .  .  .  Dawn  came  at  last, 
flooding  the  sky  with  Lemon  and  saffron  and  scarlet  and  orange, 
until  at  last  the  pure  gold  of  the  sun  glittered  on  the  water. 
And  when  it  rose  it  showed  the  sea-weary  mariners  an  island 
lying  in  the  blue  sea  ahead  of  them  :  the  island  of  Guanahani ; 
San  Salvador.  .  .  ."      Christopher  Columbus,  FlLSON  Young 

395.     "  To  Sea,  to  Sea." 
...  To  the  ocean  now  I  fly, 
And  those  happy  climes  that  lie 
Where  day  never  shuts  his  eye. 
I'p  in  the  broad  fields  of  the  sky  ; 
There  I  suck  the  liquid  air 
All  amidst  the  gardens  fair 
Of  Hesperus,  and  his  daughters  three 
That  sing  about  the  golden  tree  : 
Along  the  crisped  shades  and  bowers 
Revels  the  spruce  and  jocund  Spring  ; 
The  Graces,  and  the  rosy  bosomed  Hours, 
Thither  all  their  bounties  bring  ; 
There  eternal  Summer  dwells, 
And  west  winds,  with  musky  wing, 
About  the  cedared  alleys  fling 
Nard  and  Cassia's  balmy  smells.  .  .  . 

But  now  my  task  is  smoothly  done, 
I  can  fly,  or  I  can  run, 
Quickly  to  the  green  earth's  end, 
Where  the  bowed  welkin  slow  doth  bend  ; 
And  from  thence  can  soar  as  soon 
To  the  corners  of  the  moon. 

Mortals,  that  would  follow  me, 
Love  Virtue  ;  she  alone  is  free  : 
She  can  teach  ye  how  to  climb 
Higher  than  the  sphery  chime  ; 
Or  if  Virtue  feeble  were, 
Heaven  itself  would  stoop  to  her. 

John  Milton 
632 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

Master.  Steersman,  how  stands  the  wind  ? 

Steersman.    Full  north-north-east. 
Master.  What  course  ? 

Steersman.    Full  south-south-west. 
Master.  No  worse,  and  blow  so  fair, 

Then  sink  despair, 

Come  solace  to  the  mind  ! 

Ere  night,  we  shall  the  haven  find. 

John  Dowland 

"  Caved  Tritons'  azure  Day  "  (line  12) 

— Dark-fated  Clarence  in  King  Richard  III.  dreamt  of  that 

"  azure  day  "  : 

...  As  we  paced  along 
Upon  the  giddy  footing  of  the  Hatches, 
Me  thought  that  Glouster  stumbled,  and  in  falling 
Strooke  me  (that  thought  to  stay  himl  over-board, 
Into  the  tumbling  billowes  of  the  maine. 
O  Lord,  methought  what  paine  it  was  to  drowne, 
What  dreadfull  noise  of  water  in  mine  eares, 
What  sightes  of  ugly  death  within  mine  eyes.  .  .  . 
Methought  I  saw  a  thousand  fearfull  wrackes  : 
A  thousand  men  that  Fishes  gnawed  upon  : 
Wedges  of  Gold,  great  Anchors,  heapes  of  Pearle, 
Inestimable  Stones,  unvalewed  Jewels, 
All  scattered  in  the  bottome  of  the  Sea. 
Some  lay  in  dead-men's  Sculles  ;  and  in  the  holes 
Where  eyes  did  once  inhabit,  there  were  crept, 
(As  'twere  in  scorne  of  eyes)  reflecting  Gemmes, 
That  wooed  the  slimy  bottome  of  the  deepe, 
And  mocked  the  dead  bones  that  lay  scattred  by.  .  .  . 

396.     "  Jewels  more  rich  than  Ormus  shows." 

(line  20) 

Mr.  Nahum's  picture  to  this  was  of  a  man  clothed  in  rags 
that  must  once  have  been  rich  and  pompous.  He  sits,  in  the 
picture,  gnawing  his  nails  upon  a  heap  of  what  appears  to  be 
precious  stones  and  lumps  of  gold.  All  around  him  stretch 
the  sands  of  the  seashore,  and  there  is  a  little  harbour  with  a 
decayed  quay,  its  river-mouth  silted  up  with  ooze  and  flotsam, 
so  that  nothing  but  a  row-boat  could  find  entrance  there.     An 

633 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

immense  sun  burns  in  the  sky  ;  and,  though  a  thread  of  fresh 
water  flows  nearby,  the  man  among  the  jewels  seems  to  be 
tormented  with  thirst.      For  Onnus,  Or  I  [ormuz,  on  its  narrow 

island  of  wild-coloured  rocks,  date-palms,  parrots  an. I  many 
birds,  was  once  the  rich  marl  and  tivasurc-house  between 
Persia  ami  India  spices,  pearls,  ivory,  gold,  precious  stones, 
and,  in  particular,  the  diamond,  being  its  merchandise.  In 
1307  tin-  Portuguese  Conqueror  Alfonso  Albuquerque  stole  it 
from  its  dark  primes.  In  1622  Shah  Abbas  the  Great  razed 
it  to  the  ground.  To-day  it  is  but  a  waste,  inhabited  by  a 
few  fishermen  and  diggers,  its  only  commodities — that  once 
were  gems — salt  and  sulphur  ;  while  still  in  the  height  of  its 
Summer  blows  Julot,  Harmatan,  II  Sirocco,  the  Flame-Wind, 
so  deadly  in  its  breath  that  the  troops  of  an  army  of  1600 
horsemen  and  6000  foot,  says  Marco  Polo,  marching  to  punish 
the  city  for  neglecting  to  pay  tribute  to  the  King  of  Kirman, 
and  camping  overnight  without  its  walls,  were  baked  next  noon 
as  dry  as  pumice,  and  not  a  voice  among  them  to  tell  the  tale, 
though  their  bodily  shape  and  colour  seemed  to  appearance 
unchanged.  To  protect  themselves  against  this  Julot,  the 
citizens  of  Ormus  would  build  huts  of  sheltering  osier-work 
over  the  water,  and  in  the  heat  of  the  morning  would  stand 
immersed  in  its  coolness  up  to  the  chin. 

"  Apples  "  (line  23) 

— these  are  pineapples,  the  "  price  "  of  the  next  line  meaning 
excellence.  "  Ambergris "  (line  28),  is  a  rare  and  costly 
stuff  which,  as  its  name  tells,  resembles  grey  amber.  It  has  a 
wondrously  sweet  smell,  was  once  used  in  cooking,  and  is 
disgorged  by  the  whale  that  supplies  the  world  with  the  com- 
forting ointment  of  childhood  called  Spermaceti. 

In  Shakespeare's  day,  Marvell's  "  remote  Bermudas  "  were 
known  as  the  "  Isle  of  Divels  " — because  of  the  nocturnal 
veilings,  cries  and  yelpings  that  were  reported  to  haunt  them. 
English  sailors,  wrecked  and  cast  away  on  Great  Bermuda  in 
1709,  however,  brought  home  in  their  boats  of  cedar- wood  the 
news  that  this  wild  music  was  caused  (at  least  in  part)  by 
descendants  of  the  hogs  that  had  been  left  there  by  the  long- 
gone  Spaniard,  Juan  Bermudez  and  his  men  !  They  told,  too, 
that  it  was  an  island  fair  and  commodious,  of  a  gentle  climate, 
and  a  sweet-smelling  air  ;    and  Shakespeare  almost  certainly 

634 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

had  its  enchantments  in  mind  when  he  wrote  of  Ariel,  Caliban 
and  Miranda.  Was  not  Ariel  in  Prospero's  more  solitary  days 
called  up  at  midnight  "  to  fetch  dewe  from  the  still-vext 
Bermoothes  "  ? 

To  the  Puritan  voyagers  of  Andrew  Marvell's  poem  the 
Islands  were  as  welcome  and  angelic  as  the  Hesperides.  And 
no  poet  could  better  tell  of  them  than  he.  For  in  Marvell's 
verse  dwells  a  curious  happiness,  like  sunshine  on  a  pool  of 
water-lilies.  Yet  he,  too,  like  other  dreamers,  was  a  man  of 
affairs,  and  of  endless  industry  and  zeal.  He  was  thrice 
Member  of  Parliament  for  his  birthplace,  Kingston-on-Hull,  and, 
with  Milton,  was  one  of  Oliver  Cromwell's  Latin  Secretaries. 
John  Aubrey  describes  him  as  "  of  a  middling  stature,  pretty 
strong  sett,  roundish  face,  cherry-cheek't,  hazell  eie,  brown  hair. 
He  was  in  his  conversation  very  modest,  and  of  very  few  words. 
And  though  he  loved  wine,  he  would  never  drink  heartilie  in 
company,  and  was  wont  to  say,  that,  he  would  not  play  the  good 
fellow  in  any  man's  company  in  whose  hands  he  would  not  trust 
his  life.  .  .  .  He  lies  interred  under  the  pewes  in  the  south 
side  of  St.  Giles'  church  in-the-fields,  under  the  window  wherein 
is  painted  in  glass  a  red  lyon.  ..."  And  there  George  Chap- 
man, William  Shirley,  and  Lord  Herbert  of  Cherbury  share  his 
rest. 

397.     "  That  talkative  bald-headed  Seaman  came." 

(line  23) 

'  .  .  .  And  now  my  name  ;  which  way  shall  lead  to  all 
My  miseries  after,  that  their  sounds  may  fall 
Through  your  ears  also,  and  shew  (having  fled 
So  much  affliction)  first,  who  rests  his  head 
In  your  embraces,  when,  so  far  from  home, 
I  knew  not  where  t'  obtain  it  resting  room : 

I  am  Ulysses  Laertiades, 
The  fear  of  all  the  world  ..." 

The  Odysseys,  George  Chapman 

398. 

The  prose  "argument"  to  the  "  Ancient  Mariner,"  which 
is  almost  as  rare  a  piece  of  reading  as  the  Rime  itself,  has  been 
omitted.  But  here  is  a  fragment  of  it  relating  to  the  passage 
on  pages  390-4  :    "...  The  Wedding-Guest  feareth  that  a  Spirit 

635 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

is  talking  to  him  ;  but  the  ancienl  Mariner  assureth  him  of  his 
bodily  life,  and  procecdeth  to  relate  his  horrible  penance. 
He  despiseth  the  creatures  of  the  calm,  and  envicth  that  they 
should  live,  and  so  many  lie  dead.  But  the  curse  livetli  for 
him  in  the  eye  of  the  dead  men.  In  his  loneliness  and  fixedness 
he  yearneth  towards  the  journeying  Moon,  and  the  stars  that 
still  sojourn,  yet  still  move  onward  ;  and  every  where  the 
blue  sky  belongs  to  them,  and  is  their  appointed  rest,  and  their 
native  country  and  their  own  natural  homes,  which  they  enter 
unannounced,  as  lords  that  are  certainly  expected  and  yet  there 
is  a  silent  joy  at  their  arrival. 

"  By  the  light  of  the  Moon  he  beholdeth  God's  creatures  of 
the  great  calm — their  beauty  and  their  happiness.  He 
blesseth  them  in  his  heart.  The  spell  begins  to  break.  By 
grace  of  the  holy  Mother,  the  ancient  Mariner  is  refreshed  with 
rain.  He  heareth  sounds  and  seeth  strange  sights  and  com- 
motions in  the  sky  and  the  element.  The  bodies  of  the  ship's 
crew  are  inspired  and  inspirited,  and  the  ship  moves  on  ;  but 
not  by  the  souls  of  the  men,  nor  by  daemons  of  earth  or  middle 
air,  but  by  a  blessed  troop  of  angelic  spirits,  sent  down  by  the 
invocation  of  the  guardian  saint.  ..." 

'  Daemons  of  earth  or  middle  air  "  have  been  told  of  also  by 
land  travellers — by  Friar  Odoric,  for  example,  in  the  account 
of  his  journey  through  Cathay  during  the  years  1316-1330  : 

"  Another  great  and  terrible  thing  I  saw.  For,  as  I  went 
through  a  certain  valley  which  lieth  by  the  River  of  Delights, 
I  saw  therein  many  dead  corpses  lying.  And  I  heard  also 
therein  sundry  kinds  of  music,  but  chiefly  nakers,  which  were 
marvellously  played  upon.  And  so  great  was  the  noise 
thereof  that  very  great  fear  came  upon  me.  Now,  this  valley 
is  seven  or  eight  miles  long  ;  and  if  any  unbeliever  enter 
therein  he  quitteth  it  never  again,  but  perisheth  incontinently. 
Yet  I  hesitated  not  to  go  in  that  I  might  see  once  for  all  what 
the  matter  was.  And  when  I  had  gone  in  I  saw  there,  as  I 
have  said,  such  numbers  of  corpses  as  no  one  without  seeing  it 
could  deem  credible.  And  at  one  side  of  the  valley,  in  the  very 
rock,  I  beheld  as  it  were  the  face  of  a  man  very  great  and  terrible, 
so  very  terrible  indeed  that  for  my  exceeding  great  fear  my 
spirit  seemed  to  die  in  me.  Wherefore  I  made  the  sign  of  the 
cross,  and  began  continually  to  repeat  verbum  caro  factum, 
but  I  dared  not  at  all  to  come  nigh  that  face,  but  kept  at  seven 

636 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

or  eight  paces  from  it.  And  so  I  came  at  length  to  the  other 
end  of  the  valley,  and  there  I  ascended  a  hill  of  sand  and  looked 
around  me.  But  nothing  could  I  descry,  only  I  still  heard 
those  nakers  to  play  which  were  played  so  marvellously.  And 
when  I  got  to  the  top  of  that  hill  I  found  there  a  great  quantity 
of  silver  heaped  up  as  it  had  been  fishes'  scales,  and  some  of  this 
I  put  into  my  bosom.  But  as  I  cared  nought  for  it,  and  was 
at  the  same  time  in  fear  lest  it  should  be  a  snare  to  hinder  my 
escape,  I  cast  it  all  down  again  to  the  ground.  And  so  by 
God's  grace  I  came  forth  scathless.  Then  all  the  Saracens, 
when  they  heard  of  this,  showed  me  great  worship,  saying  that 
I  was  a  baptised  and  holy  man.  But  those  who  had  perished 
in  that  valley  they  said  belonged  to  the  devil." 

As  an  Arab  journeyeth 

Through  a  sand  of  Ayaman, 

Lean  Thirst,  lolling  its  cracked  tongue, 

Lagging  by  his  side  along  ; 

And  a  rusty  winged  Death 

Grating  its  low  flight  before, 

Casting  ribbed  shadows  o'er 

The  blank  desert,  blank  and  tan  : 
He  lifts  by  hap  to'rd  where  the  morning's  roots  are 
His  weary  stare, — 
Sees,  although  they  plashless  mutes  are, 
Set  in  a  silver  air 

Fountains  of  gelid  shoots  are, 

Making  the  daylight  fairest  fair  ; 

Sees  the  palm  and  tamarind 
Tangle  the  tresses  of  a  phantom  wind  ; — 
A  sight  like  innocence  when  one  has  sinned 
A  green  and  maiden  freshness  smiling  there. 

While  with  unblinking  glare 
The  tawny-hided  desert  crouches  watching  her.  .  .  . 

The  Mirage,  Francis  Thompson 

Thou  to  me  art  such  a  spring 
As  the  Arab  seeks  at  eve, 
Thirsty  from  the  shining  sands  ; 
There  to  bathe  his  face  and  hands, 
While  the  sun  is  taking  leave, 
And  dewy  sleep  is  a  delicious  thing. 

637 


ABOUT  AM)  ROUNDABOUT 

Thou  to  me  art  such  a  dream 
As  he  dreams  upon  the  grass, 
While  the  bubbling  i  near 

Makes  sweet  music  in  his  ear  ; 
And  the  stars  that  slowly  pass 
In  solitary  grandeur  o'er  him  gleam. 

Thou  to  me  art  such  a  daw  n 
As  the  dawn  whose  ruddy  kiss 
Wakes  him  to  his  darling  steed  ; 
And  again  the  desert  speed, 
And  again  the  desert  bliss, 
Lightens  thro'  his  veins,  and  he  is  gone  ! 

George  Meredith 

399.     "  He  told  of  waves."  (line  28) 

So,  too,  does  the  Ship's  Captain  in  yet  such  another  ore-loaden 
poem  of  the  marvellous,  "The  Sale  of  St.  Thomas,"  by  Lascelles 
Abercrombie,  telling  how  the  saint  in  terror  of  the  unknown 
would  turn  back  from  his  mission,  is  rebuked  by  his  Master, 
and  sold  by  him  for  twenty  pieces  of  silver  to  the  Captain  of 
a  slant-sailed  vessel  bound  for  the  barbarous  Indies.  Here  is 
but  a  fragment  of  the  poem  : 

"  .  .  .  A  Ship's  Captain.     You  are  my  man,  my  passenger  ? 

Thomas.  I  am. 

I  go  to  India  with  you. 

Captain.  Well,  I  hope  so. 

There's  threatening  in  the  weather.     Have  you  a  mind 
To  hug  your  belly  to  the  slanted  deck, 
Like  a  louse  on  a  whip-top,  when  the  boat 
Spins  on  an  axle  in  the  hissing  gales  ? 

Thomas.     Fear  not.     'Tis  likely  indeed  that  storms  are  now 
Plotting  against  our  voyage  ;  ay,  no  doubt 
The  very  bottom  of  the  sea  prepares 
To  stand  up  mountainous  or  reach  a  limb 
Out  of  his  night  of  water  and  huge  shingles, 
That  he  and  the  waves  may  break  our  keel.     Fear  not ; 
Like  those  who  manage  horses,  I've  a  word 
Will  fasten  up  within  their  evil  natures 
The  meanings  of  the  winds  and  waves  and  reefs. 

638 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

Captain.     You  have  a  talisman  ?     I  have  one  too  ; 
I  know  not  if  the  storms  think  much  of  it. 
I  may  be  shark's  meat  yet.     And  would  your  spell 
Be  daunting  to  a  cuttle,  think  you  now  ? 
We  had  a  bout  with  one  on  our  way  here  ; 
It  had  green  lidless  eyes  like  lanterns,  arms 
As  many  as  the  branches  of  a  tree, 
But  limber,  and  each  one  of  them  wise  as  a  snake. 
It  laid  hold  of  our  bulwarks,  and  with  three 
Long  knowing  arms,  slimy,  and  of  a  flesh 
So  tough  they'ld  fool  a  hatchet,  searcht  the  ship, 
And  stole  out  of  the  midst  of  us  all  a  man  ; 
Yes,  and  he  the  proudest  man  tipon  the  seas 
For  the  rare  powerful  talisman  he'd  got. 
And  would  yours  have  done  better  ? 

Thomas.  I  am  one 

Not  easily  frightened.     I'm  for  India.  .  .  ." 

400.     "  Parrots  of  shrilly  green  " 

— this  gaudy  and  longevous  bird,  that  seems  to  contain  all  the 
wisdom  of  Solomon  and  more  than  the  craft  of  Cleopatra  in 
his  eye,  perched  first  upon  England  many  centuries  ago. 
Skelton  speaks  of  him  : 

My  name  is  parrot,  a  bird  of  Paradise  .  .  . 
With  my  becke  bent,  my  little  wanton  eye, 
My  fethers  fresh,  as  is  the  emrawde  grene, 
About  my  neck  a  circulet,  lyke  the  ryche  rubye, 
My  little  legges,  my  fete  both  nete  and  cleane.  .  .  . 

And  so,  too,  John  Maplet,  a  "  naturalist  "  who  in  1567 
wrote  A  Greene  Forest  : 

"  The  Parret  hath  all  hir  whole  bodie  greene,  saving  that 
onely  about  hir  necke  she  hath  a  Coller  or  Chaine  naturally 
wrought  like  to  Sinople  or  Vermelon.  Indie  hath  of  this  kinde 
such  as  will  counterfaite  redily  a  mans  speach  :  what  wordes 
they  heare,  those  commonly  they  pronounce.  There  have 
bene  found  of  these  that  have  saluted  Emperours.  .  .  ." 

But  which  Emperors,  and  when  and  to  what  end  he  does  not 
relate.  A  parrot  of  price  indeed  would  be  she  that  had  held 
converse  with  "  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings." 

639 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

40J.      '  The  march  oy  Time."  (line  2) 

Say,  is  there  aught  that  can  convey 

An  imago  of  its  transient  stay  ? 
'Tis  an  hand's  breadth  ;  'tis  a  tale  ; 
'Tis  a  vessel  under  sail  ; 
'  lis  a  courser's  straining  steed  ; 
'Tis  a  shuttle  in  its  speed  ; 
'Tis  an  eagle  in  its  way, 
Darting  down  upon  its  prey  ; 
'  lis  an  arrow  in  its  flight, 
Mocking  the  pursuing  sight ; 
'Tis  a  vapour  in  the  air  ; 
'Tis  a  whirlwind  rushing  there  ; 
'Tis  a  short-lived  fading  flower  ; 
'Tis  a  rainbow  on  a  shower  ; 
'Tis  a  momentary  ray 
Smiling  in  a  winter's  day  ; 
'Tis  a  torrent's  rapid  stream  ; 
'Tis  a  shadow  ;  'tis  a  dream  ; 
'Tis  the  closing  watch  of  night, 
Dying  at  approaching  light ; 
'Tis  a  landscape  vainly  gay, 
Painted  upon  crumbling  clay  ; 
'Tis  a  lamp  that  wastes  its  fires, 
'Tis  a  smoke  that  quick  expires  ; 
'Tis  a  bubble,  'tis  a  sigh  : 
Be  prepared,  O  Man  !  to  die. 

They  are  like  strings  of  precious  stones,  rosaries,  these  Tudor 
laments,  one  image  following  another,  and  however  sad  in 
colour,  all  making  beauty  : 

As  withereth  the  primrose  by  the  river, 
As  fadeth  summer's  sun  from  gliding  fountains, 
As  vanisheth  the  light-blown  bubble  ever, 
As  melteth  snow  upon  the  mossy  mountains  : 
So  melts,  so  vanisheth,  so  fades,  so  withers, 
The  rose,  the  shine,  the  bubble,  and  the  snow. 
Of  praise,  pomp,  glory,  joy,  which  short  life  gathers, 
Fair  praise,  vain  pomp,  sweet  glory,  brittle  joy. 
The  withered  primrose  by  the  mourning  river, 

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ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

The  faded  summer's  sun  from  weeping  fountains, 
The  light-blown  bubble  vanished  for  ever, 
The  molten  snow  upon  the  naked  mountains, 
Are  emblems  that  the  treasures  we  uplay, 
Soon  wither,  vanish,  fade,  and  melt  away.  .  .  . 

403.     "  The  wild  Hyaena."  (line  11) 

In  old  times  it  was  believed  that  if  a  hungry  hyaena  or 
jaccatray — who  cannot  wry  his  neck  "  because  his  backbone 
stretches  itself  out  to  the  head  " — dreams,  he  dreams  so  vividly 
that  he  calls  into  his  sleeping  brain  a  vision  of  the  beasts  he 
covets  for  prey.  And  this  vision  is  so  lifelike  that  he  howls  out 
of  his  sleep  in  mockery  of  the  beasts — and  thus  decoys  them 
to  his  den  !  He  is  a  nocturnal  scavenger,  haunting  graveyards, 
and  "  when  "  says  Lyly,  he  "  speaketh  lyke  a  man,"  he 
"  deviseth  most  mischief." 

404.     "  In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan." 

"  Now,  this  lord  (the  Great  Caan),"  says  Friar  Odoric  in 
his  Cathay,  "  passeth  the  summer  at  a  certain  place  which  is 
called  Sandu,  situated  towards  the  north,  and  the  coolest 
habitation  in  the  world.  But  in  the  winter  season  he  abideth 
in  Cambalech.  And  when  he  will  ride  from  the  one  place  to 
the  other  this  is  the  order  thereof.  He  hath  four  armies  of 
horsemen,  one  of  which  goeth  a  day's  march  in  front  of  him, 
one  at  each  side,  and  one  a  day's  march  in  rear,  so  that  he 
goeth  always  as  it  were,  in  the  middle  of  a  cross.  And  marching 
thus,  each  army  hath  its  route  laid  down  for  it  day  by  day,  and 
findeth  at  its  halts  all  necessary  provender.  But  his  own 
immediate  company  hath  its  order  of  march  thus.  The  king 
travelleth  in  a  two-wheeled  carriage,  in  which  is  formed  a  very 
goodly  chamber,  all  of  lign-aloes  and  gold,  and  covered  over 
with  great  and  fine  skins,  and  set  with  many  precious  stones. 
And  the  carriage  is  drawn  by  four  elephants,  well  broken  in 
and  harnessed,  and  also  by  four  splendid  horses,  richly  capa- 
risoned. And  alongside  go  four  barons,  who  are  called  Cuthe, 
keeping  watch  and  ward  over  the  chariot  that  no  hurt  come 
to  the  king.  Moreover,  he  carrieth  with  him  in  his  chariot 
twelve  gerfalcons  ;  so  that  even  as  he  sits  therein  upon  his 
chair  of  state  or  other  seat,  if  he  sees  any  birds  pass  he  lets  fly 

641  2  s 


ABOUT  AM)  ROUNDAltOlT 

Ins  hawks  at  them.     And  none  may  dare  to  approach  within 
tone's  throw  of  the  carriage,  unless  those  whose  duty  brings 
them  there.     And  thus  it  is  that  the  king  travelleth." 

"  A  sunless  Sea." 

Our  English  eyes,  loving  light,  weary  a  little  of  the  short 
cold  days  in  our  country,  when  the  sun  makes  "  winter  arches." 
Sadder  still  would  be  our  state  in  the  regions  told  of  by  Marco 
Polo  in  the  following  passage  : 

'  Beyond  the  most  distant  part  of  the  territory  of  the 
Tartars,  .  .  .  there  is  another  region  [thick  set  with  dark 
impenetrable  woods]  which  extends  to  the  utmost  bounds  of 
the  north,  and  is  called  the  Region  of  Darkness,  because  during 
most  part  of  the  winter  months  the  sun  is  invisible,  and  the 
atmosphere  is  obscured  to  the  same  degree  as  that  in  which  we 
find  it  just  about  the  dawn  of  day,  when  we  may  be  said  to  see 
and  not  to  see.  The  men  of  this  country  are  well  made  and 
tall,  but  of  a  very  pallid  complexion.  They  are  not  united 
under  the  government  of  a  king  or  prince,  and  they  live  without 
any  established  laws  or  usages,  in  the  manner  of  the  brute 
creation.  Their  intellects  also  are  dull,  and  they  have  an  air 
of  stupidity.  The  Tartars  often  proceed  on  plundering  expe- 
ditions against  these  people,  to  rob  them  of  their  cattle  and 
goods.  For  this  purpose  they  avail  themselves  of  those  months 
in  which  the  darkness  prevails,  in  order  that  their  approach 
may  be  unobserved  ;  but,  being  unable  to  ascertain  the 
direction  in  which  they  should  return  homeward  with  their 
booty,  they  provide  against  the  chance  of  going  astray  by 
riding  mares  that  have  young  foals  at  the  time,  which  latter 
they  suffer  to  accompany  the  dams  as  far  as  the  confines  of 
their  own  territory,  but  leave  them,  under  proper  care,  at  the 
commencement  of  the  gloomy  region.  When  their  works  of 
darkness  have  been  accomplished,  and  they  are  desirous  of 
revisiting  the  region  of  light,  they  lay  the  bridles  on  the  necks 
of  their  mares,  and  suffer  them  freely  to  take  their  own  course. 
Guided  by  maternal  instinct,  they  make  their  way  directly 
to  the  spot  where  they  had  quitted  their  foals  ;  and  by  these 
means  the  riders  are  enabled  to  regain  in  safety  the  places  of 
their  residence." 


642 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

406.     "  One  held  a  Shell  unto  his  Shell-like  Ear." 

(line  6) 

.  .  .  Gather  a  shell  from  the  strown  beach 
And  listen  at  its  lips  :  they  sigh 
The  same  desire  and  mystery, 
The  echo  of  the  whole  sea's  speech. 
And  all  mankind  is  thus  at  heart 
Not  anything  but  what  thou  art : 
And  Earth,  Sea,  Man,  are  all  in  each. 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti 

407.     "  Like  solemn  apparitions  lulled  sublime  to 

EVERLASTING    REST."    (line  II) 

...  In  the  caves  of  the  deep — lost  Youth  !  lost  Youth  !- 
O'er  and  o'er,  fleeting  billows  !  fleeting  billows  ! — 
Rung  to  his  restless  everlasting  sleep 
By  the  heavy  death-bells  of  the  deep, 
Under  the  slimy-drooping  sea-green  willows, 

Poor  Youth  !  lost  Youth  ! 
Laying  his  dolorous  head,  forsooth, 

On  Carian  reefs  uncouth — 
Poor  Youth  ! 
On  the  wild  sand's  ever-shifting  pillows  !  .  .  . 

O  could  my  Spirit  wing 

Hills  over,  where  salt  Ocean  hath  his  fresh  headspring 
And  snowy  curls  bedeck  the  Blue-haired  King, 
Up  where  sweet  oral  birds  articulate  sing 
Within  the  desert  ring— 
Their   mighty   shadows   o'er   broad    Earth   the   Lunar 

Mountains  fling, 
Where  the  Sun's  chariot  bathes  in  Ocean's  fresh  head- 
spring— 

O  could  my  Spirit  wing  !  .  .  . 

George  Darley 

Full  fathom  five  thy  Father  lies, 
Of  his  bones  are  Corrall  made  : 
Those  are  Pearles  that  were  his  eies, 
Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
643 


ABOUT  AM)  ROIXDAIUHT 

Bui  doth  suffer  a  Sea-change 
Into  Bomething  rich,  and  strange  : 
Soa-Nimphs  hourly  ring  his  knell — 

Ding  dcmg. 
Harke  now  I  heare  them,  ding-dong  bell. 

William  Shakespeare 

411.     "The  Golden  Vanity." 

This  is  a  patchwork  of  stanzas  from  three  versions  of  the 
old  ballad.  In  one  version  the  "  Golden  Vanity  "  is  said 
to  be  the  "  Sweet  Trinity,"  and  to  have  been  built  by  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh  in  the  Netherlands.  According  to  yet  another, 
the  Cabin-boy,  after  threatening  to  sink  the  "  Goulden  Vanitie  " 
as  he  had  "  sunk  the  French  gallee,"  is  taken  on  board  and  the 
Captain  and  merchant  adventurers  proved  "  far  better  than 
their  word."  But  if  stanza  12  is  any  witness,  this  seems 
unlikely.  Can  one  not  actually  see  the  cold  faces  mocking 
down  upon  the  water  ? 

412. 

To  an  eye  and  ear  new  to  them,  these  old  Scottish  ballads 
may  seem  a  little  difficult  and  forbidding.  But  read  on,  and 
their  enchantment  has  no  match — the  very  strangeness  of  the 
words,  the  rare  music,  the  colour  and  light  and  clearness  and 
vehemence,  and,  besides  these,  a  wildness  and  ancientness  like 
that  of  an  old  folk-tune  which  seems  to  carry  with  its  burden 
as  many  lost  memories  as  an  old  churchyard  has  gravestones. 
The  stories  they  tell  are  world  wide.  How  they  came  into  that 
world  (for  of  some  of  them  there  are  as  many  as  twenty  to 
thirty  different  versions),  how  they  have  fared  in  their  long 
journey,  and  even  when  and  by  whom  they  were  made,  are 
still  questions  on  which  even  scholars  are  not  yet  agreed. 

"  Kevels  "  in  line  5  of  "  Brown  Robyn,"  means  lots,  and 
recalls  a  far  older  story  : 

"  Now  the  word  of  the  Lord  came  unto  Jonah  the  son  of 
Amittai,  saying,  Arise,  go  to  Nineveh,  that  great  city,  and  cry 
against  it ;  for  their  wickedness  is  come  up  before  me.  But 
Jonah  rose  up  to  flee  unto  Tarshish  from  the  presence  of  the 
Lord,  and  went  down  to  Joppa  ;  and  he  found  a  ship  going  to 
Tarshish,  so  he  paid  the  fare  thereof,  and  went  down  into  it, 
to  go  with  them  unto  Tarshish  from  the  presence  of  the  Lord. 

644 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

But  the  Lord  sent  out  a  great  wind  into  the  sea,  and  there  was 
a  mighty  tempest  in  the  sea,  so  that  the  ship  was  like  to  be 
broken.  Then  the  mariners  were  afraid,  and  cried  every  man 
unto  his  god,  and  cast  forth  the  wares  that  were  in  the  ship 
into  the  sea,  to  lighten  it  of  them.  But  Jonah  was  gone  down 
into  the  sides  of  the  ship  ;  and  he  lay,  and  was  fast  asleep.  .  .  . 
And  they  said  every  one  to  his  fellow,  Come,  and  let  us  cast 
lots,  that  we  may  know  for  whose  cause  this  evil  is  upon  us. 
So  they  cast  lots,  and  the  lot  fell  upon  Jonah.  .  .  .  Then  said 
they  unto  him,  What  shall  we  do  unto  thee,  that  the  sea  may 
be  calm  unto  us  ?  for  the  sea  wrought,  and  was  tempestuous. 
And  he  said  unto  them,  Take  me  up,  and  cast  me  forth  into  the 
sea  ;  so  shall  the  sea  be  calm  upon  you  :  for  I  know  that  for 
my  sake  this  great  tempest  is  upon  you.  ...  So  they  took  up 
Jonah,  and  cast  him  forth  into  the  sea ;  and  the  sea  ceased 
from  her  raging." 

415.       "  A    SEAL    MY   FATHER    WAS." 

Notes  of  music  for  the  enticement  of  seals,  with  other 
beautiful  old  Gaelic  airs  and  poems  and  tales,  will  be  found 
in  Journals  23/5  of  The  Folk- Song  Society,  collected  by  Mr. 
Martin  Freeman. 

418.     "  Sir  Patrick  Spence." 

The  longer  version  of  the  ballad  into  which  the  genius  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott  wove  a  few  new  stanzas  is  the  better  known. 
But  this,  I  think,  is  the  best.  Indeed,  the  secret  art  of  this 
naked  and  lovely  poetry  seems  nowadays  to  be  lost  :  its 
marvel  is  how  much  it  tells  by  means  of  the  little  it  says. 

"  Late,  late  yestreen."  (stanza  7) 

With  money  in  his  pocket  and  bewaring  of  glass,  the  Man 
of  Superstitions  bows  low  and  seven  times  to  the  new  moon. 
If  he  sees  a  dim  cindrous  light  filling  in  the  circle  of  which  this 
crescent  is  the  edge,  he  "  looks  out  for  squalls  " — the  new 
moon  has  "  the  auld  moone  in  hir  arrae."  That  light  is  the 
earth-shine.  The  sun  illumines  the  earth  ;  the  earth  like  a 
looking-glass  reflects  his  radiance  upon  the  moon  ;  and  she 
thus  melancholily  returns  it ;  whereas  the  silver  blaze  on  her 
eastern  edge  is  light  direct  :  eyes  looking  upward  thence  into 
her  black  skies  are  lit  with  her  prodigious  mornings. 

645 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

.p<).     "  Allison  Gross." 
Here  I  have  changed  only  two  words  of  the  original. 

420.     "  Sir  Hugh." 

If  this  ballad  tells  of  a  fact,  then  the  young  Sir  Hugh  was 
beguiled  out  of  his  life  by  the  dark  beautiful  Jewess  in  the  year 
1J55.  The  story  comes  from  a  monastery,  and  it  is  historically 
certain  that  the  wealthiest  Jews  of  Lincoln  were  in  this  year 
crucified  on  this  charge.  True  or  false,  what  a  clear,  pellucid 
picture  the  ballad  builds  up  in  the  imagination — the  ancient 
town  ;  the  boys  at  their  game;  the  narrow,  gabled,  cobbled 
streets  ;  the  evening  gold  on  roof  and  wall  ;  night  ;  lamenta- 
tion ;  and  the  clanging  of  the  bells. 

421.     "  Edward." 

The  spelling  of  this  ballad  usually  begins  "  Why  dois  your 
brand  sae  dripp  wie  bluid,"  and  so  on.  This  spelling  Professor 
Child  thought  "  affectedly  antique."  But  since,  as  he  says, 
mere  antiquated  "  spelling  will  not  make  an  old  ballad,  so  it 
will  not  unmake  one."  And  "  Edward  "  in  any  guise  is  "  one 
of  the  noblest  "  of  the  popular  ballads.  Here  it  is,  then,  in 
our  own  spelling  for  proof. 

422.      "  I    WILL   SING." 

The  king  in  the  third  line  is  James  the  Sixth  of  Scotland  and 
the  First  of  England — the  king,  according  to  the  old  waggery, 
"  who  never  said  a  foolish  thing  and  never  did  a  wise  one." 
But  see  Green.  The  "  wanton  laird  of  young  Logie  "  is  John 
Wemyss  who  plotted  against  him  with  the  Earl  of  Bothwell 
in  1592.  His  bold,  crafty  and  merry  young  wife,  May 
Margaret,  says  Mr.  Sidgwick,  had  one  of  these  four  delectable 
maiden  names — Vinstar,  Weiksterne,  Twynstoun,  or  Twins- 
lace.      It  is  dubious  which. 

All  ladies  in  those  old  days  carried  knives  at  their  girdles. 
The  one  in  stanza  8  was  clearly  a  wedding  gift.  And  to  judge 
from  the  ballads,  doughty  uses  they  sometimes  put  them  to. 

423.     "  Fair  Annie." 

In  the  margins  of  Mr.  Nahum's  copy  of  this  ballad,  two 
exquisite  damosels  were  painted  in  green,  blue  and  amethyst 

646 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

on  gold  (as  in  a  monk's  work),  and  between  their  fingers  hung 
a  linen  napkin  seemingly  broidered  with  pearls  and  in  the 
midst  of  it  a  sleeping  dove.  Whatever  he  may  have  meant  by 
this,  I  confess  that  at  first  reading  I  fell  in  love  with  both  these 
ladies.  My  feelings  for  the  "  noble  knight  "  who  ransomed 
fair  Annie,  then  wearied  of  her,  were  different.  It  was  strange 
to  find  a  noble  knight  so  hard  a  gentleman,  not  so  much  because 
he  wearied  of  her  (since  to  weary  of  one  so  true,  intelligent  and 
tender  was  even  more  of  a  punishment  than  a  misfortune)  but 
most  particularly,  with  regard  to  his  craving  for  "  gowd  and 
gear."  He  reminds  me  of  a  similar  piece  of  humanity  des- 
cribed in  three  short  stanzas  which  were  found  by  Mr.  Macmath 
written  on  the  fly-leaf  of  a  little  volume  printed  at  Edinburgh 
about  1670,  and  which  I  found  in  Child's  Ballads  : 

"  He  steps  full  statly  on  the  street, 

He  hads  the  charters  of  him  sell, 
In  to  his  cloathing  he  is  complete, 

In  Craford's  mure  he  bears  the  bell.  .  .  . 

'  I  wish  I  had  died  my  own  fair  death, 
In  tender  age,  when  I  was  young  ; 

I  would  never  [then]  have  broke  my  heart 
For  the  love  of  any  churl's  son. 

"  Wo  be  to  my  parents  all, 

That  lives  so  farr  beyond  the  sea  ! 

I  might  have  lived  a  noble  life, 

And  wedded  in  my  own  countree." 

425.     "  But  think  na'  ye  my  Heart  was  sair  ?" 

(line  21) 

Down  in  yon  garden  sweet  and  gay 

Where  bonnie  grows  the  lily, 
I  heard  a  fair  maid  sighing  say, 
"  My  wish  be  wi'  sweet  Willie  !" 

"  Willie's  rare,  and  Willie's  fair, 

And  Willie's  wondrous  bonny  ; 
And  Willie  hecht  to  marry  me 

Gin  e'er  he  married  ony. 
647 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

"  O  gentle  wind,  that  bloweth  south 
I  i. nil  where  my  Love  repaireth, 

Convey  a  kiss  frae  his  dear  mouth 
And  tell  me  how  he  fareth  ! 

"  O  tell  sweet  Willie  to  come  doun 
And  hear  the  mavis  singing, 

And  see  the  birds  on  ilka  bush 
And  leaves  around  them  hinging. 

'  The  lav'rock  there,  wi'  her  white  breast 

And  gentle  throat  sae  narrow  ; 

There's  sport  eneuch  for  gentlemen 

On  Leader  haughs  and  Yarrow. 

"  O  Leader  haughs  are  wide  and  braid 
And  Yarrow  haughs  are  bonny  ; 

There  Willie  hecht  to  marry  me 
If  e'er  he  married  ony. 

'  But  Willie's  gone,  whom  I  thought  on, 

And  does  not  hear  the  weeping 
Draws  many  a  tear  frae's  true  love's  e'e, 
When  other  maids  are  sleeping. 

'  Yestreen  I  made  my  bed  fu'  braid, 

The  night  I'll  mak'  it  narrow, 
For  a'  the  lee-lang  winter  night 
I  lie  twined  o'  my  marrow. 

"  O  came  ye  by  yon  water-side  ? 

Pu'd  you  the  rose  or  lily  ? 
Or  came  you  by  yon  meadow  green, 

Or  saw  you  my  sweet  Willie  ?" 

She  sought  him  up,  she  sought  him  down, 
She  sought  him  braid  and  narrow  ; 

Syne,  in  the  cleaving  of  a  crag, 

She  found  him  drowned  in  Yarrow  ! 

Hecht  (line  6)  means  vowed  ;  haughs  are  water-meadows  ; 
and  to  be  twined  o'  one's  marrow,  is  to  be  separated  from  one's 
loved  one. 

648 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

427.     The  Twa  Sisters. 

Here  is  another  ballad — "  The  Water  o  Wearie's  Well,"— 
of  a  similar  pattern.  But  in  this  the  drowner  of  the  King's 
daughters  himself  finds  a  "  watery  grave  "  : 

There  came  a  bird  out  o  a  bush, 

On  water  for  to  dine, 
An  sighing  sair,  says  the  king's  daughter, 

"  O  wae's  this  heart  o  mine  !  " 

He's  taen  a  harp  into  his  hand, 

He's  harped  them  all  asleep, 
Except  it  was  the  king's  daughter, 

Who  one  wink  couldna  get. 

He's  luppen  on  his  berry-brown  steed, 

Taen  'er  on  behind  himsell, 
Then  baith  rede  down  to  that  water 

That  they  ca  Wearie's  Well. 

"  Wide  in,  wide  in,  my  lady  fair, 

No  harm  shall  thee  befall  ; 
Oft  times  I've  watered  my  steed 

Wi  the  water  o  Wearie's  Well." 

The  first  step  that  she  stepped  in, 

She  stepped  to  the  knee  ; 
And  sighend  says  this  lady  fair, 

"  This  water's  nae  for  me." 

"  Wide  in,  wide  in,  my  lady  fair, 

No  harm  shall  thee  befall  ; 
Oft  times  I've  watered  my  steed 

Wi  the  water  o  Wearie's  Well." 

The  next  step  that  she  stepped  in, 

She  stepped  to  the  middle  ; 
"  O,"  sighend  says  this  lady  fair, 

"  I've  wat  my  gowden  girdle." 

"  Wide  in,  wide  in,  my  lady  fair, 

No  harm  shall  thee  befall ; 
Oft  times  have  I  watered  my  steed 

Wi  the  water  o  Wearie's  Well." 
649 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

The  next  step  that  she  stepped  in, 

She  stepped  to  the  chin  ; 
"  O,"  siglie.nl  says  this  lady  fair, 

"  They  sud  gar  twa  loves  twin  !  " 

"  Seven  king's  daughters  I've  drownd  there, 

In  the  water  o  W'earie's  Well, 
And  I'll  make  you  the  eight  o  them, 

And  ring  the  (  ommon  bell." 

"  Since  I  am  standing  here,"  she  says, 

"  This  dowie  death  to  die, 
One  kiss  o  your  comely  mouth 

I'm  sure  wad  comfort  me." 

He  louted  him  oer  his  saddle  bow, 

To  kiss  her  cheek  and  chin  ; 
She's  taen  him  in  her  arms  twa, 

And  thrown  him  headlong  in. 

"  Since  seven  king's  daughters  ye've  drowned 
there, 

In  the  water  o  Wearie's  Well, 
I'll  make  you  bridegroom  to  them  a', 

An  ring  the  bell  mysell." 

And  aye  she  warsled,  and  aye  she  swam, 

And  she  swam  to  dry  Ian  ; 
She  thanked  God  most  cheerfully 

The  dangers  she  oercame. 

428.     "  Sweet  William  and  May  Margaret." 

Hermione.       Come  Sir,  now  I  am  for  you  againe  : 
Pray  you  sit  by  us,  and  tell's  a  Tale. 

Mamillius  (her  son).     Merry,  or  sad,  shal't  bee  ? 

Hermione.       As  merry  as  you  will. 

Mamillius.      A  sad  Tale's  best  for  Winter  : 

I  have  one  of  Sprights,  and  Goblins. 

Hermione.       Let's  have  that,  good  Sir. 

Come-on,  sit   downe,   come-on,  and   doe  your 

best 
To    fright    me    with    your    Sprights  :   you're 
powrefull  at  it. 
650 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

Mamillius.      There  was  a  man.  .  .  . 
Hermione        Nay,  come  sit  downe  :  then  on. 

Mamillius.      Dwelt  by  a  Churchyard  : 
I  will  teil  it  softly, 
Yond  Crickets  shall  not  heare  it. 

Hermione.       Come  on  then,  and  giv't  me  in  mine  eare.  .  .  . 

The  Winter's  Tale 

429.     "  That  birk  grew  fair  eneugh."  (stanza  6) 

The  strangest  feature  of  these  ballads  is  that  the  stories  they 
tell,  the  customs,  beliefs,  lore  they  refer  to,  may  be  found 
scattered  up  and  down  all  over  the  world.  In  Russia,  for  one 
small  instance,  the  birk  or  birch  tree  is  honoured  in  this 
fashion  :  A  little  before  Whitsuntide,  says  Sir  James  Fraser 
in  The  Golden  Bough,  the  young  women,  with  dancing  and 
feasting,  cut  down  a  living  birch-tree,  deck  it  with  bright 
clothes  or  hang  it  with  ribbons  ;  then  set  it  up  as  an  honoured 
guest  in  one  of  the  village  houses.  On  Whit  Sunday  itself  they 
fling  it,  finery  and  all,  into  a  stream  for  a  charm. 

And  now  for  England  :  "  Thirty  years  ago,"  says  Mrs. 
Wright,  "  it  was  still  customary  in  some  west-Midland  districts 
to  decorate  village  churches  on  Whit  Sunday  with  sprigs  of 
birch  stuck  in  holes  bored  in  the  tops  of  the  pews.  I  can 
remember  this  being  done  by  an  old  village  clerk  in  Hereford- 
shire, but  when  he  was  gathered  to  his  fathers  in  the  same 
profession,  the  custom  died  with  him."  How  happy  must  he 
have  been  then — as  happy  as  for  that  one  evening  was  the 
Wife  of  Usher's  Well  herself — to  lift  his  eyes  upon  a  silver 
birch  brushing  with  its  green  tresses  the  very  gates  of  Paradise  ! 

433.       "  A    SPANGLE    HERE." 

Dew  sate  on  Julia's  haire, 

And  spangled  too, 
Like  leaves  that  laden  are 

With  trembling  dew  : 
Or  ghttered  to  my  sight, 

As  when  the  Beames 
Have  their  reflected  light, 

Daunc't  by  the  Streames. 

Robert  Herrick 

651 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

It  the  daisies  are  not  to  shut  their  eyes  until  Julia  shut. 
hers,  should  tliev  not  most  assuredly  wait  also  until  "  dear 
love  Isabella,"  shut  hers?  She  was  the  bosom  friend  and 
aunt  of  Marjorie  Fleming,  Sir  Walter  Scott's  little  friend,  who 
was  born  in  1803,  and  who,  having  written  her  few  tim-tam-tot 
little  rhymes,  died  in  181 1.     And  here  is  Isabel  : 

Here  lies  sweet  Isabell  in  bed, 

With  a  night-cap  on  her  head  ; 

Her  skin  is  soft,  her  face  is  fair, 

And  she  has  very  pretty  hair  ; 

She  and  I  in  bed  lies  nice, 

And  undisturbed  by  rats  or  mice  ; 

She  is  disgusted  with  Mr.  Worgan, 

Though  he  plays  upon  the  organ. 

Her  nails  are  neat,  her  teeth  are  white, 

Her  eyes  are  very,  very  bright  ; 

In  a  conspicuous  town  she  lives, 

And  to  the  poor  her  money  gives  ; 

Here  ends  sweet  Isabella's  story, 

And  may  it  be  much  to  her  glory. 

434- 
Bunyan's  "  Comparison  "  for  this  poem  runs  thus  : 

Our  Gospel  has  had  here  a  Summers  day  ; 
But  in  its  Sun-shine  we,  like  Fools,  did  play, 
Or  else  fall  out,  and  with  each  other  wrangle, 
And  did  instead  of  work  not  much  but  jangle. 

And  if  our  Sun  seems  angry,  hides  his  face, 
Shall  it  go  down,  shall  Night  possess  this  place  ? 
Let  not  the  voice  of  night-Birds  us  afflict, 
And  of  our  mis-spent  Summer  us  convict. 

437- 
From  the  "  Songs  of  Innocence  "  ;    and  this  is  from  the 
"  Songs  of  Experience  "  : 

When  the  voices  of  children  are  heard  on  the  green 
And  whisp'rings  are  in  the  dale. 
The  days  of  my  youth  rise  fresh  in  my  mind, 
My  face  turns  green  and  pale. 

652 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

Then  come  home,  my  children,  the  sun  is  gone  down, 
And  the  dews  of  night  arise  ; 
Your  spring  and  your  day  are  wasted  in  play, 
And  your  winter  and  night  in  disguise. 

For  to  grow  old  and  look  back  on  one's  childhood,  though 
in  much  it  is  a  happy  thing,  may  be  also  a  thing  full  of  dread  and 
regret.  The  old  poets  never  wearied  of  bidding  youth  gather 
its  roses,  seize  its  fleeting  moments.  But  not  all  roses  are  fresh 
and  fragrant  in  the  keeping,  and  "  lilies  that  fester  smell  far 
worse  than  weeds." 

440.     "  Afterwards." 

Every  fine  poem  says  much  in  little.  It  packs  into  the 
fewest  possible  words — by  means  of  their  sound,  their  sense, 
and  their  companionship — a  wide  or  rare  experience.  So,  in 
particular,  with  such  a  poem  as  this.  It  tells  of  a  man  thinking 
of  the  day  when  he  shall  have  bidden  goodbye  to  a  world  whose 
every  live  and  lovely  thing — Spring,  hawk,  evening,  wintry 
skies — he  has  dearly  loved.  And  if  what  it  tells  of  is  to  be 
seen  as  clearly  and  truly  as  if  it  were  before  one's  very  eyes, 
it  must  be  read  intently — all  one's  imagination  alert  to  gather 
up  the  full  virtue  of  the  words,  and  to  picture  in  the  mind 
each  fleeting  and  living  object  in  turn. 

As  I  write  these  lines  I  cannot  refrain  from  suggesting  how 
thankful  we  should  be  to  be  living  in  a  day  when  three  great 
poets,  who  have  been  long  in  the  world,  are  adding  to  the  riches 
of  English  poetry — Thomas  Hardy,  Charles  Doughty,  and  the 
Poet  Laureate,  Robert  Bridges.  It  is  but  a  little  while,  too, 
since  the  death  of  that  exquisite  writer,  and  lover  of  all  things 
true  and  beautiful,  Alice  Meynell,  and  of  W.  H.  Hudson, 
who  was  no  less  a  poet  because  he  wrote  not  in  verse  but  in 
prose. 

To  compare  the  great  things  of  one  age  with  the  great  things 
of  another  is  an  exceedinglv  difficult  task  (and  to  pit  poet 
against  poet,  or  imagination  against  imagination,  an  exceedingly 
stupid  one).  But  that  in  Elizabeth's  day  England  was  indeed 
a  "  nest  of  singing  birds  "  may  be  realised  by  the  fact  that  when 
Shakespeare  was  finishing  his  last  play,  The  Tempest,  in  the 
Spring,  apparently,  of  161 1 — when,  that  is,  he  himself  was 
aged  47  (and  his  Queen  had  been  eight  years  dead),  Sir  Walter 

653 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

Raleigh  was  v>.  Anthony  Munday  58,  Samuel  Daniel  49, 
Michael  Drayton  48,  Thomas  Campion  44,  Thomas  Dekker  (?) 
.|  1 ,  John  Donne  and  Hen  Jonson  were  38,  John  Fletcher  was 
32,  Francis  Beaumont  27,  William  Drummond  26,  John  Ford 
25,  William  Browne  and  Robert  Herrick  20,  Francis  Quarles  19, 
George  Herbert  18,  Thomas  Carew  (?)  16,  James  Shirley  15, 
and  John  Milton  (and  Sir  John  Suckling)  were  2.  It  was  seven 
years  before  the  birth  of  Richard  Lovelace  and  Abraham 
Cowley,  ten  before  Marvell's,  and  eleven  before  Vaughan's. 
Edmund  Spenser  had  been  twelve  years  dead,  Sir  Philip  Sidney 
twenty-five— and  Chaucer  211. 

Two  hundred  and  fifty  years  afterwards — in  1861 — another 
great  queen  was  on  the  Throne,  Victoria.  It  was  the  year  in 
which  the  Prince  Consort  died,  and  Edward,  Prince  of  Wales, 
came  of  age.  Nor  was  England's  garden  silent  then  :  for  in 
that  year  William  Barnes  and  Cardinal  Newman  were  60, 
Edward  Fitzgerald  and  Tennyson  were  52,  Robert  Browning  49, 
Charles  Kingsley  42,  Matthew  Arnold  39,  Coventry  Pat  more  38, 
William  Allingham  37,  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  and  George 
Meredith  were  33,  Christina  Rossetti  was  31,  William  Morris  27, 
Algernon  Swinburne  24,  Mr.  Thomas  Hardy  was  21,  Mr.  Robert 
Bridges  17,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  n,  and  Francis  Thompson 
was  2.  Other  great  writers,  in  English,  then  alive  were  Carlyle, 
Thackeray,  Dickens,  Ruskin,  Darwin  and  Huxley  ;  Emerson, 
Hawthorne,  Longfellow  and  W'alt  Whitman.  So  the  strange 
flame  of  genius  fitfully  burns  in  this  world.  And  161 1  knew  as 
little  of  1861  as  1861  knew  of  21 11.  (But  would  that  1923 
could  leave  to  the  future  one-tenth  part  of  such  a  legacy  as 
did  161 1 — the  English  Bible  !) 

But  to  return  to  Shakespeare.  He  was  born  in  April  1564. 
About  1591  he  wrote  the  first  of  his  plays,  Love's  Labour's  Lost. 
By  161 1  he  had  finished  the  last  of  them  ;  34  in  all  as  they 
appear  in  the  first  Folio,  37  as  they  now  appear  in  the  Canon. 
And  apart  from  these,  his  Poems.  There  followed  a  strange 
silence.  On  the  25th  of  March,  1616,  "  in  perfect  health  and 
memory  (God  be  praised  !),"  he  made  his  will.  On  St.  George's 
Day,  1 61 6,  he  died.  To  reflect  for  a  moment  on  that  brief 
lifetime,  on  that  twenty  years'  work  which  is  now  a  perennial 
fountain  of  happiness,  light  and  wisdom  to  the  whole  world, 
is  to  marvel  indeed.  The  life-giving  secret  of  this  supreme 
genius  none  can  tell.     We  know  not  even  our  own.     But  there 

654 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

is  a  story  told  by  Thomas  Campbell  :  "It  was  predicted  of 
a  young  man  lately  belonging  to  one  of  our  universities,  that 
he  would  certainly  become  a  prodigy  because  he  read  sixteen 
hours  a  day.  '  Ah,  but,'  said  somebody,  '  how  many  hours  a 
day  does  he  think  ?  '  It  might  have  been  added,  '  How  many 
hours  does  he  feel  ?  '  "  So  of  Shakespeare.  As,  then,  said  his 
old  friends  and  fellow-players,  John  Heminge  and  Henry  Condell 
in  their  Preface  to  the  Folio  :  "  Reade  him,  therefore  ;  and 
againe,  and  againe  :  And  if  then  you  doe  not  like  him,  surely 
you  are  in  some  manifest  danger.  ..." 

441.     "  With  such  a  Sky." 

It  is  a  beauteous  Evening,  calm  and  free, 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun 
Breathless  with  adoration  ;  the  broad  sun 
Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity  ; 
The  gentleness  of  heaven  broods  o'er  the  Sea  : 
Listen  !  the  mighty  Being  is  awake, 
And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 
A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly.    .  .  . 

William  Wordsworth 

442.     "  Shepherds  all,  and  Maidens  fair,  Fold 
your  Flocks." 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 
The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds  :  .  .  . 

These  lines  and  the  stanzas  that  follow  them  in  the  Elegy 
in  a  Country  Churchyard  are  as  familiar  as  any  in  English,  and 
may  be  found  in  almost  every  collection  of  poems.  Here, 
"  a  figure  on  paper  " — from  a  letter  to  a  friend  written  by  the 
author  of  them,  Thomas  Gray,  on  November  19,  1764,  is  a 
description — not  of  evening  after  the  setting  of  the  sun — 

655 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

but   of  a  sun-me   as    vivid  as  if   one's  own   naked   eye   had 
w.itc  bed  its  "  Levee  "  : 

1  must  not  close  my  letter  without  giving  you  one  principal 
event  of  my  history  ;  which  was,  that  (in  the  course  of  my 
late  tour)  I  set  out  one  morning  before  five  o'clock,  the  moon 
shining  through  a  dark  and  misty  autumnal  air,  and  got  to  the 
sea-coast  tunc  enough  to  be  at  the  Sun's  Levee.  I  saw  the 
clouds  and  dark  vapours  open  gradually  to  right  and  left, 
rolling  over  one  another  in  great  smoky  wreathes,  and  the  tide 
(as  it  Glowed  gently  in  upon  the  sancls)  first  whitening,  then 
slightly  tinged  with  gold  and  blue  ;  and  all  at  once  a  little  line 
of  unsufferable  brightness  that  (before  I  can  write  these  five 
words)  was  grown  to  half  an  orb,  and  now  to  a  whole  one,  too 
glorious  to  be  distinctly  seen.  It  is  very  odd  it  makes  no 
figure  on  paper  ;  yet  I  shall  remember  it,  as  long  as  the  sun, 
or  at  least  as  long  as  I  endure.  I  wonder  whether  anybody 
ever  saw  it  before  ?     I  hardly  believe  it." 

So  each  day,  one  remembers,  the  sun  rises,  indeed  is  rising 
always  above  some  watchful  eye's  horizon,  and  we  come  so  to 
expect  its  rising,  and  so  to  be  assured  of  it,  as  though  it  were 
no  less  certain  than  that  twice  two  are  four.  But,  in  fact, 
it  is  only  just  certain  enough  to  prevent  night  from  being  a 
dreadful  apprehension,  and  life  from  becoming  a  mere  routine. 
As  Coleridge  says  in  his  Table  Talk  : 

"  Suppose  Adam  watching  the  sun  sinking  under  the  western 
horizon  for  the  first  time  ;  he  is  seized  with  gloom  and  terror, 
relieved  by  scarce  a  ray  of  hope  that  he  shall  ever  see  the 
glorious  light  again.  The  next  evening,  when  it  declines,  his 
hopes  are  stronger,  but  still  mixed  with  fear  ;  and  even  at  the 
end  of  a  thousand  years,  all  that  a  man  can  feel  is  a  hope  and 
an  expectation  so  strong  as  to  preclude  anxiety." 

.  .  .  High  among  the  lonely  hills, 
While  I  lay  beside  my  sheep, 
Rest  came  down  and  filled  my  soul. 
From  the  everlasting  deep. 

Changeless  march  the  stars  above, 

Changeless  morn  succeeds  to  even  ; 

Still  the  everlasting  hills 

Changeless  watch  the  changeless  heaven.  .  .  . 

Charles  Kingsley 
656 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

444.     "  The  children  are  going  to  bed." 

Hush-a-ba,  birdie,  croon,  croon, 

Hush-a-ba,  birdie,  croon. 
The  Sheep  are  gane  to  the  siller  wood, 

And  the  cows  are  gane  to  the  broom,  broom. 

And  it's  braw  milking  the  kye,  kye, 

It's  braw  milking  the  kye, 
The  birds  are  singing,  the  bells  are  ringing, 

And  the  wild  deer  come  galloping  by,  by. 

And  hush-a-ba,  birdie,  croon,  croon, 

Hush-a-ba,  birdie,  croon. 
The  Gaits  are  gane  to  the  mountain  hie, 

And  they'll  no  be  hame  till  noon,  noon. 

This  for  the  littlest  ones,  the  cradle-creatures.     But  for  the 

Boys  and  Girls,  come  out  to  play, 
The  Moon  doth  shine  as  bright  as  day  ; 
Come  with  a  whoop,  come  with  a  call, 
Come  with  a  goodwill  or  don't  come  at  all ; 
Lose  your  supper  and  lose  your  sleep — 
So  come  to  your  playmates  in  the  street. 

And  if  you  should  want  actually  to  bring  that  Moon  to  earth, 
this  is  how  Quince  managed  it  in  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  : 

The  Rehearsal. 

Snout.  Doth  the  Moone  shine  that  night  wee  play  our 

play  ? 

Bottom.  A  Calender,  a  Calender,  looke  in  the  Almanack, 

finde  out  Moone-shine,  finde  out  Moone- 
shine. 

Quince.  Yes,  it  doth  shine  that  night. 

Bottom.  Why  then  may  you  leave  a  casement  of  the  great 

chamber  window  (where  we  play)  open,  and 
the  Moone  may  shine  in  at  the  casement. 

Quince.  Ay,  or  else  one  must  come  in  with  a  bush  of 

thorns  and  a  lanthorne,  and  say  he  comes 
to  disfigure,  or  to  present  the  person  of 
Moone-shine.  .  .  . 

657  2t 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

The  Play. 

Ly sander.      Proceed,  Moone. 

Moone.  All  that  I  have  to  say.  is  to  tell  you,  that  the 

Lanthorne  is  the  Moone  ;  I,  the  man  in  the 
Moone  ;  this  thorne  bush,  my  thorne  bush  ; 
and  this  dog,  my  dog.  .  .  . 

And  here  is  a  stanza  from  a  very  old  poem  about  that  same 
"  man  in  the  Moone  "  : 

Mon,  in  the  mone,  stond  ant  streit, 

On  is  bot-forke  is  burthen  he  bereth  : 
Hit  is  muche  wonder  that  he  na  down  slyt, 

For  doute  leste  he  valle  he  shoddreth  ant  shereth  : 

When  the  frost  freseth  muche  chele  he  byd, 
The  thornes  beth  kene  is  hattren  to-tereth  ; 

Nis  no  wytht  in  the  world  that  wot  wen  he  syt, 
Ne,  bote  hit  bue  the  hegge,  whet  wedes  he  wereth. 

which  means,  I  gather,  that 

the  Man  in  the  Moon  stands  up  there  stark  and  still  in  her 
silver,  carrying  his  thornbush  on  his  pitchfork.  It's  a  marvel 
he  doesn't  slide  down  ;  he's  shuddering  and  shaking  at  the 
thought  of  it.  When  the  frost  sharpens,  he'll  be  frozen  to  his 
marrow.  The  prickles  stick  out  to  tear  his  clothes  ;  but 
nobody  in  the  world  has  seen  him  sit  down,  or  knows  apart 
from  his  thornbush  what  he  has  on. 

I  see  the  Moon, 
The  Moon  sees  me  ; 
God  bless  the  sailors, 
And  bless  me. 

449.     "  That  busy  Archer."  (line  4) 

Though  I  am  young  and  cannot  tell 
Either  what  Love  or  Death  is  well, 
Yet  I  have  heard  they  both  bear  darts 
And  both  do  aim  at  human  hearts.  .  .  . 

Ben  J  on  son 


658 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

"  Are  Beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they  be." 

(line  u) 

.  .  .  The  palace  of  her  father  the  King,  was  on  that  side  the 
Moon  no  mortal  sees,  and  of  such  an  enchantment  was  her 
cold  beauty  that  on  earth  none  resembles  it.  Yet  all  her 
flattery  and  pride  was  but  to  win  the  idolatrous  love  of  far- 
travelling  Princes,  or  even  of  wanderers  of  common  blood  ; 
for  the  sake  of  that  love  and  admiration  only.  And  many 
perished  in  those  rock-bound  deserts  and  parched  and  icy 
lunar  wildernesses  on  account  of  this  proud  damsel ;  before 
a  strange  fate  befell  her.  .  .  . 

Here,  too,  is  a  fragment  (from  a  thirteenth  century  MS.), 
to  be  found  in  A  Medieval  Garner  : 

"  What  shall  we  say  of  the  ladies  when  they  come  to  feasts  ?' 
Each  marks  well  the  other's  head  ;  they  wear  bosses  like 
horned  beasts,  and  if  any  have  no  horns,  she  is  a  laughing 
stock  for  the  rest.  Their  arms  go  merrily  when  they  come 
into  the  room  ;  they  display  their  kerchiefs  of  silk  and  cambric, 
set  on  their  buttons  of  coral  and  amber,  and  cease  not  their 
babble  so  long  as  they  are  in  the  bower.  .  .  .  But  however" 
well  their  attire  be  fashioned,  when  the  feast  is  come,  it  pleases 
them  nought ;  so  great  is  their  envy  now  and  so  high  grows 
their  pride,  that  the  bailiff's  daughter  counterfeits  the  lady.'y 

450.     "  She  hath  no  Air."  (line  5) 
— and  that  being  so  : 

"  .  .  .  .  There  will  be  no  sounds  on  the  moon.  .  .  .  Even  a 
meteor  shattering  itself  to  a  violent  end  against  the  surface 
of  the  moon  would  make  no  noise.  Nor  would  it  herald  its 
coming  by  glowing  into  a  '  shooting  star,'  as  it  would  on 
entering  the  earth's  atmosphere.  There  will  be  no  floating 
dust,  no  scent,  no  twilight,  no  blue  sky,  no  twinkling  of  the 
stars.  The  sky  will  be  always  black  and  the  stars  will  be 
clearly  visible  by  day  as  by  night.  The  sun's  wonderful 
corona,  which  no  man  on  earth,  even  by  seizing  every  oppor- 
tunity during  eclipses,  can  hope  to  see  for  more  than  two 
hours  in  all,  in  a  long  lifetime,  will  be  visible  all  day.  So  will 
the  great  red  flames  of  the  sun.  .  .  .  There  will  be  no  life 
(since)  for  fourteen  days  there  is  continuous  night,  when  the 
temperature  must  sink  away  down  towards  the  absolute  cold 

659 


ABOUT  AND  KOUNDAUOUT 

of  space.  This  will  be  follows  1  without  an  instant  of  twilight 
by  full  daylight.  For  another  fourteen  days  the  sun's  rays  will 
bear  straight  down,  with  no  diffusion  or  absorption  of  their 
heat,  or  light,  on  the  way.  .  .  ." 

This  is  a  matter-of-fad  fragment  out  of  "The  Outline  of 
Science,"  edited  by  Professor  J.  Arthur  Thompson  ;  but  it 
would  not  be  easy  to  say  exactly  how  in  its  magical  effect  on  the 
mind  it  differs  from  poetry.  Indeed,  there  can  hardly  be  a 
quicker  journey  to  the  comprehension  of  scientific  fact  than  by 
way  of  the  imagination.  Moonless  mountainous  Hesper,  the 
Evening  Star,  is  an  even  lovelier  thing  to  watch  shining  in  the 
fading  rose  and  green  of  sunset  when  we  realise  that  at  her  most 
radiant — a  radiance  that  casts  an  earthly  shadow  even — it  is 
but  a  slim  crescent  of  the  planet  that  we  see,  a  planet,  too, 
almost  sister  in  magnitude  to  the  earth,  but  whose  briefer 
year  is  of  an  ardour  that  might  be  happiness  to  fiery  sprite  and 
salamander,  but  would  be  unendurable  to  watery  creatures 
like  ourselves.  Nor  could  language  be  used  more  scientifically 
(concisely,  pregnantly  and  exactly),  than  in  the  words  moving, 
human,  mask,  in  the  following  sonnet  by  John  Keats — a  sonnet 
written  in  mortal  illness  and  in  immortal  sorrowfulness  : 

Bright  star,  would  I  were  stedfast  as  thou  art — 

Not  in  lone  splendour  hung  aloft  the  night 
And  watching,  with  eternal  lids  apart, 

Like  nature's  patient,  sleepless  Eremite, 
The  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike  task 

Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human  shores, 
Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft-fallen  mask 

Of  snow  upon  the  mountains  and  the  moors — 

No — yet  still  stedfast,  still  unchangeable, 

Pillowed  upon  my  fair  love's  ripening  breast, 

To  feel  for  ever  its  soft  fall  and  swell, 
Awake  for  ever  in  a  sweet  unrest, 

Still,  still  to  hear  her  tender-taken  breath, 

And  so  live  ever — or  else  swoon  to  death. 

John  Keats 

455.     "  Right  good  is  rest." 

Come,  Sleep,  and  with  thy  sweet  deceiving 
Lock  me  in  delight  awhile  ; 
660 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

Let  some  pleasing  dreams  beguile 
All  my  fancies  :  that  from  thence 
I  may  feel  an  influence 
All  my  powers  of  care  bereaving  ! 

Though  but  a  shadow,  but  a  sliding, 
Let  me  know  some  little  joy  ! 
We  that  suffer  long  annoy 
Are  contented  with  a  thought 
Through  an  idle  fancy  wrought  : 
O  let  my  joys  have  some  abiding  ! 

John  Fletcher 

457.     Before  Sleeping. 

I  have  pieced  this  rhyme  together  from  well-known  versions 
and  fragments.     But  the  Angels  ? — 

"  And  after  that,  I  sawe  iiij  Angels  stande  on  the  iiij  corners 
of  the  erth  holdynge  the  foure  wyndes  of  the  erth,  that  the 
wyndes  shuld  not  blowe  on  the  erth,  nether  on  the  see,  nether 
on  eny  tree." 

The  Revelation  of  S.  John  the  Divine  (1539). 

"  And  I  beheld,  and  I  heard  the  voice  of  many  angels  round 
about  the  throne  and  the  beasts  and  the  elders  :  and  the 
number  of  them  was  ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand,  and 
thousands  of  thousands."  The  Same  (161 1). 

Of  these  Angels,  having  their  fitting  place  among  the  hier- 
archies— Seraphim,  Cherubim,  Thrones  ;  Dominations,  Virtues, 
Powers  ;  Principalities,  Archangels,  Angels — no  names  are 
given.  But  Michael  and  Gabriel  are  archangels  named  in  the 
Bible,  and  in  the  Apocrypha  and  elsewhere,  Raphael,  Zadkiel, 
Uriel,  Chamuel,  Jophiel.  These  too ;  steadfast  or  fallen  : 
Samael,  Semalion,  Abdiel  and  gigantic  Sandalphon,  Rahab, 
Prince  of  the  Sea ;  Ridia,  Prince  of  the  Rain  ;  Yurkemi, 
Prince  of  the  Hail ;  Af  of  Anger  ;  Abaddona  of  Destruction  ; 
Lailah  of  Night.     And  in  Paradise.  Lost  : 

Now  had  night  measured  with  her  shadowy  cone 
Halfway  up-hill  this  vast  sublunar  vault  ; 
And  from  their  ivory  port  the  Cherubim 
Forth  issuing,  at  the  accustomed  hour,  stood  armed.    .   .  . 

661 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

Then  speak  together  Gabriel,  Uzziel,  Ithuriel,  Zephon.  And 
last — not  the  most  distant  from  mortal  love — strangely- 
angeUed  Toe's  shrill-tongued  Israfel : 

In  Heaven  a  spirit  doth  dwell 

Whose  heart-strings  are  a  lute  ; 
None  sing  so  wildly  well 
As  the  angel  Israfel, 
And  the  giddy  stars  (so  legends  tell), 
Ceasing  their  hymns,  attend  the  spell 

Of  his  voice,  all  mute.  .  .  . 

Yes,  Heaven  is  thine  ;   but  this 

Is  a  world  of  sweets  and  sours  ; 

Our  ilowers  are  merely — flowers, 
And  the  shadow  of  thv  perfect  bliss 

Is  the  sunshine  of  ours. 

If  I  could  dwell 
Where  Israfel 

Hath  dwelt,  and  he  where  I, 
He  might  not  sing  so  wildly  well 

A  mortal  melody, 
While  a  bolder  note  than  this  might  swell 

From  my  lyre  within  the  sky. 

Oh  speake  againe  bright  angell,  for  thou  art 
As  glorious  to  this  night  being  ore  my  head, 
As  is  a  winged  messenger  of  heaven 
Unto  the  white  upturned  wondring  eyes 
Of  mortalls  that  fall  backe  to  gaze  on  him. 

Romeo  and  Juliet 

In  paint  and  wood  and  words  and  stone  Man  has  for  centuries 
made  pictures  and  images  for  symbols  of  angelic  might  and 
beauty.  But  what  does  he  know  of  these  Beings  in  them- 
selves ? — "  That  there  are  distinct  orders  of  Angels,  assuredly 
I  believe,  but  what  they  are  I  cannot  tell.  .  .  .  They  are 
creatures  that  have  not  so  much  of  a  body  as  flesh  is,  as  froth 
is,  as  a  vapour  is,  as  a  sigh  is  ;  and  yet  with  a  touch  they  shall 
moulder  a  rock  into  less  atoms  than  the  sand  that  it  stands 
upon,  and  a  millstone  into  smaller  flour  than  it  grinds.  They 
are  creatures  made,  and  yet  not  a  minute  older  than  when  they 
were  first  made,  if  they  were  made  before  all  measures  of  time 

662 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

begun  ;  nor,  if  they  were  made  in  the  beginning  of  time,  and 
be  now  six  thousand  years  old,  have  they  one  wrinkle  of  age 
in  their  face,  one  sob  of  weariness  in  their  lungs.  They  are 
primogeniti  Dei,  God's  eldest  sons.  .  .  ." 

John  Donne 

459- 
This  is  the  Song  sung  by  his  guardian  Angel  to  a  young  sleep- 
ing Prince  who  has  been  cheated  of  his  inheritance.  It  was 
printed  by  Charles  Lamb  in  his  English  Dramatic  Poets,  from 
a  Tragedy  entitled  The  Conspiracy ,  written  by  Henry  Killigrew 
when  he  was  seventeen. 

460.     The  Legend  of  St.  Mark. 

The  relics  of  this  Saint,  who  for  his  miracles  was  thought  to 
be  a  sorcerer,  and  was  murdered  by  a  mob,  were  interred  in 
Alexandria.  Hundreds  of  years  afterwards  these  relics  were 
coveted  by  the  Venetians  by  reason  of  the  story  that  the  Saint 
had  once  visited  their  city  and  had  heard  speak  to  him  an  angel  : 
Pax  tibi,  Marce.  Hie  requiescet  corpus  tuum.  At  length  two 
Venetian  merchants,  having  persuaded  the  Alexandrians  that 
the  sacred  bones  lay  in  danger  of  the  raiding  Saracens,  travelled 
back  with  them  to  their  own  city,  where  they  were  reinterred 
with  solemn  ceremony  in  St.  Mark's.  This  church  was  after- 
wards burned  to  the  ground,  and  the  relics  were  lost.  A 
century  passed  ;  a  wondrously  beautiful  church  had  arisen  from 
the  ashes  of  the  old,  and  during  the  ceremony  held  in  the 
faith  that  it  would  be  revealed  where  they  lay  hid,  suddenly 
a  light  shone  forth  from  one  of  the  great  piers,  there  was  a 
sound  of  falling  masonry,  and,  lo,  the  body  of  the  Saint,  with 
arm  outstretched,  as  if  at  finger's  touch  he  had  revealed  his 
secret  resting-place. 

"  Doves  of  Siam,  Lima  mice, 

And  legless  birds  of  Paradise."  (p.  470.) 

What  particular  kinds  of  doves  and  mice  Keats  had  in  mind 
here  I  cannot  yet  discover.  But,  according  to  Topsell,  mice 
are  of  these  kinds  :  the  short,  small,  fearful,  peaceable,  ridicu- 
lous, rustik,  or  country  mouse,  the  urbane  or  citty  mouse,  the 
greedy,  wary,  unhappy,  harmefull,  black,  obscene,  little, 
whiner,   biter,   and  earthly  mouse.     Mice,  too,   he  says,   are 

663 


ABOUT  AM)  ROUNDABOUT 

"sometimes  blackish,  sometimes  while,  sometimes  yellow, 
sometimes  broune  and  sometimes  ashe  colour.  There  are 
white  mice  amonge  the  people  of  Savoy,  and  1  )olphin  in  France, 
called  alaubroges,  which  the  inhabitants  of  the  country  do 
beleev  that  they  feede  upon  snow."  Then,  again,  "the  field 
mouse,  the  farie,  with  a  long  snout  ;  and  the  sleeper,  that  is  of 
a  dun  colour  and  will  run  on  the  edge  of  a  sword  and  sleep  on 
the  point." 

What  Topsell  meant  by  "  winner  "  I  am  uncertain,  but  it 
may  be  he  refers  to  the  mouse  that  sings.  That  is  a  habit 
quite  distinct  from  the  common  squeaking,  shrilling  and 
shrieking.  It  resembles  the  slow  low  trill  of  a  very  distant 
and  sleepy  canary,  but  sweeter  and  more  domestic,  and  is  as 
pleasant  a  thing  to  hear  behind  a  wainscor,  as  it  is  to  watch  the 
creatures  gambolling.  Why  women  are  apt  to  fear  these  tiny 
beasts  is  a  mystery.  But  whatever  mischief  their  ravagings 
may  cause,  may  I  never  live  under  a  roof  wherein  (Cat  or  no 
Cat)  there  is  no  inch  of  house-room  for  Mistress  Mouse  • 

The  fable  that  the  Bird  of  Paradise  is  "legless"  was  set 
abroad  by  travellers  who  had  seen  in  old  days  its  exquisite 
dismembered  carcase  prepared  for  merchandise.  It  is  hard 
to  explain  that  Man,  capable  of  imagining  a  bird  "  whose  fixed 
abode  is  the  region  of  the  air,"  sustaining  itself  "  solely  on  dew," 
can  also  slaughter  it  and  tie  it  up  in  bundles  for  feminine  finer)'. 
But  so  it  is. 

"  At  Venice.  .  .  ."  (p.  471) 

So  Keats  left — unfinished — this,  one  of  the  happiest  of  his 
poems.  There  are  others  in  this  volume  :  but  not  the  Eve  of 
St.  Agnes,  or  Hyperion,  or  the  odes,  to  a  Nightingale,  on  a  Grecian 
Urn,  or  the  strange  On  Melancholy.  Nor  are  any  of  his 
Letters  here — as  full  a  revelation  of  the  powers  and  under- 
standing of  that  rare  mind,  as  the  poems  are  of  his  imagination. 

466.     "  Low  in  the  South  the  '  Cross  '." 

We  peoples  of  the  Northern  hemisphere,  from  the  Chinese 
and  Chaldaeans  until  this  last  flitting  hour  have  the  joy  of  so 
many  brilliant  and  neighbouring  stars  in  our  night  sky  that  for 
us  it  is  now  full  of  stories,  and  thronged  with  constellations  of 
our  own  fantasy  and  naming.  The  Chair  of  Cassiopeia,  for 
instance,  is  but  a  feigned  passing  picture.     Nevertheless,  how 

664 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

pleasant  it  is  to  recognise  it  set  zigzag  in  the  night.  For  this 
reason  the  peoples  of  the  Southern  hemisphere,  with  their  Crown 
and  Net,  their  Phoenix  and  Peacock,  hold  dear  the  Southern 
Cross.     It  marks  their  very  home. 

And,  once  more,  let  me  repeat  what  Miss  Taroone  said  to  me  : 
Learn  the  common  names  of  every  thing  you  see,  Simon  ;  and 
especially  of  those  that  please  you  most  to  remember  :  then 
give  them  names  also  of  your  own  making  and  choosing — if  you 
can.  Mr.  Nahum  has  thousands  upon  thousands  of  words  and 
names  in  his  mind  and  yet  he  often  fails  to  understand  what 
I  say  to  him.  Nor  does  he  always  remember  that  though 
every  snail  is  a  snail  and  a  Hoddydoddy,  and  every  toad  is  a 
toad  and  a  Joey,  and  every  centipede  is  a  centipede  and  a 
Maggie-monyfeet,  each  is  just  as  much  only  its  own  self  as 
you,  Simon,  are  You. 

469.     "  Once  a  Dream  did  weave  a  Shade." 

Full  in  the  passage  of  the  vale,  above, 
A  sable,  silent,  solemn,  forest  stood, 
Where  nought  but  shadowy  forms  was  seen  to  move, 
As  idless  fancy'd  in  her  dreaming  mood  ; 
And  up  the  hills,  on  either  side,  a  wood 
Of  blackening  pines,  ay  waving  to  and  fro, 
Sent  forth  a  sleepy  horror  thro'  the  blood  ; 
And  where  this  valley  winded  out,  below, 
The  murmuring  main  was  heard,  and  scarcely  heard,  to 
flow. 

A  pleasing  land  of  drowsy-head  it  was, 
Of  Dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut  eye, 
And  of  gay  Castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass, 
For  ever  flushing  round  a  summer  sky.  .  .  . 

James  Thomson 

470.     "  Awake,  awake  !  " 

"  I  thank  God  for  my  happy  dreams,"  wrote  Sir  Thomas 
Browne  in  the  Religio  Medici,  "  as  I  do  for  my  good  rest.  .  .  . 
And  surely  it  is  not  a  melancholy  conceit  [or  fancy]  to  think  we 
are  all  asleep  in  this  world,  and  that  the  conceits  of  this  life 
are  as  mere  dreams  to  those  of  the  next  as  the  phantasms  of 
the  night  to  the  conceits  of   the  day.     There    is    an    equal 

665 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDAHOUT 

delusion  in  both,  and  tlir  one  doth  bnl  seem  to  be  the  emblem 
or  picture  of  the  other  ;  we  are  somewhat  more  than  ourselves 
m  our  sleeps,  and  the  slumber  of  the  body  seems  to  be  but  the 
waking  of  the  soul.  .  .  ." 

The  Door  of  Death  is  made  of  gold, 
That  Mortal  Eyes  cannot  behold  ; 
But,  when  the  Mortal  Eyes  are  closed, 
And  cold  and  pale  the  Limbs  reposed, 
The  Soul  awakes  ;  and,  wondering  sees 
In  her  mild  Hand  the  golden  Keys  : 
The  Grave  is  Heaven's  golden  Gate, 
And  rich  and  poor  around  it  wait  ; 

0  Shepherdess  of  England's  Fold, 
Behold  this  Gate  of  Pearl  and  Gold  !  .  .  . 

1  give  you  the  end  of  a  golden  string  ; 

Onlv  wind  it  into  a  ball, 
It  will  lead  you  in  at  Heaven's  gate, 
Built  in  Jerusalem's  wall. 

William  Blake 

473.     "  Does  the  Road  wind  Up-hill  all  the  Way." 

"  Gentle  herdsman,  tell  to  me, 
Of  courtesy  I  thee  pray, 
Unto  the  town  of  Walsingham 

Which  is  the  right  and  ready  way." 

'  Unto  the  town  of  Walsingham 

The  way  is  hard  for  to  be  gone  ; 
And  very  crooked  are  those  paths, 
For  you  to  find  out  all  alone.  ..." 

Not  so  Babylon  : 

How  many  Miles  to  Babylon  ? 

Three  score  and  ten. 
Can  I  get  there  by  candle-light  ? 
Ay  :  and  back  again. 

477- 

This  poem  for  its  full  beauty  must  be  read  very  slowly. 
Eve  in  long  memory  is  musing  within  herself,  hardly  able  to 

666 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

utter  the  words,  because  of  her  grief  and  sorrow,  and  of  the 
heavy  sighs  between  them. 

"  Death  is  the  Fruit." 

I  am  Eve,  great  Adam's  wife, 

"lis  I  that  outraged  Jesus  of  old  ; 

'Tis  I  that  robbed  my  children  of  Heaven, 

By  rights  'tis  I  that  should  have  gone  upon  the  Cross.  .  .  . 

There  would  be  no  ice  in  any  place, 
There  would  be  no  glistening  windy  winter, 
There  would  be  no  hell,  there  would  be  no  sorrow, 
There  would  be  no  fear,  if  it  were  not  for  me. 

Tr.  Kuno  Meyer 

"  The  kind  Hart's  Tears  were  falling."  (stanza  7) 

To  day  my  Lord  of  Amiens,  and  my  selfe, 
Did  steale  behinde  him  as  he  lay  along 
Under  an  oake,  whose  anticke  roote  peepes  out 
Upon  the  brooke  that  brawles  along  this  wood. 
To  the  which  place  a  poore  sequestred  Stag 
That  from  the  Hunter's  aime  had  tane  a  hurt, 
Did  come  to  languish  ;  and  indeed  my  Lord 
The  wretched  annimall  heaved  forth  such  groanes 
That  their  discharge  did  stretch  his  leatherne  coat 
Almost  to  bursting,  and  the  big  round  teares 
Coursed  one  another  downe  his  innocent  nose 
In  pitteous  chase.  .  .  . 

As  You  Like  It 

483.     "  This  is  the  Key." 

And  so — like  the  mediaeval  traveller  who  had  made  a 
complete  circuit  of  the  world  without  knowing  it — we  have 
come  back  to  the  place  which  we  started  from.  "  The 
Elephant,"  says  Topsell,  in  his  Historie  of  Foure-footed  Beastes, 
"  is  delighted  above  measure  with  sweet  savours,  ointments, 
and  smelling  flowers,  for  which  cause  their  Keeper  will  in  the 
summer  time  lead  them  into  the  meadows  of  flowers,  where 
they  of  themselves  will  by  the  quickness  of  their  smelling, 
choose  out  and  gather  the  sweetest  flowers,  and  put  them  into 
a  basket  if  their  Keeper  have  any.  .  .  . 

667 


ABOUT  AND  ROUNDABOUT 

(Having  sought)  out  water  (wherewith)  to  wash  themselves, 
(they  will)  of  their  own  accord  return  back  again  to  the  basket 
of  flowers,  which,  it  they  find  oot,  they  will  bray  and  call 
for  them.     Afterward,  being  led  into  their  stable,  they  will 

not  eat  meat  until  they  take  off  their  flowers  and  dress  the 
brims  of  their  manger  therewith,  and  likewise  strew  their  room 
or  standing  place,  pleasing  themselves  with  their  meat,  because 
of  the  savour  of  the  flowers  stuck  about  their  cratch."  Mr. 
Nahum  himself,  it  seems  to  me,  might  have  written  that. 
What  was  his  Other  Worlde  but  such  "  a  Basket  of  Flowers  " :  the 
forthshowing  in  formal  beauty — in  this  world's  soil,  and  beneath 
ministering  rain,  sunshine  and  dew — of  the  imaginations  of 
men  ?  Even  Miss  Taroone  could  have  uttered  a  secret  word 
or  two  in  the  great  ear  of  the  Elephants  at  their  cratch :  and 
were  there  not  in  her  garden  at  Thrae  flowers  beyond  telling  ? 
—William  Blake's : 

First  ere  the  morning  breaks  joy  opens  in  the  flowery  bosoms, 
Joy  even  to  tears.  .  .  .     First  the  Wild  Thyme 
And  Meadow-sweet  downy  and  soft  waving  among  the  reeds 
Light  springing  on  the  air  lead  the  sweet  Dance  :   they  wake 
The  Honeysuckle  sleeping  on  the  Oak  :  the  flaunting  beauty 
Revels  along  upon  the  wind  :   the  White-thorn,  lovely  May, 
Opens  her  many  lovely  eyes  :   listening  the  Rose  still  sleeps  : 
None  dare  to  wake  her  :    soon  she  bursts  her  crimson  cur- 
tained bed, 
And  comes  forth  in  the  majesty  of  beauty  :  every  Flower, 
The  Pink,  the  Jessamine,  the  Wall-flower,  the  Carnation, 
The  Jonquil,  the  mild  Lilly  opes  her  heavens  :  every  Tree 
And  Flower  and  Herb  soon  fill  the  air  with  an  innumerable 

Dance. 
Yet  all  in  order  sweet  and  lovely.  .  .  . 

A  nd  so,  Farewell. 


668 


:j%1 


M*  FAREWELL  '/$. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

For  the  use  of  copyright  poems  in  this  volume  I  have  to  thank 
—and  most  gratefully  I  do  so — the  following  authors  and 
publishers  : — Mr.  Martin  Armstrong  (and  Mr.  Martin  Seeker)  ; 
Mr.  Lascelies  Abercrombie  (and  Mr.  John  Lane)  ;  Mr.  Edmund 
Blunden  (and  Mr.  Cobden  Sanderson)  ;  Mr.  H.  H.  Bashford 
(Messrs.  Harrap  &  Company  and  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin, 
&  Company)  ;  Mrs.  Bunston  de  Bary  ;  Mr.  Laurence  Binyon 
(and  Messrs.  Elkin  Matthews)  ;  Mr.  Hilaire  Belloc  (and  Messrs. 
Duckworth  &  Company)  ;  Mr.  Robert  Bridges  (and  Mr.  John 
Murray)  ;  Mr.  Gordon  Bottomley ;  Mr.  Padraic  Colum 
(Messrs.  Maunsell  &  Roberts  Ltd.,  and  Messrs.  the  Macmillan 
Company)  ;  Mr.  William  H.  Davies  (Mr.  Jonathan  Cape 
and  Mr.  Alfred  A.  Knopf)  ;  the  executors  of  the  late  Lord 
de  Tabley ;  Mr.  C.  M.  Doughty ;  Mr.  Edward  L.  Davison 
(and  Messrs.  G.  Bell  &  Sons)  ;  Mr.  Charles  Dalmon  (and 
Messrs.  Methuen  &  Company)  ;  Mr.  John  Drinkwater 
(Messrs.  Sidgwick  &  Jackson,  and  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin 
&  Company)  ;  Mr.  Vivian  Locke  Ellis  ;  Mr.  Robert  Frost  (and 
Messrs.  Harcourt,  Brace  &  Company)  ;  Mr.  John  Freeman  ; 
Miss  Eleanor  Farjeon  (Messrs.  Selwyn  &  Blount,  Messrs. 
J.  M.  Dent  &  Sons,  and  Messrs.  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Company)  ; 
Mrs.  Furse  (and  Messrs.  Constable  &  Company)  ;  Mr.  Robert 
Graves ;  the  Viscountess  Grey  ;  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse ;  Mr. 
Wilfrid  Gibson  (Messrs.  Elkin  Mathews,  and  Messrs.  Macmillan 
&  Company)  ;  Mr.  Crosbie  Garstin  (and  Messrs.  Sidgwick  & 
Jackson)  ;  Mr.  Thomas  Hardy  (and  Messrs.  Macmillan  &  Com- 
pany) ;  Mr.  Ralph  Hodgson  (and  Messrs.  Macmillan  &  Com- 
pany); Miss  Gwen  John;  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling  (Messrs. 
Macmillan  &  Company,  and  Messrs.  Doubleday,  Page  & 
Company)  ;  Mr.  Sidney  Royse  Lysaght  (and  Messrs.  Macmillan 
&  Company)  ;  Mr.  Harold  Monro  ;  Mr.  John  Masefield  ;  Mrs. 
Manning- Sanders    (and    Messrs.    the    Hogarth    Press)  ;      Mr. 

671 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

T.  Stun;.-  Moore  (and  Mr.  Cinmt  Richards);  Miss  Charlotte 
Mew  (Mr.  l  [arold  Monro  and  Messrs.  the  Macmillan  Company)  ; 
Miss  Viola  Meynell;  Sir  Henry  Newboll  ;  Mr.  Alfred  Noyes 
l.ui.l  Messrs.  William  Blackwood  &  Sons);  Mr.  Seumas 
()  Sullivan  (Messrs.  Maunscll  &  Roberts)  ;  Mr.  Conal  O'Rior- 
dan  ;  Mr.  F.  |.  Pat  more;  Miss  Madeleine  Caron  Rock;  Miss 
l.i.ette  Woodworth  Reese  (and  Mr.  Thomas  B.  Mosher)  ; 
Mr.  James  Stephens  (Messrs.  Mannsell  &  Roberts  and  Messrs. 
the  Macmillan  Company)  ;  Mr.  Siegfried  Sassoon  ;  Miss  Edith 
Sitwell  (and  Mr.  B.  H.  Blackwell)  ;  Mr.  Edward  Shanks  (and. 
Messrs.  Collins,  Sons  &  Company)  ;  Mr.  J.  C.  Squire  (and 
Messrs.  Hoddcr  &  Stoughton)  ;  Mrs.  Katharine  Tynan  Hink- 
son  ;  Mr.  Herbert  Trench  ;  Mr.  Walter  J.  Turner  (and  Messrs. 
Sidgwick  ct  Jackson)  ;  Miss  Elinor  W'ylie  (and  Messrs.  Har- 
court,  Brace  &  Company)  ;  Mr.  Francis  Brett  Young  (and 
Messrs.  \V.  Collins,  Sons  &  Company)  ;  Mr.  W.  B.  Yeats 
(Messrs.  T.  Fisher  Unwin  and  Messrs.  the  Macmillan 
Company). 

It  is,  too,  a  happy  privilege  to  have  been  permitted  to  include 
poems  by  Mrs.  Webb,  Mr.  Eric  Batterham,  Mr.  Gilbert  Sheldon, 
Mr.  Bernard  Sleigh,  Miss  Elizabeth  Ramal,  and  Mr.  Colin 
Francis  which  have  not  hitherto  appeared  in  any  other  pub- 
lished collection. 

My  most  grateful  thanks  are  due  also  to  Mr.  Edward  Marsh 
(Messrs.  Sidgwick  &  Jackson  and  Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead  & 
Company)  for  two  poems  by  Rupert  Brooke  ;  to  Mr.  Clement 
Shorter  for  six  poems  by  Emily  Bronte,  and  a  poem  by  Dora 
Sigerson  Shorter  ;  to  Sir  Henry  Newbolt  for  seven  poems  by 
Mary  Coleridge  ;  to  Mr.  Cobden-Sanderson  for  three  poems  by 
John  Clare  ;  to  Mr.  John  Murray  and  to  the  executors  of 
Canon  Dixon  for  two  poems  ;  to  Mrs.  Flecker  (and  Mr.  Martin 
Seeker)  for  two  poems  by  James  Elroy  Flecker ;  to  Lady 
Gomme  for  rhymes  from  "  Traditional  Games";  to  the  Vis- 
countess Grey  for  poems  from  "  The  White  Wallet  "  ;  to  Miss 
Antonie  Meyer  (and  Messrs.  Constable  &  Company)  for  six 
translations  by  Kuno  Meyer  ;  to  Mrs.  Meynell  herself  and  to 
Mr.  Wilfrid  Meynell  (and  Messrs.  Burns  &  Oates)  for  three 
poems  ;  to  Mr.  William  Meredith  and  to  Messrs.  Constable  & 
Company  for  two  poems  by  George  Meredith  ;  to  Mrs.  Sharp 
for  one  poem  by  "  Fiona  Macleod  "  (William  Sharp)  ;  to  Miss 
Morris,  Mr.  S.  C.  Cockerill  (and  Messrs.  Longmans,  Green  & 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Company)  for  two  poems  by  William  Morris  ;  to  Mrs.  Owen 
for  a  poem  by  Wilfred  Owen  ;  to  Mrs.  C.  Patmore  (and  Messrs. 
G.  Bell  &  Sons,  Ltd.)  for  two  poems  by  Coventry  Patmore ; 
to  Messrs.  Macmillan  &  Company  for  eight  poems  by  Christina 
Rossetti ;  to  Mr.  Lloyd  Osbourne  (Messrs.  Chatto  &  Windus 
and  Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons)  for  four  poems  by  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson  ;  to  Mr.  William  Heinemann  for  a  poem  by 
Algernon  Charles  Swinburne  ;  to  Miss  E.  Margaret  Courtney 
Boyd  for  a  poem  by  William  Bell  Scott ;  to  Mrs.  Thomas 
(and  Messrs.  Selwyn  &  Blount)  for  seven  poems  by  Edward 
Thomas  ;  to  Mr.  Wilfrid  Meynell  (and  Messrs.  Burns  &  Oates) 
for  three  poems  by  Francis  Thompson;  to  Messrs.  P.  J. 
and  A.  E.  Dobell  for  quotations  from  the  writings  of  Thomas 
Traherne. 

For  permission  to  use  prose  extracts,  etc.,  which  for  the 
most  part  have  already  been  referred  to  on  pages  497-668.  I 
am  gratefully  indebted  to  Dr.  Blackman  for  his  translation  on 
page  593  ;  to  Mr.  Basil  Blackwell  for  first  grateful  sight  of 
Bunyan's  "  Book  for  Boys  and  Girls  "  ;  to  Mrs.  Child  Sargent, 
Mr.  George  Lyman  Kittredge  and  Messrs.  George  G.  Harrap 
&  Company  for  selections  from  "  English  and  Scottish  Popular 
Ballads  "  ;  to  Mr.  G.  G.  Coulton  ;  to  Dr.  Courtenay  Dunn 
and  to  Messrs.  Sampson  Low,  Marston  &  Company  ;  to  Messrs. 
J.  M.  Dent  &  Sons  for  a  quotation  from  "A  Hind  in  Richmond 
Park  "  by  W.  H.  Hudson  ;  to  Mr.  Tickner  Edwardes  (and 
Messrs.  Methuen  &  Company)  ;  to  Lady  Gomme ;  to  Messrs. 
Longman  for  a  quotation  from  "  The  Diary  of  Master  William 
Silence  "  ;  to  Miss  Emma  Phipson  (and  Messrs.  Kegan  Paul, 
Trench,  Trubner  &  Company)  ;  to  Mr.  H.  M.  Tomlinson  ;  to 
Professor  J.  Arthur  Thompson  (and  Messrs.  George  Newnes)  ; 
to  Mrs.  Wright ;  to  Mr.  W.  B.  Yeats ;  and  to  Mr.  Filson  Young. 
Also  to  the  Clarendon  Press,  and  to  the  Hakluyt  Society. 

And  I  would  ask  forgiveness  of  any  one  whose  rights  I  may 
have  inadvertently  overlooked. 

For  generous  help,  counsel  and  kindness,  in  the  preparation 
of  this  book  it  is  a  happiness  to  express  my  gratitude  to  many 
friends — to  Miss  Naomi  Royde  Smith,  Mr.  Martin  Freeman, 
Mr.  J.  W.  Haines,  Mr.  Gilbert  Sheldon,  Mr.  Frank  Morley, 
Mr.  Forrest  Reid,  and  to  Mr.  James  MacLehose;  and,  last, 
to  my  niece,  Miss  Lucy  Rowley,  to  whom  it  owes  more  than 
words  can  say. 

673  2u 


INDEXES 


Bftft°*WWrafr>iW>ytf^^ 


INDEX   OF   AUTHORS 


[Poems  by  writers  whose  names  are  unknown  will  be  found 
marked  with  an  asterisk  in  the  Index  of  Poems.  In  the  follow- 
ing Index  the  names  of  writers  still  living  are  similarly  denoted.] 


*Abercrombie,  Lascelles    154, 

636 

Allingham,     William     (1824- 

1889)  -         -    122,  520 

*Armstrong,  Martin       -     102 

Aubrey,     John     (1626-1697) 

568,  601 
Augustine,  St.  (d.  604)     606 

Barnes,  William  (1 801 -1886) 
272,    280,    282,    461,    540, 

581,  594 

Barnfield,     Richard     (1574- 

1627)        -  107 

♦Bashford,  H.  H.  -         -       80 

*Batterham,  Eric  N.      -     259 

Beaumont,     Francis     (1584- 

1616)        -         -      269,  599 

Beddoes,      Thomas      Lovell 

(1803-1849)    380,  449,  624 

*Belloc,  Hilaire     -         -     200 

Best,  Charles  (fl.  1602)      354 

*Binyon,  Laurence      197,  212 

Blake,    William    (1757-1827) 

22,  23,  42,  66,  66,  93,  98, 

112,    140,    161,    167,    198, 

373-    45°.    452,    453.    475, 

476,    477-    507,    535.    545. 

652,  666,  668 


*Blunden,  Edmund        -       79 

*Bottomley,  Gordon      -     410 

Breton,     Nicholas     (1545  ?- 

1626  ?)     -         -         -     146 
♦Bridges,    Robert     234,    274, 

462,  475,  504 
Bronte,    Emily    (1818-1848) 

225,  229,  277,  284,  449,  454 
Brooke,  Rupert    (1887-1915) 

172,  263 
Browne,  Sir  Thomas    (1605- 

1682)        -         -         -     665 
Browne,      William       (1591- 

1643  ?)     -         -      151,  604 
Bryant,       William       Cullen 

(1794-1878)       -         -     113 
Buckhurst,       Lord        (1536- 

1608)        -  115 

Bunyan,    John     (1628-1688) 

111,211,451,558,  582,652 
Burns,    Robert     (1759- 1796) 

50,  187 
Burton,  Robert    (1577-1640) 

548.  6i3 
Byron,     Lord      (1788-1824), 
464 

Callanan,      Jeremiah      John 
(1795-1829)       -         -     354 


677 


INDEX   OF   AUTHORS 


Campbell,    Thomas     (1777- 

1844)  89,  180,  371 
Campion,    Thomas     (1567- 

1619)    iv-,   189,  482,  505, 

628 
Carbery,  Ethna  (d.  1902)  313 
Carew,      rhomas      (15**5  ■- 

1639  ?)     -  152 

Cartwright,    William     (1611- 

1643)         -  -  -      101 

Cellini,      Bcnvenuto      (1500- 

1571)  -  -  -  613 
Chapman,    George     (1559  ?- 

1634)  -  -  -  635 
Charles  I.  (1600- 1649)  -  467 
Chatterton,   Thomas    (1752- 

1770)  ...  266 
Chaucer,    Geoffrey     (1340  ?- 

1400)  14,  511,  511 
Clare,  John    (1793- 1864)  78, 

207,  517 
Cleland,     William      (1661  ?- 

1689)  -  -  -  376 
Coleridge,  Mary  (1861-1907) 

52,  106,  192,  318,  355,  367, 

463 
Coleridge,      Samuel     Taylor 
(1772-1834)   24,   270,   331, 

335.    337.    373.    383.    405. 

514,    516,    548,    611,    620, 
^  625,  638 
*Colum,  Padraic   -         -       52 
Constable,      Henry       (1562- 

1613)  -  -  -  351 
Corbet,  Richard    (1582-1635) 

553 
Cornish,  William  (fl.  1510)  17 

Cowley,  Abraham  (1618- 

1667)  -         -  -     564 

Cowper,  William  (1731- 

1800)  -         -  41,  49 

67 


Cunningham,    Allan     (178.)- 
1842)  181,  239 

*Dalmon,  Charles       205,  355 
Daniel,  Samuel    (1562-1619) 

162 
I 'arlcy,   George     (1795-1846) 

643 
Davenant,  Sir  William  (1606- 
1668)  6,  596 
♦Davidson,  Edward  L.  -     172 
*Davies,   William   H.     7,   38, 
95.  145.  254,  402 
Davies,  Sir  John  (1569-1626) 

566 
Davison,  Francis  (fl.  1602)  81 
*De     Bary,     Anna     Bunston 
159 
Dekker,     Thomas      (1570  ?- 

1641  ?)  253,  281 
De  Tabley,  Lord   (1835-1895) 

364 
Dixon,       Richard       Watson 

(1833-1900)  222,  224 
Dobell,  Sydney    (1824-1874) 

33.  44.  3i6 
Donne,     John      (1573-1631) 

628,  663 
♦Doughty,  Charles  M.    -     132 
Drayton,      Michael       (1563- 

1631)  548,  557 
♦Drinkwater,   John     256,  298 
Drummond,  William    (1585- 

1649)  162,  252,  585 
Dunbar,     William      (1465  ?- 

1530  ?)     -         -         -     525 

Elliot,  Jean  (1 727-1805)    188 
♦Ellis,  Vivian  Locke      -     369 
Emerson,  R.  W.    (1803-1882) 
562 


8 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS 


♦Farjeon,   Eleanor    120,   175, 

236,  459,  465 
Ferguson,  Sir  Samuel    (1810- 
1886)        -         -         -     125 
Flecker,  James  Elroy   (1884- 

1915)  40,  382 

Fleming,     Margaret      (1803- 

1811)        -         -         -     652 

Fletcher,    John     (1579-1625) 

360,  440,  457,  596,  599,  661 

*  Francis,  Colin      -         -     375 

♦Freeman,  John    -        39,  173 

♦Frost,  Robert      -        26,  587 

*Furse,  Margaret  Cecilia    503 

*Garstin,  Crosbie  -         -     474 

♦Gibson,  Wilfrid    -      403,  415 

Gifford,  Humphrey   (fl.  1580) 

168 
Goldsmith,     Oliver      (1728- 
1774)        -         -         -     626 
Googe,  Barnabe    (1540-1594) 

9i 

♦Gosse,  Edmund   -         -     318 

Graves,      John      Woodcock 

(1795-1886)       -         -     139 

♦Graves,  Robert  109,  230,  407 

Gray,    Thomas     (1716-1771) 

655 
Greene,  Robert    (1560- 1592) 

503 
♦Grey,  Viscountess         -     121 

Hamilton,  John  (1761-1814) 

233 
♦Hardy,  Thomas,  10,  26,  175, 

176,  177,273,298,455,570 
Hawes,  Stephen    (d.  1523  ?) 

600 
Hayman,  Robert    (d.  1631  ?) 

189 


Hemans,  Felicia   (1 793-1 835) 

48 
Herbert,  George   (i593"l633) 

16,  451,  483 
Herrick,  Robert   (1 591- 1674) 

150,    208,    215,    219,    271, 

292,  450,  507,  510,  651 

Hey  wood,  Thomas  (d.  1650?)  7 

♦Hodgson,    Ralph     no,    151, 

454,  485 
Hogg,     James      (i77°-l835) 

141 
Hood,   Thomas    (1 799-1845) 

25,  295,  299,  361,  4°5,  583 
Howe,    Julia    Ward     (1819- 

1910)        -  170 

Howitt,    Mary      (1799- 1888) 

94 
Hudson,  W.  H.    (1862-1923) 

521 
Hume,    Alexander     (1560  ?- 
1609)        -  144 

♦John,  Gwen  -         -     239 

Jonson,     Ben     (1573  ?-i637) 

252,    3!9,    352,    462>    568, 
658 

Keats,  John  (1795-1821) 
107,  129,  220,  231,  256, 
283,  380,  468,  527,  545, 
660 

Killigrew,  Henry  (1613- 
1700)        -  467 

King,     Henry      (1592-1669) 

273 
Kingsley,      Charles       (1819- 

1875)        -         -      225,  656 

♦Kipling,  Rudyard         -     297 

Kirk,    Robert    (1641  ?-i692) 

6i5 


679 


1NDKX  OF   AUTHORS 


Landor,  Walter  Savage 
(1775-1864)     365.597.604 

Lindsay,  Lady  Amir  (1750- 
1825)       -  '     -        -    362 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wads- 
worth   0807-1882)  32,  533 

Lovelace,  Sir  Richard  (K>iN- 
1658)        -         -         -     535 

Lydgate,  John  (i370?-i45i  ?) 

191,  503 
Lyly,     John      (1554  ?-i6o6) 

•Lysaght,  Sidney  Royse      53 

MacGillivray,  W.  (1796- 
1852)  -         -     104 

Macleod,  Fiona  (William 
Sharp)    (1855-1905)       423 

Macneill,  Hector  (1746-1818) 

35 
Mahony,    Francis    ("  Father 

Prout  ")    (1804-1866)    210 
.Mangan,      Jamas      Clarence 

(1803-1849)       -         -     181 
•Manning-Sanders,  Ruth  in, 

340 
Maplet,  John  (d.  1592)     639 

Marriot,    John     (1 780-1 825) 

270 
Marvell,  Andrew  (1621-1678) 

98,  149,  381 
♦Masefield,  John    -        -  27,  56 
Mandeville,  Sir  John  (d.1372) 

534,  561,  629 
Meredith,      George        (1828- 

1909)        -         -       332,  638 

•Mew,  Charlotte    •         -      309 

Meyer,    Kuno    (Tr.)    70,    97, 

193,  205,  231,  585,  667 
Meynell,  Alice   (d.  1923)  214, 

464,  472 


*Me\n<U,  Viola      -  -     400 

Milton,  John  (1608-1674)  11, 

130,  213,  632 

♦Monro,  1  [arold    -         9,  124 

Monl^omerie,  Alexander 

(1556  ?-i6io  ?)   1 

*  Moore,  T.  Sturgc  -     144 

More,     Sir    Thomas      (1478- 

1535)         -         -         -     603 

Morris,  William    (1 834-1896) 

465,  481 
Munday,     Anthony      (1553- 
1633)        -         -         -       81 

Nash,    Thomas    (1 567-1 601) 

15,  261 

♦Newbolt,  Sir  Henry  51,  178, 

214 

North,  Sir  Thomas    (1535  ?- 

1601  ?)     -  574 

*Noyes,  Alfred       -         -     151 

Odoric,     Friar      (1 286-1 331) 

636,  641 
O'Keefe,    John     (1747-1833) 

579 

•O'Riordan,  Conal  -     605 

•O'Sullivan,  Seumas      -     197 

Overbury,  Sir  Thomas  (1581- 

1613)        -         -         -     529 

Owen,    Wilfred     (1893-1918) 

J73 

Patmore,  Coventry  (1823- 

1896)    -    -   473,  566 

*Patmore,  F.  J.  -    -  541 

Peacock,  Thomas  Love 
(1785-1866)  205,  268,  552 

Pepys,    Samuel     (1633-1703) 

5°5 


680 


INDEX  OF   AUTHORS 


Poe,  Edgar  Allan  (1809- 
l849)  59.  320,  338,  365, 
662 

Pope,  Alexander  (1688-1744) 
271 

Plotinus    (205  ?-270  ?)       507 

Polo,  Marco   (1254- 1323)  642 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter   (1552  ?- 

1618)        -  600 

*Ramal,  Elizabeth         -     608 

Ramsay,   Allan    (1686-1758) 

623 
Ravenscroft,  Thomas  (1592?- 

1635  ?)     -         -         -     120 
*  Reese,    Lizette    Wood  worth 

277 
Rhodes,  Hugh  (fl.  1555)    592 
*Rock,  Madeline  Caron      265 
Rossetti,     Christina     (1830- 

1894)    251,    279,  280,  352, 

368,  472,  483,  487 
Rossetti,       Dante       Gabriel 

(1828-1882)  -  -  643 
Rowlands,    Richard     (1565- 

1630  ?)  -  -  -  22 
Rowley,     William      (1585  ?- 

1642  ?)     -  374 

*Sassoon,  Siegfried  -  171 
Scott,      Reginald       (1538  ?- 

1599)  -  -  -  613 
Scott,     Alexander      (1525  ?- 

1584  ?)     -  360 

Scott,     Sir    Walter      (1771- 

1832)   174,   185,   279,  330, 

357 
Scott,   William   Bell     (181 1- 

1890)  -  -  -  324 
Shakespeare,  William  (1564- 

1616)  6,  74,  119,  121,  131, 


143,  199,  209,  224,  246, 
247,  267,  361,  499,  505, 
506,    510,    522,    530,    533, 

54°.  553.  554-  579.  585. 
610,    633,    643,    650,    655, 

657,  662,  667 

*  Shanks,  Edward  -     331 
Sharp,  William  (Fiona  Mac- 

leod)  (1855-1905)      -     423 

*Sheldon,  Gilbert  -         -     404 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe  (1792- 

1822),    8,    155,    156,    209, 

223,    227,    252,    254,    258, 

341.    353.    4°4>    458,    464> 

530,  542,  546,  621 
Shorter,    Dora    Sigerson    (d. 

1918)         -         -         -     275 
Sidney,     Sir    Philip      (1554- 

1586)   352,   463,   500,   597, 

601,  602 
*Sitwell,  Edith      -         -     198 
Skelton,  John  (i46o?-i529)37 

*  Sleigh,  Bernard   -         -     549 
Southwell,    Robert     (1561  ?- 

1595)        -         -      242,  259 
Spenser,    Edmund      (1552  ?- 

1599)    153.    190.   339.   491, 

567 

*Squire,  J.  C.         -      379,  422 

Steele,    Sir   Richard     (1672- 

1729)        -         -         -     519 

*Stephens,  James   61,  96,  157 

Stevenson,      Robert      Louis 

(1850-1894)  28,  31,  40,  54, 

615 
Suckling,    Sir    John    (1609- 

1642)        -         -         -     580 

Surrey,  Earl  of  (1517  P-I547) 

472 
Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles 
(1837-1909)       -         -     358 


G81 


1NDKX  OF  AUTHORS 


Temple,  Sit  William    (1628- 

1699)       -        -        -    578 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord  (1N00- 

I892)      IO5,      I08,      IJJ,      J-!<>, 

3'  «■  582.  630 
Thomas,      Edward       (1X78- 
1./17)   53,    102,    113,   460, 

474-  5«.  5.5  7 
Thomas  the  Rhymer  (1220  ?- 

1297?)     -  -    55o 

Thompson,     Francis    (1859- 

1907)  262,  285,  637 
Thomson,  James  (1700-1748) 

665 
*Tomlinson,  H.  M.  -     569 

Topsell  (d.  1638  ?)        -     537 
Traherne,    Thomas    (1636  ?- 

1674)         -         -       160,564 
Trench,  Herbert  (1865-1923) 

171 
Trevisa,  John  de  (1326-1412) 

537 
Turberville,  George  (1540  ?- 

1610  ?)     -         -         -     584 
♦Turner,  Walter  J.  295,  375, 

408 
♦Tynan,  Katharine        -       49 

Vaughan,  Henry  (1622-1695) 
283,  557 


Vautor,   Thomas    (il.    16x9) 

10 1 

Walton,     I/aar      (1  593-1683) 

505.  543 
Walts,   Isaac    (1674-1748)     5 

♦Webb,  Mary  10,  106,  141 

Webster,     John     (1610-1682) 

264,  267,  268 

Wedderburn,  John    (1500  ?- 

I55r>)  "         "     597 

Whitman,  Walt    (1819-1892) 

179 
Wither,  George    (1588-1667) 

202 
♦Woods,  Margaret  L.    -     539 
Wordsworth,  Dorothy  (1771- 

1855)        -         -         -     220 
Wordsworth,  William  (1770- 

1850)   103,  221,  234,  237, 

276,  456,  655 
Wotton,    Sir    Henry    (1568- 

1639)        -         -         -       16 
♦Wright,    Elizabeth    M.    532, 

559 
♦Wylie,  Elinor       -         -     236 

*  Yeats,  W.  B.  296,  312,  608 
*Young,  Filson  -  -  632 
♦Young,  Francis  Brett  -       92 


682 


INDEX  OF  POEMS 

[An  asterisk  denotes  that  the  name  of  the  author  of  the  poem  is 

unknown.] 

TEXT      NOTES 

*Adam  lay  i-bowndyn   -         -         -         -         -         -489 

Adieu  !   farewell  earth's  bliss  !     -  ...     26i     $g6 

*A  dis,  a  dis,  a  green  grass     -----     203 

After  the  blast  of  lightning  from  the  east      -         -173 
Afterwards  -         _______     455 

Ah  !  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh       -         -         -     330 

Ah  !  sad  wer  we  as  we  did  peace  -         -         -         -272     604 

Ah,  what  avails  the  sceptred  race  ?        -         -         -     365 
Alas,  the  moon  should  ever  beam  -  295 

Alice,  dear,  what  ails  you  ?  -         -         -         -  -     230 

A  little  lonely  child  am  I-         -         -         -         -423     645 

A  little  Saint  best  fits  a  little  Shrine     -         -         -     510 

*A11  in  this  pleasant  evening,  together  come  are  we       12     50 1 
All  looks  be  pale,  hearts  cold  as  stone  -         -         -     189     574 
All  my  stars  forsake  me       -----     464 
All  the  flowers  of  the  spring  -  268     5gg 

*A11  under  the  leaves  and  the  leaves  of  life     -         -     489 
Amo,  amas  --------     579 

*An'  Charlie  he's  my  darling  -         -         -         -     186 

Ancient  Mariner,  The  Rime  of  the         -  383 

And  as  for  me,  thogh  that  I  can  but  lyte  -  -  14  502 
And  in  the  midst  of  all,  a  fountaine  stood  -  -  153  564 
And  like  a  dying  lady,  lean  and  pale    -  464 

And  now  all  nature  seemed  in  love  -  -  -  16  504 
And  then  I  pressed  the  shell         -         -         -  61 

And  there  were  spring-faced  cherubs  that  did  sleep  408  643 
Angel  spirits  of  sleep  -  -  475 

Annabel  Lee         --_____       ijg 

*Annan  Water's  wading  deep         -  329     614 

683 


INDEX  OF  POEMS 

A  piper  in  the  streets  to-day  ... 

Arc  they  shade  >us  tliat  we  Bee  ?    - 

A  Kosc,  as  fair  as  ever  saw  the  North  - 

Art  thou  gone  ID  haste  ? 

Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slimilx  is  ? 

As  I  in  hoary  winter's  night  ... 

As  it  fell  unon  a  day    - 
*As  I  walked  out  one  night    - 
•As  I  was  going  by  Charing  Cross  - 
*As  I  was  walking  all  alane    - 
•As  I  was  wa'king  all  alone    - 

As  I  wer  readen  ov  a  stwone         ... 

Ask  me  no  more  ------ 

*A  sparhawk  proud  did  hold  in  wicked  jail     - 

A  sunny  shaft  did  I  behold  -         -         -         - 
*As  we  dance  round  a-ring-a-ring  -         -         - 

At  common  dawn  there  is  a  voice  of  bird 

At  the  corner  of  Wood  Street       - 

Auld  Robin  Gray  ----- 

Autumn       ------- 

*A  vision  that  appeared  to  me        ... 

Awake,  awake,  my  little  Boy  !      -         -         - 

A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid      - 

A  widow  bird  sat  mourning  for  her  love 
*A  wife  was  sitting  at  her  reel  ae  night  - 
*Ay  me,  alas,  heigh  ho,  heigh  ho  ! 

Before  my  face  the  picture  hangs 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field        ... 

Bells  have  wade  mouths  and  tongues,    - 

Beneath  our  feet,  the  shuddering  bogs 

Bermudas    ------- 

Best  and  brightest,  come  away  I  - 

Be  thou  at  peace  this  night  - 

*Bingo  -------- 

Birds,  The   ------- 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  winde     - 

Blows  the  wind  to-day         - 
♦Bonny  Barbara  Allan  ----- 

Break,  break,  break     ----- 

Brief,  on  a  flying  night         - 

684 


TEXT 

HOT!  ■ 

1  1 

1<>J 

'5' 

374 

629 

253 

242 

107 

543 

571 

188 

109 

293 

280 

605 

152 

562 

108 

543 

373 

628 

12 

369 

103 

540 

362 

223 

70 

527 

477 

605 

185 

252 

618 

9i 

534 

250 

594 

221 

211 

582 

3i8 

610 

38i 

155 

172 

89 

112 

247 

54 

522 

356 

226 

214 

INDEX  OF  POEMS 

Bright  star,  would  I  were  stedfast 
*Bring  us  in  good  ale     -         -         -         - 
*  Bring  us  in  no  browne  bred 
*Brown  Robyn       - 
*Buckee,  Buckee,  biddy  Bene 

Burning  Babe,  The       - 

By  Saint  Mary,  my  lady       - 

By  the  Moone  we  sport  and  play 

Call  for  the  robin-redbreast  and  the  wren 
Call  me  no  more,  O  gentle  stream 

*Cam'  ye  by  the  salmon  fishers  ?    - 
Cauld  blows  the  wind  frae  north  to  south 
Changeling,  The  ----- 

Cherrie  Ripe,  Ripe,  Ripe,  I  cry    - 
Cherry  and  pear  are  white  - 
Child  and  the  Mariner,  The 
Chimney  Sweeper,  The  - 

Christabel    ------ 

Christmas  at  Sea  - 

Christ  of  His  gentleness  - 
Cities  drowned  in  olden  time 
Close  thine  eyes  and  sleep  secure  - 

*Cold  cold  !------ 

Cold  in  the  earth  - 

Come,  Sleep         ----- 

♦Come  to  me,  grief,  for  ever  -         -         - 
Come  to  me  in  the  silence  of  the  night 
Come  unto  these  yellow  sands 
Come  wary  one,  come  slender  feet 
Coronach,  The      ----- 
Crystal  Cabinet,  The    -         -         -         - 


*Dalyaunce   -         -         -      -  - 
Dark  is  the  stair,  and  humid  the  old  walls 
Dear,  dear,  dear  ----- 
Dear  God,  through  Thy  all-powerful  hand 
Death  stands  above  me         - 
Departe,  departe,  departe     - 
Dew  sate  on  Julia's  haire     - 
Diaphenia,  like  the  daffadowndilly 

685 


text  : 

660 

NOTES 

69 
69 

526 

420 

292 

242 

37 

518 

120 

547 

267 

51 

35 

233 

3°9 

150 

173 

402 

42 

335 

3i 

109 

214 
467 

231 

586 

277 
605 

269 

601 

472 
119 

546 

in 

544 

174 

373 

28 

212 

104 
605 

597 
360 

651 
35i 

627 
624 

INDKX  OF  POKMS 


I  >.  >«>s  the  road  win. I  up-hill  all  the  way  ? 
•Down  in  yonder  meadow      -        -        -        - 
•Down  in  yon  garden    - 

i  to  v"u  remember  an  Inn     - 

I  neons,  The  Land  of  - 

D'ye  ken  John  Peel  with  Ins  coat  so  gray  ?  - 

Eagle,  The  -        -        .        . 
♦Earl  of  Mar's  Daughter,  The 

Easter  ------- 

•Edward       ---.___ 

Egypt's  might  is  tumbled  down    - 
Encinctured  with  a  twine  of  leaves 
♦English  Gentleman,  The       - 
Eve  of  Saint  Mark,  The         .... 
Even  such  is  Time        - 
Eve,  with  her  basket    ----- 

♦Faht's  in  there  ?  - 

♦Fair  Annie  ----... 

Fairies  --_____ 

Fairies  Feast,  The        - 

Fall,  leaves,  fall ;   die,  flowers,  away     - 

Feare  no  more  the  heate  o'  th'  Sun 
♦Fine  knacks  for  ladies  ! 

Flowers  of  the  Forest,  The 

Follow  thy  fair  sun,  unhappy  shadow  - 
♦Four  and  twenty  bonny  boys        -         -         - 
♦Four  men  stood  by  the  grave  of  a  man 

From  noise  of  Scare-fires  rest  ye  free    - 

Full  fathom  five 

Gane  were  but  the  winter  cauld    - 

Garden,  The         ------ 

♦Garden,  The         ---_.. 

Get  up,  our  Anna  dear,  from  the  weary  spinning 
♦Gilderoy  was  a  bonnie  boy   - 

Golden  slumbers  kiss  your  eyes    -         -         - 
♦Golden  Vanity,  The      - 

Gone  were  but  the  Winter    -         -         -         - 

686 


TEXT 

NOTES 

483 

666 

340 

647 

200 

580 

477 

139 

556 

108 

307 

16 

430 

367 

337 

67 

468 

600 

485 

293 

607 

434 

122 

132 

225 

267 

599 

74 

188 

482 

428 

646 

191 

574 

215 

643 

239 

587 

149 

492 

125 

549 

82 

532 

281 

605 

418 

251 

INDEX  OF  POEMS 


Good-Morrow  to  the  Day  so  fair  - 
♦Green  Broom        ------- 

Hallo  my  Fancy  ------- 

Hame,  hame,  harae,  name,  fain  wad  I  be      - 

Hark  !   now  everything  is  still       - 

Haunted  Palace,  The   ------ 

Hay,  nou  the  day  dauis        - 

Hearke,  hearke,  the  Larke  at  Heaven's  gate  sings  - 

Hear,  sweet  spirit,  hear  the  spell  -         -         -         - 

He  came  and  took  me  by  the  hand 

He  clasps  the  crag  with  crooked  hands 

He  gave  us  all  a  good-bye  cheerily 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain  - 

He  is  the  lonely  greatness  of  the  world 
♦Helen  of  Kirkconnell    ------ 

Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me  -         -         -         -         - 

Here  a  little  child  I  stand     - 
♦Here  comes  a  lusty  wooer     ------ 

Here  lies  a  little  bird   ------ 

Here  lies  sweet  Isabell  - 

Here  she  lies,  a  pretty  bud  - 

Here  she  was  wont  to  go,  and  here,  and  here  ! 
♦Here  we  bring  new  water      - 
♦Here  we  come  a  piping         - 

Here  where  the  fields  lie  lonely  and  untended 

Her  Eyes  the  Glow-worme  lend  thee     - 

He  sees  them  pass        ------ 

♦He  that  lies  at  the  stock       - 

♦Hey,  nonny  no  !  - 

♦Hey  !   now  the  day  dawns    -         -         -         -         - 

♦Hey,  Wully  wine,  and  How,  Wully  wine 

♦Hie  upon  Hielands 

His  eyes  are  quickened  so  with  grief     - 

His  stature  was  not  very  tall         - 

Hohenlinden         ------- 

Holy  Thursday     ------- 

Home,  home,  from  the  horizon  far  and  clear 

Home  no  more  home  to  me,  whither  must  I  wander 

Ho,  sailor  of  the  sea  !  - 

How  like  an  Angel  came  I  down  !  -         -         - 

687 


TEXT 
208 

NOTES 

M7 

376 

l8l 

264 

597 

338 

4 

497 

6 

331 

151 

108 

178 

174 

265 

598 

438 

365 

627 

507 

346 

622 

102 

652 

271 

604 

352 

624 

4 

11 

53 

292 

259 

594 

466 

200 

580 

4 

497 

348 

623 

43 

519 

407 

503 

180 

66 

472 

?  28 

33 

160 

454 

[NDEX  OF  POEMS 

How  lovely  is  the  sound  of  oars  at  night 
How  many  times  do  I  love  thee,  dear  ? 
How  see  you  Echo  ?     - 
ll"\v  should  I  your  true  love  know 
How  strange  it  is  to  wake  and  watch   - 
I  low  sweet  1  roamed  from  field  to  field! 
•Hugh,  Sir     ---... 


and  my  white  PangUI         .... 

'd  a  dream  to-night     ----- 
d  oft  heard  tell  of  this  Sledburn  fair  - 
dreamed  that,  as  I  wandered  by  the  way  - 
dreamt  a  Dream  !    what  can  it  mean  ? 
dug,  beneath  the  cypress  shade 

f  I  had  but  two  little  wings  -       -         -         - 

f  I  should  ever  by  chance  grow  rich    - 
found  her  out  there  ----- 

f  souls  should  only  shine  as  bright 

f  there  were  dreams  to  sell  -         -         -         - 
got  me  flowers  to  straw  thy  way 
had  a  dove  and  the  sweet  dove  died  - 
had  a  little  bird  ----- 

had  a  little  nut  tree  ----- 
have  a  yong  suster  ----- 
have  beene  all  day  looking  after 
have  seen  old  ships  sail  like  swans  asleep  - 
have  twelfe  oxen  that  be  faire  and  brown  - 
hear  a  sudden  cry  of  pain  !  -  -  - 
heard  a  soldier  sing  some  trifle  -  -  - 
know  a  little  garden -close  - 

know  that  all  beneath  the  moon  decays    - 

'11  sing  you  a  good  old  song         - 
Loved  a  lass,  a  fair  one     -         -         - 
love  to  rise  in  a  summer  morn   - 
met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land- 
met  the  Love-Talker  one  eve  in  the  glen    - 

mmortal  Imogen  crowned  queen  above 

n  a  drear-nighted  December         ... 
never  shall  love  the  snow  again 

n  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  solitudes 

n  melancholic  fancy   - 

688 


II  VI 

NOTES 

33' 

624 

121 

361 

473 

161 

428 

97 

536 

282 

606 

75 

8 

499 

475 

268 

24 

5io 

521 

273 

604 

594 

449 

16 

506 

107 

44 

5i9 

198 

58 

3*9 

610 

382 

635 

148 

559 

96 

171 

568 

481 

585 

67 

525 

202 

580 

140 

404 

313 

299 

231 

585 

274 

562 

376 

62g 

INDEX  OF  POEMS 

*In  somer  when  the  shawes  be  sheyne    - 
In  the  greenest  of  our  valleys        - 
In  the  third-class  seat  sat  the  journeying-boy 
In  the  wild  October  night-time     - 
Into  the  scented  woods  we'll  go  - 
Invitation  to  Jane,  The        - 
In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan         - 
I  remember,  I  remember      - 
Irish  harper  and  his  dog,  The        ... 
I  saw  a  frieze  on  whitest  marble  drawn 
*I  saw  a  peacock  with  a  fiery  tail  -         -         - 
I  saw  with  open  eyes   ----- 
I  see  in  his  last  preached  and  printed  Booke 
*I  sing  of  a  maiden        ----- 
*It  fell  upon  a  Wodensday     ...         - 
It  is  an  ancient  Mariner        - 
It  was  a'  for  our  rightfu'  king       - 
*It  was  a  jolly  bed  in  sooth   -         -         -         - 

It  was  a  Lover  and  his  lasse  - 

*It  was  in  and  about  the  Martinmas  time 
*It  was  in  till  a  pleasant  time  - 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago 
It  was  not  in  the  winter        - 
I've  heard  them  lilting  at  our  ewe-milking    - 
I  went  out  to  the  hazel  wood        - 
*I  will  sing,  if  ye  will  hearken         - 
*I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies      - 
I  would  not  be  the  Moon,  the  sickly  thing    - 

Jarring  the  air  with  rumour  cool  - 

John  Peel     ------- 

Keith  of  Ravelston       ----- 
Kubla  Khan         ------ 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci    -         -         -         - 
Laid  in  my  quiet  bed,  in  study  as  I  were 
*Laird  of  Logie,  The      ----- 
*  Lavender's  blue,  dilly  dilly,  lavender's  green 
Lawne  as  white  as  driven  Snow   - 
Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse  - 

689 


TEXT 
143 

NOTES 
556 

338 

621 

26 

177 

570 

IO 

155 

4°5 

64I 

25 

5™ 

89 

408 

643 

294 

607 

no 

270 

602 

21 

510 

420 

644 

383 

635 

187 

501 

199 

579 

356 

626 

3<>7 

59 

523 

361 

188 

573 

296 

608 

432 

646 

438 

463 

659 

154 

139 

316 

4°5 

129 

472 

432 

148 

560 

74 

529 

360 

2S 

[NDEX  OF  POEMS 

l  save  Taking,  A  ..... 

Leave  mc,  O  Love         ..... 
lit  as  go  hence,  my  songs    - 

Lei  us  walk  in  the  white  snow       ... 

Life  of  Life  ...... 

Light  the  lamps  up,  Lamplighter  - 

Little  Black  Boy,   The  .         .         .         , 

Little  Fly     ------., 

Little  Lamb,  who  made  thee  ?       -  -  - 

♦London  Bridge  is  broken  down     -         .         - 

London  Snow       --..-_. 

Lonely,  save  for  a  few  faint  stars,  the  sky    - 

Long  ago  I  went  to  Rome    - 

Look  how  the  pale  Queen  of  the  silent  night 

Lord  Rameses  of  Egypt  sighed     - 

Love  bade  me  welcome  ;   yet  my  soul  drew  back 
*Love  me  not  for  comely  grace       - 

Lucy  Gray  -------- 

*Lully,  lullay,  hilly,  lullay      - 

Lydia  is  gone  this  many  a  year    - 
*Lyke-\Vake  Dirge,  A    - 

.Mad  Maid's  Song,  The  - 

Mariana        --._.-.. 

*  Mary's  gone  a  milking-         - 

♦Matthew,  Mark,  Luke,  and  John  - 

*May  Song    ...  - 

♦Mermaid,  The       ------- 

Messmates  -------- 

Midnight  was  come,  when  every  vital  thing  - 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory       - 

Mortality,  behold  and  fear  I  - 

Most  souls,  'tis  true,  but  peep  out  once  an  age 

Much  have  I  travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die  - 
*My  clothing  was  once  of  the  linsey  woolsey  fine     ■ 
•My  hand  is  weary  with  writing    -         -         -         - 

My  heart  is  like  a  singing  bird      - 
*My  love  he  built  me  a  bonnie  bower 

My  love  lies  in  the  gates  of  foam  -         -         -         - 
*My  Luve's  in  Germany  - 

690 


Tl  \  1 
358 

NOTES 

5«'7 

358 

236 

5*7 

353 

625 

459 

657 

22 

535 

93 

65 

524 

234 

197 

575 

563 

354 

625 

256 

593 

483 

366 

237 

491 

277 

264 

208 

3M 

7i 

529 

466 

661 

12 

423 

178 

115 

170 

567 

269 

600 

271 

380 

209 

582 

90 

533 

558 

352 

624 

439 

647 

3^4 

184 

INDEX  OF  POEMS 


*My  master  hath  a  garden     -         -         -         -         - 
*My  mistress  frowns  when  she  should  play 
*My  mistress  is  as  fair  as  fine  - 

My  mother  bore  me  in  the  southern  wild 
*My  plaid  awa',  my  plaid  awa'       - 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his- 

*Nay,  Ivy,  nay      ------- 

Night-Piece,  The  ------ 

*Not  full  twelve  years   ------ 

Not  soon  shall  I  forget         - 
*Now  milkmaids'  pails  are  deckt  with  flowers 
Now  some  may  drink  old  vintage  wine 
Now  the  bright  morning  Star,  Dayes  harbinger     - 
Now  the  hungry  Lyon  rores  - 

*Now  wolde  I  faine  some  merthes  make 
Nurse's  Song,  The         ------ 

Nymph  Complaining,  The    ----- 

Nymph,  nymph,  what  are  your  beads  ?  -  - 

*0  Allison  Gross,  that  lives  in  yon  towr 

*0  Bessie  Bell  and  Mary  Gray  .  - 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind  ----- 

O'Driscoll  drove  with  a  song         - 
*Of  all  the  birds  that  I  do  know    -         -         -         - 
*0  for  a  Booke  and  a  shadie  nooke         - 

Of  this  fair  volume  which  we  World  do  name 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray       - 

Oh  !   call  my  brother  back  to  me  -         -         -         - 
*Oh  !   dear  !   what  can  the  matter  be  ?  - 

Oh  !   poverty  is  a  weary  thing      - 

Oh,  sweet  content         ---_.. 

Oh  the  falling  Snow  !    - 
*Oh,  where  are  you  going  to,  my  pretty  little  dear  ? 

O,  I  hae  come  from  far  away        - 

Old  Ships,  The 

O  many  a  day  have  I  made  good  ale  in  the  glen  - 

O  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home     -         -         - 

O  Mother,  lay  your  hand  on  my  brow  -         -         - 

O  my  dark  Rosaleen     ------ 

On  a  starred  night  Prince  Lucifer  uprose 

691 


TEXT 

NOTES 

492 

199 

576 

351 

22 

292 

352 

245 

590 

292 

596 

49 

71 

528 

205 

581 

11 

500 

131 

553 

366 

628 

453 

98 

124 

426 

646 

523 

227 

312 

100 

538 

147 

558 

162 

565 

237 

48 

75 

53o 

94 

536 

254 

236 

206 

58i 

324 

613 

382 

354 

225 

40 

181 

572 

332 

2x2 

INDEX  OF  POEMS 

Once  .1  dream  did  weave  a  shade-        ... 

•Once  i  was  a  monarch's  daughter        ... 
( toce  musing  as  I  sal    ------ 

Once  upon  ,i  midnight  dreary       » 

Oiwe  when  the  sun  of  the  /ear  \\;is  beginning  to  fall 

•One  Friday  morn  when  we  set  sail        ... 

•One  king's  daughter  said  to  anither      ... 
One  without  looks  in  to-nigh1       .        .        .        - 
On  first  looking  into  Chapman's  Homer 
On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low        - 

♦On  the  first  day  of  Christmas       - 
On  the  green  banks  of  Shannon    -         -         -         - 
O  sing  unto  my  roundelay    ----- 
O  Sorrow     -  -  -  - 

O  that  those  lips  had  language  !   - 
O  the  evening's  for  the  fair,  bonny  lassie  O  ! 
O  Thou,  who  plumed  with  strong  desire 
O,  to  have  a  little  house       ----- 
Our  King  and  Queen  the  Lord  God  Blesse    - 
Our  King  went  up  upon  a  hill  high        - 
Out  in  the  dark  over  the  snow      - 
Over  the  bleak  and  barren  snow  -         -         -         - 

*0  whare  are  ye  gaun  ?  _._-_- 

O,  what  can  ail  thee,  knight  at  arms    - 
O  what  if  the  fowler  my  blackbird  has  taken  ? 

♦O  wha  will  shoe  my  bonny  foot  ?  ... 

♦O  where  were  ye,  my  milk-white  steed 
O,  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being 
Oh  yes,  my  dear  ------- 

Pack,  clouds,  away,  and  welcome  day  ! 

Pedlar's  Song,  The        ------ 

Pleasure  it  is 
♦Poacher,  The  Lincolnshire    ----- 

♦Poor  old  Horse     ------- 

Prayer  unsaid,  and  Mass  unsung  - 

Prepare,  prepare  the  iron  helm  of  War 

Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood  ...         - 

Queen  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair 
♦Queen  of  Elfland,  The  ----- 

692 


TEXT 
476 

NOTES 
665 

I°5 

01 

535 

320 

611 

26 

512 

421 

57 

523 

208 

608 

380 

180 

589 

89 

266 

256 

4i 

207 

34i 

621 

52 

568 

191 

574 

474 

375 

334 

618 

129 

355 

519 

3°9 

6og 

227 

565 

7 

74 

17 

507 

204 

90 

330 

167 

357 

462 

127 

INDEX  OF  POEMS 


Question,  The       ------ 

*Quo'  the  Tweed  to  the  Till  - 

*  Quoth  John  to  Joan     - 

Rarely,  rarely,  comest  thou  -         -         -         - 

Raven,  The  ------- 

Recollection,  The  - 

Remember  me  when  I  am  gone  away   - 

♦Remember  us  poor  Mayers  all       - 
Reverie  of  Poor  Susan,  The  -         -         -         - 

Rich  in  the  waning  light  she  sat  -         -         - 
Riding  through  Ruwu  swamp,  about  sunrise 
Rosaleen,  Dark    ------ 

Rose  Aylmer         ------ 

*Rosy  apple,  lemon,  or  pear  -         -         -         - 

*  Round  about,  round  about  -         -         -         - 


TEXT   NOTES 
8 

425 

350    623 


254 
320 

156 
280 

13 
IO3 

39 

92 

181 

365 

36 

119 


536 


5i6 


Sabrina  fair  _         _         -         -         - 

Sands  of  Dee,  The         - 
Schoolboy,  The    -         -         -         -         - 
Seamen,  three  !    What  men  be  ye  ? 
Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness 
Secret  was  the  garden  -         -         -         - 

♦Seven  lang  years  I  hae  served  the  King 

*Seynt  Stevene  was  a  clerk    - 
Shed  no  tear — O  shed  no  tear  !     - 

♦She  is  so  proper  and  so  pure 
Shepherds  all,  and  Maidens  fair    - 
Shut  not  so  soon  ;   the  dull-eyed  night 
Shy  in  their  herding  dwell  the  fallow  deer 
Sick  Child,  The    ----- 
Silent  are  the  woods     -         -         -         - 
Silent  is  the  house,  all  are  laid  asleep    - 

*  Silly  Sweetheart,  say  not  nay 
*Sir  Patrick  Spence        - 

*  Sister,  awake  !   close  not  your  eyes 
♦Skip  it  and  trip  it 

Sleep  on,  my  Love,  in  thy  cold  bed 
Slow,  slow,  fresh  fount,  keep  time  with  my 
Sluggard,  The       - 
Soldiers,  For         ----- 

Gi)3 


-  130 

-  225 
140 

-  205 

-  220 

-  285 

-  347 

-  240 

-  283 

38 

-  457 

-  450 

-  298 

40 

-  27 

-  284 

-  345 

-  425 

11 

-  575 

-  273 
salt  tears  252 

5 

-  168 


55i 


583 


587 

5i8 
655 
651 


501 


592 


INDEX  OF  POEMS 

Solitai  y  Reaper,  The  - 

Some  folks  as  can  afford       ----- 

Somewhere,  somewhen  I've  seen  -        - 

Sorrow  -------- 

So  through  the  darkness  and  the  cold  we  Hew 

So,  we'll  go  no  more  a-roving        - 

Sparrow,  The  Dead       ------ 

Spring,  the  sweet  Spring,  is  Hie  year's  pleasant  king 
Stepping  Westward       ------ 

Stop,  Christian  passer-by  I    - 

Stupidity  Street  ------- 

Swans,  The  Two  ------- 

Sweet  bird  that  shunn'st  the  noise  of  folly    - 
Sweet  Content      ------- 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright  - 
Sweet  Stay-at-Home,  sweet  Well-content 
Sweet  Suffolk  Owl,  so  trimly  dight        - 
♦Sweet  William  and  May  Margaret  ... 

Swiftly  walk  o'er  the  western  wave       - 

Tell  me  not  of  joy        - 
Tell  me  where  is  fancie  bred  - 

That  houses  forme  within  was  rude  and  strong 
That  wind,  I  used  to  hear  it  swelling    -         -         - 
The  air  to  gi'e  your  cheaks  a  hue  - 

The  ample  heaven  of  fabrik  sure  - 
*The  cheerful  arn  he  blaws  in  the  marn 
The  cleanly  rush  of  the  mountain  air   -         -         - 
The  clouds  have  left  the  sky         - 
The  crooked  paths  go  every  way  -         -  -  - 

The  days  are  cold,  the  nights  are  long  - 

The  Door  of  Death       ------ 

The  Dragon  that  our  Seas  did  raise  his  Crest 

The  evening  sun  was  sinking  down        - 

The  feathers  of  the  willow    ----- 

♦The  fort  over  against  the  oak-wood      - 
The  four  sails  of  the  mill       ----- 

The  fresh  air  moves  like  water  round  a  boat 
The  gipsies  lit  their  fires  by  the  chalk-pit  gate  anew 
The  heaving  roses  of  the  hedge  are  stirred    - 
♦The  Holly  and  the  Ivy  ----- 

694 


II  \  1 

W0T1 

221 

159 

4°3 

639 

256 

234 

464 

IOI 

15 

503 

456 

270 

604 

no 

299 

213 

253 

451 

38 

518 

104 

54° 

443 

458 

IOI 

53S 

209 

339 

229 

58i 

144 

557 

138 

56 

462 

157 

220 

583 

666 

189 

573 

449 

224 

193 

575 

144 

556 

9 

79 

222 

243 

589 

INDEX  OF  POEMS 

*The  hunt  is  up,  the  hunt  is  up      - 
The  King  of  China's  daughter       - 
*The  king  sits  in  Dumferling  toune 
*The  king's  young  dochter     - 

The  lake  lay  blue  below  the  hill   - 

The  lark  now  leaves  his  watery  nest     - 
♦The  love  that  I  hae  chosen  -         -         -         - 

The  maiden  caught  me  in  the  wild 

The  man  of  life  upright         - 
*The  miller's  mill-dog  lay  at  the  mill-door 
*The  moon's  my  constant  mistress 

The  murmur  of  the  mourning  ghost 

The  myrtle  bush  grew  shady         - 

The  night  will  never  stay      -         -         -         - 

The  poplars  are  felled  ;   farewell  to  the  shade 
♦There  came  a  bird  out  o  a  bush   -         -         - 
*There  came  a  ghost  to  Margret's  door  - 
♦There  cam'  Seven  Egyptians  on  a  day 

The  red  flame  flowers  bloom  and  die     - 

There  grew  a  goodly  tree  him  faire  beside     - 

There  is  a  Garden  in  her  face        ... 
♦There  is  a  Lady  sweet  and  kind    -         -         - 

There  is  a  silence  where  hath  been  no  sound 
*The  reivers  they  stole  Fair  Annie 
♦There  lived  a  wife  at  Usher's  Well 

There's  no  smoke  in  the  chimney 

♦There  was  a  gallant  ship  and  a  gallant  ship  was  she  418 
♦There  was  a  knicht  riding  frae  the  east 

There  was  an  Indian,  who  had  known  no  change  - 
♦There  was  an  old  man  lived  out  in  the  wood 

There  was  no  song  nor  shout  of  joy 
♦There  were  three  gipsies  a-come  to  my  door 
♦There  were  twa  brethren  in  the  north  - 
♦There  were  twa  sisters  sat  in  a  bowr     - 

The  sea  would  flow  no  longer        - 

These  hearts  were  woven  of  human  joys  and  cares 

The  sheets  were  frozen  hard  - 

The  smothering  dark  engulfs  relentlessly 

The  snow  falls  deep  ;   the  forest  lies  alone     - 

The  snow  had  fallen  many  nights  and  days  - 

The  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls        - 

695 


TEXT   ] 

•JOTES 

137 

555 

198 

425 

645 

576 

IO6 

542 

6 

498 

363 

373 

595 

89 

533 

291 

606 

316 

192 

465 

49 

520 

649 

443 

650 

531 

474 

664 

491 

150 

56i 

366 

628 

4°5 

641 

434 

646 

445 

651 

52 

5418 

644 

333 

615 

379 

631 

M7 

422 

79 

53i 

55 

523 

441 

649 

409 

172 

568 

3i 

239 

78 

410 

122 

INDEX  OF  rOKMS 


The  sun  descending  in  the  west    - 

The  Sun  dues  arise        ... 
The  trees  of  the  elder  lands  - 

Tin'  twilight  is  sad  and  cloudy       ...  - 

11  u-  wanton  Troopers  riding  by    - 

The  warm  sun  is  failing,  the  bleak  wind  is  wailing 
•The  wind  doth  blow  to-day,  my  love    - 

The  wind's  on  the  wold  - 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light  !     - 

They  shut  the  road  through  the  woods 

They  stole  her  from  the  well  - 

•This  ae  nighte,  this  ae  nighte        - 

This  city  and  this  country  -  - 

♦This  is  the  Key  of  the  Kingdom  -         -         -         - 

This  is  the  weather  the  cuckoo  likes 

This  Life,  which  seems  so  fair       - 

This  sailor  knows  of  wondrous  lands  afar 

Thou  Fair-haired  Angel  of  the  Evening 

Though  three  men  dwell  on  Flannan  Isle 

Thou  hast  come  from  the  old  city  ... 

Thou  simple  Bird  what  mak'st  thou  here  to  play  ? 

Time,  you  old  gipsy  man      ----- 

'Tis  the  middle  of  night        ----- 

'Tis  the  voice  of  a  sluggard  ;    I  heard  him  complain 
To-day  a  rude  brief  recitative       - 
Toll  no  bell  for  me,  dear  Father,  dear  Mother 
♦Tom  o'  Bedlam    ------- 

♦Torn  Pearse,  Tom  Pearse,  lend  me  your  gray  mare 

To  sea,  to  sea  !   The  calm  is  o'er  - 
*To  yon  fause  stream    ------ 

Trafalgar      -------- 

♦True  Thomas  lay  oer  yond  grassy  bank 
Turnstile,  The      ------- 

♦Twa  Corbies,  The  ------ 

♦Twa  Sisters,  The  ------- 

'Twas  on  a  Holy  Thursday  ----- 

Two  Swans,  The  ------- 

Tyger  !   Tyger  !    burning  bright    -         -         -         - 


TEXT       NoTKS 


452 

23 

404 

6  jo 

32 

98 

538 

223 

359 

626 

465 

660 

283 

297 

549 

264 

598 

66 

525 

3 

(497 
\667 

10 

252 

592 

402 

A  ^O 

638 

4J^ 

415 

340 

III 

454 

335 

620 

5 

498 

179 

57i 

3°9 

6og 

291 

76 

53i 

380 

632 

423 

177 

127 

550 

272 

109 

441 

66 

299 

98 

538 

Underneath  an  old  oak  tree  - 


(>!)<; 


611 


INDEX  OF  POEMS 


Under  the  after-sunset  sky 

Under  the  greenewood  tree  -         -         -         -         - 

Upon  a  dark  ball  spun  in  Time     -         -         -         - 

Upon  a  Sabbath-day  it  fell  -         -         -         -         - 

Upon  ray  lap  my  sovereign  sits    -         -         -         - 

Up  the  airy  mountain  ------ 

Up,  Timothy,  up  with  your  staff  and  away  ! 

*Wae's  me,  wae's  me     ------ 

Wake,  all  the  dead  ! 

War  Song,  A-- 

Was  it  the  sound  of  a  footfall  I  heard  ? 

Waterfowl,  To  a 

Water  Lady,  The  ____-- 

*We  are  three  Brethren  come  from  Spain 
We  be  the  King's  men,  hale  and  hearty 
Weep  no  more,  nor  sigh,  nor  groan       - 
Weep,  weep,  ye  woodmen  !  - 

Weep  you  no  more,  sad  fountains         - 

*Wee  Wee  Man,  The 

♦Welcome,  fayre  chylde,  what  is  thy  name  ?  - 
We  wandered  to  the  Pine  Forest  -         -         -         - 
We  were  young,  we  were  merry   - 
Whar  hae  ye  been  a'  day,  my  boy  Tammy  ? 
What  bird  so  sings,  yet  so  does  wail  ?  - 
What,  hast  thou  run  thy  Race  ?   Art  going  down  ? 
What  if  some  little  paine  the  passage  have  - 
What  is  there  hid  in  the  heart  of  a  rose 
What  is  this  life  if,  full  of  care      -         -         -         - 
What  noise  of  viols  is  so  sweet     - 
What  shall  I  your  true-love  tell   -         -         -         - 
What  wondrous  life  is  this  I  lead  !         -         -         - 
What,  you  are  stepping  westward  ?       -         -         - 
When  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come 
When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest        - 
When  I  crept  over  the  hill,  broken  with  tears 
When  I  did  wake  this  morn  from  sleep 
When  I  sailed  out  of  Baltimore    -         -         -         - 
When  I  sides  hang  by  the  wall      - 

*When  I  was  bound  apprentice      - 
When  I  was  but  thirteen  or  so      - 

697 


TEXT 

NOTES 

113 

M3 

295 

468 

663 

22 

122 

548 

276 

332 

615 

596 

167 

608 

113 

295 

340 

175 

570 

440 

8l 

532 

282 

293 

28 

512 

156 

313 

35 

516 

15 

503 

45i 

652 

190 

151 

561 

145 

81 

262 

596 

149 

456 

655 

105 

54* 

279 

605 

275 

7 

95 

246 

59* 

204 

375 

629 

iM)i:x  OF  POEMS 

1    I       \1  -.Mil       | 

When  men  were  .ill  asleep  th<-  snow  came  flying  -  234     586 

When  my  mother  died  I  was  very  young      -        -  42 

When  night  is  o'er  the  wood         -  541 

When  once  the  sun  sinks  in  the  west    -        -        -  454 

When  she  Bleeps          ------  263 

When  that  1  was  and  a  little  tinie  boy         -         -  224     584 

When  the  cock  begins  to  crow      ...        -  553 

When  the  green  woods  laugh  with  the  voice  of  joy  198     576 

When  the  lamp  is  shattered           .         _         -         -  258 

When  the  Present  lias  latched  its  postern      -         -  455     653 

When  these  old  woods  were  young  53     521 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld  -         -         -         -  362 

When  the  voices  of  children  are  heard  on  the  green  453     652 

When  the  words  rustle  no  more   -         -         -         -  40 

When  we  lay  where  Budmouth  Beach  is       -         -  176     570 

Where  are  you  going,  Master  mine  ?     -         -         -  355 

Where  are  your  Oranges  ?     -         -         -         -         -  175     569 

Where  do  the  gipsies  come  from  ?         -         -         -  80     532 

Where  on  the  wrinkled  stream  the  willows  lean     -  106     542 

Where  shall  the  lover  rest     -         -         -         -         -  279 

Where  the  Bee  sucks,  there  suck  I         -         -         -  121 

Where  the  pools  are  bright  and  deep    -                   -  141 

WThere  the  remote  Bermudas  ride          -         -         -  381     633 

Where  thou  dwellcst,  in  what  Grove     -         -         -  112 

While  I  sit  at  the  door          -----  487     666 

While  Morpheus  thus  does  gently  lay   -         -         -  467     663 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew  ?         -         -         -         -  113 

Who  calls  ?   Who  calls  ?   Who  ?   -         -         -         -  120     548 

Who  can  live  in  heart  so  glad       -         -         -         -  146 

Who  feasts  tonight  ?    -         -         -         -         -         -  132     554 

Who'll  walk  the  fields  with  us  to  town  ?                  -  141 

♦Who's  at  my  window  ? 597 

Whose  Woods  these  are  I  think  I  know        -         -  587 

*Who— Who— the  bride  will  be  ?   -         -         -         -  105 

*Why  does  your  brand  so  drop  wi'  blood        -         -  430     646 

Why  do  you  lie  with  your  legs  ungainly  huddled  -  171 

♦W'iddecombe  Fair          ------  76 

♦Wife  of  Usher's  Well,  The    -         -                            -  445 

Will  you  come  ?   -         -         -         -         -         -         -  460 

Witch's  Ballad,  The 324 

With  blackest  moss  the  flower-plots      -         -         -  314     609 

698 


INDEX  OF  POEMS 

With  deep  affection  and  recollection 

With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon  - 
*Wolcum  be  thu,  hevene  kyng        - 

World  of  Light,  The  -  -  - 
*Wraggle  Taggle  Gipsies,  The         - 

Wull  ye  come  in  early  Spring        - 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon 
Ye  buds  of  Brutus'  land,  courageous  youths 
Ye  have  been  fresh  and  green       - 
Yes,  I  remember  Adlestrop  -         -         -         - 
*Yet  if  His  Majesty  our  sovereign  lord  - 
Young  Love  lies  sleeping      - 


TEXT 

NOTES 

2IO 

582 

4^3 

244 

589 

283 

79 

461 

50 

168 

566 

219 

102 

484 

368 

628 

rRINTED    IN    GREAT    BRITAIN    BV   ROBERT    MACLEHOSE    AND    CO.    LTD. 
THE    UNIVERSITY   PRESS,  GLASGOW 


PLEASE  DO  NOT  REMOVE 
CARDS  OR  SLIPS  FROM  THIS  POCKET 

UN.VERSITY  OF  TORONTO  LIBRARY 


Pii  De  La  Mare,   Walter  John 

1175  Gome  hither 

DA 

1923