Chapter 11

Where I plucked thee the bluebell, 'T was where the night dew fell, And rested till morn in the cups of the flowers; I shook the sweet posies, Bluebells and brere roses, As we sat in cool shade in Summer's warm hours.

Bedlam-cowslips and cuckoos, With freck'd lip and hooked nose, Growing safe near the hazel of thicket and woods, And water blobs, ladies' smocks, Blooming where haycocks May be found, in the meadows, low places, and floods.

And cowslips a fair band For May ball or garland, That bloom in the meadows as seen by the eye; And pink ragged robin, Where the fish they are bobbing Their heads above water to catch at the fly.

Wild flowers and wild roses! 'T is love makes the posies To paint Summer ballads of meadow and glen. Floods can't drown it nor turn it, Even flames cannot burn it; Let it bloom till we walk the green meadows again.

THE MARCH NOSEGAY

The bonny March morning is beaming In mingled crimson and grey, White clouds are streaking and creaming The sky till the noon of the day; The fir deal looks darker and greener, And grass hills below look the same; The air all about is serener, The birds less familiar and tame.

Here's two or three flowers for my fair one, Wood primroses and celandine too; I oft look about for a rare one To put in a posy for you. The birds look so clean and so neat, Though there's scarcely a leaf on the grove; The sun shines about me so sweet, I cannot help thinking of love.

So where the blue violets are peeping, By the warm sunny sides of the woods, And the primrose, 'neath early morn weeping, Amid a large cluster of buds, (The morning it was such a rare one, So dewy, so sunny, and fair,) I sought the wild flowers for my fair one, To wreath in her glossy black hair.

LEFT ALONE

Left in the world alone, Where nothing seems my own, And everything is weariness to me, 'T is a life without an end, 'T is a world without a friend, And everything is sorrowful I see.

There's the crow upon the stack, And other birds all black, While bleak November's frowning wearily; And the black cloud's dropping rain, Till the floods hide half the plain, And everything is dreariness to me.

The sun shines wan and pale, Chill blows the northern gale, And odd leaves shake and quiver on the tree, While I am left alone, Chilled as a mossy stone, And all the world is frowning over me.

TO MARY

Mary, I love to sing About the flowers of Spring, For they resemble thee. In the earliest of the year Thy beauties will appear, And youthful modesty.

Here's the daisy's silver rim, With gold eye never dim, Spring's earliest flower so fair. Here the pilewort's golden rays Set the cow green in a blaze, Like the sunshine in thy hair.

Here's forget-me-not so blue; Is there any flower so true? Can it speak my happy lot? When we courted in disguise This flower I used to prize, For it said "Forget-me-not."

Speedwell! And when we meet In the meadow paths so sweet, Where the flowers I gave to thee All grew beneath the sun, May thy gentle heart be won, And I be blest with thee.

THE NIGHTINGALE

This is the month the nightingale, clod brown, Is heard among the woodland shady boughs: This is the time when in the vale, grass-grown, The maiden hears at eve her lover's vows, What time the blue mist round the patient cows Dim rises from the grass and half conceals Their dappled hides. I hear the nightingale, That from the little blackthorn spinney steals To the old hazel hedge that skirts the vale, And still unseen sings sweet. The ploughman feels The thrilling music as he goes along, And imitates and listens; while the fields Lose all their paths in dusk to lead him wrong, Still sings the nightingale her soft melodious song.

THE DYING CHILD

He could not die when trees were green, For he loved the time too well. His little hands, when flowers were seen, Were held for the bluebell, As he was carried o'er the green.

His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee; He knew those children of the Spring: When he was well and on the lea He held one in his hands to sing, Which filled his heart with glee.

Infants, the children of the Spring! How can an infant die When butterflies are on the wing, Green grass, and such a sky? How can they die at Spring?

He held his hands for daisies white, And then for violets blue, And took them all to bed at night That in the green fields grew, As childhood's sweet delight.

And then he shut his little eyes, And flowers would notice not; Bird's nests and eggs caused no surprise, He now no blossoms got: They met with plaintive sighs.

When Winter came and blasts did sigh, And bare were plain and tree, As he for ease in bed did lie His soul seemed with the free, He died so quietly.

MARY

The skylark mounts up with the morn, The valleys are green with the Spring, The linnets sit in the whitethorn, To build mossy dwellings and sing; I see the thornbush getting green, I see the woods dance in the Spring, But Mary can never be seen, Though the all-cheering Spring doth begin.

I see the grey bark of the oak Look bright through the underwood now; To the plough plodding horses they yoke, But Mary is not with her cow. The birds almost whistle her name: Say, where can my Mary be gone? The Spring brightly shines, and 'tis shame That she should be absent alone.

The cowslips are out on the grass, Increasing like crowds at a fair; The river runs smoothly as glass, And the barges float heavily there; The milkmaid she sings to her cow, But Mary is not to be seen; Can Nature such absence allow At milking on pasture and green?

When Sabbath-day comes to the green, The maidens are there in their best, But Mary is not to be seen, Though I walk till the sun's in the west. I fancy still each wood and plain, Where I and my Mary have strayed, When I was a young country swain, And she was the happiest maid.

But woods they are all lonely now, And the wild flowers blow all unseen; The birds sing alone on the bough, Where Mary and I once have been. But for months she now keeps away. And I am a sad lonely hind; Trees tell me so day after day, As slowly they wave in the wind.

Birds tell me, while swaying the bough, That I am all threadbare and old; The very sun looks on me now As one dead, forgotten, and cold. Once I'd a place where I could rest. And love, for then I was free; That place was my Mary's dear breast And hope was still left unto me.

The Spring comes brighter day by day, And brighter flowers appear, And though she long has kept away Her name is ever dear. Then leave me still the meadow flowers, Where daffies blaze and shine; Give but the Spring's young hawthorn bower, For then sweet Mary's mine.

CLOCK-A-CLAY

In the cowslip pips I lie, Hidden from the buzzing fly, While green grass beneath me lies, Pearled with dew like fishes' eyes, Here I lie, a clock-a-clay. Waiting for the time o' day.

While the forest quakes surprise, And the wild wind sobs and sighs, My home rocks as like to fall, On its pillar green and tall; When the pattering rain drives by Clock-a-clay keeps warm and dry.

Day by day and night by night, All the week I hide from sight; In the cowslip pips I lie, In the rain still warm and dry; Day and night, and night and day, Red, black-spotted clock-a-clay.

My home shakes in wind and showers, Pale green pillar topped with flowers, Bending at the wild wind's breath, Till I touch the grass beneath; Here I live, lone clock-a-clay, Watching for the time of day.

SPRING

Come, gentle Spring, and show thy varied greens In woods, and fields, and meadows, by clear brooks; Come, gentle Spring, and bring thy sweetest scenes, Where peace, with solitude, the loveliest looks; Where the blue unclouded sky Spreads the sweetest canopy, And Study wiser grows without her books.

Come hither, gentle May, and with thee bring Flowers of all colours, and the wild briar rose; Come in wind-floating drapery, and bring Fragrance and bloom, that Nature's love bestows-- Meadow pinks and columbines, Kecksies white and eglantines, And music of the bee that seeks the rose.

Come, gentle Spring, and bring thy choicest looks, Thy bosom graced with flowers, thy face with smiles; Come, gentle Spring, and trace thy wandering brooks, Through meadow gates, o'er footpath crooked stiles; Come in thy proud and best array, April dews and flowers of May, And singing birds that come where heaven smiles.

EVENING

In the meadow's silk grasses we see the black snail, Creeping out at the close of the eve, sipping dew, While even's one star glitters over the vale, Like a lamp hung outside of that temple of blue. I walk with my true love adown the green vale, The light feathered grasses keep tapping her shoe; In the whitethorn the nightingale sings her sweet tale, And the blades of the grasses are sprinkled with dew.

If she stumbles I catch her and cling to her neck, As the meadow-sweet kisses the blush of the rose: Her whisper none hears, and the kisses I take The mild voice of even will never disclose. Her hair hung in ringlets adown her sweet cheek, That blushed like the rose in the hedge hung with dew; Her whisper was fragrance, her face was so meek-- The dove was the type on't that from the bush flew.

THE SWALLOW

Swift goes the sooty swallow o'er the heath, Swifter than skims the cloud-rack of the skies; As swiftly flies its shadow underneath, And on his wing the twittering sunbeam lies, As bright as water glitters in the eyes Of those it passes; 'tis a pretty thing, The ornament of meadows and clear skies: With dingy breast and narrow pointed wing, Its daily twittering is a song to Spring.

JOCKEY AND JENNY

"Will Jockey come to-day, mither? Will Jockey come to-day? He's taen sic likings to my brither He's sure to come the day." "Haud yer tongue, lass, mind your rockie; But th'other day ye wore a pockie. What can ye mean to think o' Jockey? Ye've bin content the season long, Ye'd best keep to your harmless song."

"Ye'll soon see falling tears, mither, If love's a sin in youth; He leuks to me, and talks wi' brither, But I know the secret truth. He's courted me the year, mither; Judge not the matter queer, mither; Ye're a' the while as dear, mither, As ye've been the Summer long. I cannot sing my song.

I'll hear nae farder preaching, mither; I'se bin a child ower lang; He led me frae the teaching, mither, Ann wherefore did he wrang? I ken he often tauks wi' brither; I neither look at ane or 'tither; You ken as well as I, mither, There's nae love in my song, Though I've sang the Summer long."

"Nae, dinna be sae saucy, lassie, I may be kenned ye ill. If love has taen the hold, lassie, There's nae cure i' the pill." "Nae, I dinna want a pill, mither; He leuks at me and tauks to ither; And twice we've bin at kirk thegither. I'm 's well now as a' Summer long, But somehew cauna sing a song.

He comes and talks to brither, mither, But leuks his thoughts at me; He always says gude neet to brither, And looks gude neet to me." "Lassie, ye seldom vexed yer mither; Ye're ower too fair a flower to wither; So be ye are to come thegither, I'll be nae damp to yer new claes; Cheer up and sing o'er 'Loggan braes.'"

Jockey comes o' Sabbath days, His face is not a face o'er brassy; Her mither sits to praise the claes; Holds him her box; to win the lassie He taks a pinch, and greets wi' granny, And helps his chair up nearer Jenny, And vows he loves her muir than any. She thinks her mither seldom wrong, And "Loggan braes" is her daily song.

THE FACE I LOVE SO DEARLY

Sweet is the violet, th' scented pea, Haunted by red-legged, sable bee, But sweeter far than all to me Is she I love so dearly; Than perfumed pea and sable bee, The face I love so dearly.

Sweeter than hedgerow violets blue, Than apple blossoms' streaky hue, Or black-eyed bean-flower blebbed with dew Is she I love so dearly; Than apple flowers or violets blue Is she I love so dearly.

Than woodbine upon branches thin, The clover flower, all sweets within, Which pensive bees do gather in, Three times as sweet, or nearly, Is the cheek, the eye, the lip, the chin Of her I love so dearly.

THE BEANFIELD

A beanfield full in blossom smells as sweet As Araby, or groves of orange flowers; Black-eyed and white, and feathered to one's feet, How sweet they smell in morning's dewy hours! When seething night is left upon the flowers, And when morn's sun shines brightly o'er the field, The bean bloom glitters in the gems of showers, And sweet the fragrance which the union yields To battered footpaths crossing o'er the fields.

WHERE SHE TOLD HER LOVE

I saw her crop a rose Right early in the day, And I went to kiss the place Where she broke the rose away; And I saw the patten rings Where she o'er the stile had gone, And I love all other things Her bright eyes look upon. If she looks upon the hedge or up the leafing tree, That whitethorn or the brown oak are made dearer things to me.

I have a pleasant hill Which I sit upon for hours, Where she crop't some sprigs of thyme And other little flowers; And she muttered as she did it As does beauty in a dream, And I loved her when she hid it On her breast, so like to cream, Near the brown mole on her neck that to me a diamond shone; Then my eye was like to fire, and my heart was like to stone.

There is a small green place Where cowslips early curled, Which on Sabbath day I traced, The dearest in the world. A little oak spreads o'er it, And throws a shadow round, A green sward close before it, The greenest ever found: There is not a woodland nigh nor is there a green grove, Yet stood the fair maid nigh me and told me all her love.

MILKING O' THE KYE

Young Jenny wakens at the dawn, Fresh as carnations newly blown, And o'er the pasture every morn Goes milking o' the kye. She sings her songs of happy glee, While round her swirls the humble bee; The butterfly, from tree to tree, Goes gaily flirting by.

Young Jenny was a bonny thing As ever wakened in the Spring, And blythe she to herself could sing At milking o' the kye. She loved to hear the old crows croak Upon the ash tree and the oak, And noisy pies that almost spoke At milking o' the kye.

She crop't the wild thyme every night, Scenting so sweet the dewy light, And hid it in her breast so white At milking o' the kye. I met and clasped her in my arms, The finest flower on twenty farms; Her snow-white breast my fancy warms At milking o' the kye.

A LOVER'S VOWS

Scenes of love and days of pleasure, I must leave them all, lassie. Scenes of love and hours of leisure, All are gone for aye, lassie. No more thy velvet-bordered dress My fond and longing een shall bless, Thou lily in the wilderness; And who shall love thee then, lassie? Long I've watched thy look so tender, Often clasped thy waist so slender: Heaven, in thine own love defend her, God protect my own lassie.

By all the faith I've shown afore thee, I'll swear by more than that, lassie: By heaven and earth I'll still adore thee, Though we should part for aye, lassie! By thy infant years so loving, By thy woman's love so moving, That white breast thy goodness proving, I'm thine for aye, through all, lassie! By the sun that shines for ever, By love's light and its own Giver, Who loveth truth and leaveth never, I'm thine for aye, through all, lassie!

THE FALL OF THE YEAR

The Autumn's come again, And the clouds descend in rain, And the leaves are fast falling in the wood; The Summer's voice is still, Save the clacking of the mill And the lowly-muttered thunder of the flood.

There's nothing in the mead But the river's muddy speed, And the willow leaves all littered by its side. Sweet voices are all still In the vale and on the hill, And the Summer's blooms are withered in their pride.

Fled is the cuckoo's note To countries far remote, And the nightingale is vanished from the woods; If you search the lordship round There is not a blossom found, And where the hay-cock scented is the flood.

My true love's fled away Since we walked 'mid cocks of hay, On the Sabbath in the Summer of the year; And she's nowhere to be seen On the meadow or the green, But she's coming when the happy Spring is near.

When the birds begin to sing, And the flowers begin to spring, And the cowslips in the meadows reappear, When the woodland oaks are seen In their monarchy of green, Then Mary and love's pleasures will be here.

AUTUMN

I love the fitful gust that shakes The casement all the day, And from the glossy elm tree takes The faded leaves away, Twirling them by the window pane With thousand others down the lane.

I love to see the shaking twig Dance till the shut of eve, The sparrow on the cottage rig, Whose chirp would make believe That Spring was just now flirting by, In Summer's lap with flowers to lie.

I love to see the cottage smoke Curl upwards through the trees, The pigeons nestled round the cote On November days like these; The cock upon the dunghill crowing, The mill sails on the heath a-going.

The feather from the raven's breast Falls on the stubble lea, The acorns near the old crow's nest Drop pattering down the tree; The grunting pigs, that wait for all, Scramble and hurry where they fall.

EARLY LOVE

The Spring of life is o'er with me, And love and all gone by; Like broken bough upon yon tree, I'm left to fade and die. Stern ruin seized my home and me, And desolate's my cot: Ruins of halls, the blasted tree, Are emblems of my lot.

I lived and loved, I woo'd and won, Her love was all to me, But blight fell o'er that youthful one, And like a blasted tree I withered, till I all forgot But Mary's smile on me; She never lived where love was not, And I from bonds was free.

The Spring it clothed the fields with pride, When first we met together; And then unknown to all beside We loved in sunny weather; We met where oaks grew overhead, And whitethorns hung with may; Wild thyme beneath her feet was spread, And cows in quiet lay.

I thought her face was sweeter far Than aught I'd seen before-- As simple as the cowslips are Upon the rushy moor: She seemed the muse of that sweet spot, The lady of the plain, And all was dull where she was not, Till we met there again.

EVENING

'T is evening: the black snail has got on his track, And gone to its nest is the wren, And the packman snail, too, with his home on his back, Clings to the bowed bents like a wen.

The shepherd has made a rude mark with his foot Where his shadow reached when he first came, And it just touched the tree where his secret love cut Two letters that stand for love's name.

The evening comes in with the wishes of love, And the shepherd he looks on the flowers, And thinks who would praise the soft song of the dove, And meet joy in these dew-falling hours.

For Nature is love, and finds haunts for true love, Where nothing can hear or intrude; It hides from the eagle and joins with the dove, In beautiful green solitude.

A VALENTINE

Here's a valentine nosegay for Mary, Some of Spring's earliest flowers; The ivy is green by the dairy, And so are these laurels of ours. Though the snow fell so deep and the winter was dreary, The laurels are green and the sparrows are cheery.

The snowdrops in bunches grow under the rose, And aconites under the lilac, like fairies; The best in the bunches for Mary I chose, Their looks are as sweet and as simple as Mary's. The one will make Spring in my verses so bare, The other set off as a braid thy dark hair.

Pale primroses, too, at the old parlour end, Have bloomed all the winter 'midst snows cold and dreary, Where the lavender-cotton kept off the cold wind, Now to shine in my valentine nosegay for Mary; And appear in my verses all Summer, and be A memento of fondness and friendship for thee.

Here's the crocus half opened, that spreads into gold, Like branches of sunbeams left there by a fairy: I place them as such in these verses so cold, But they'll bloom twice as bright in the presence of Mary, These garden flowers crop't, I will go to the field, And see what the valley and pasture land yield.

Here peeps the pale primrose from the skirts of the wild wood, And violet blue 'neath the thorn on the green; The wild flowers we plucked in the days of our childhood, On the very same spot, as no changes have been-- In the very same place where the sun kissed the leaves, And the woodbine its branches of thorns interweaves.

And here in the pasture, all swarming with rushes, Is a cowslip as blooming and forward as Spring; And the pilewort like sunshine grows under the bushes, While the chaffinch there sitting is trying to sing; And the daisies are coming, called "stars of the earth," To bring to the schoolboy his Springtime of mirth.

Here, then, is the nosegay: how simple it shines! It speaks without words to the ear and the eye; The flowers of the Spring are the best valentines; They are young, fair, and simple, and pleasingly shy. That you may remain so and your love never vary, I send you these flowers as a valentine, Mary.

TO LIBERTY

O spirit of the wind and sky, Where doth thy harp neglected lie? Is there no heart thy bard to be, To wake that soul of melody? Is liberty herself a slave? No! God forbid it! On, ye brave!

I've loved thee as the common air, And paid thee worship everywhere: In every soil beneath the sun Thy simple song my heart has won. And art thou silent? Still a slave? And thy sons living? On, ye brave!

Gather on mountain and on plain! Make gossamer the iron chain! Make prison walls as paper screen, That tyrant maskers may be seen! Let earth as well as heaven be free! So, on, ye brave, for liberty!

I've loved thy being from a boy: The Highland hills were once my joy: Then morning mists did round them lie, Like sunshine in the happiest sky. The hills and valley seemed my own, When Scottish land was freedom's throne

And Scottish land is freedom's still: Her beacon fires, on every hill, Have told, in characters of flame, Her ancient birthright to her fame. A thousand hills will speak again, In fire, that language ever plain

To sychophants and fawning knaves, That Scotland ne'er was made for slaves! Each fruitful vale, each mountain throne, Is ruled by Nature's laws alone; And nought but falsehood's poisoned breath Will urge the claymore from its sheath.

O spirit of the wind and sky, Where doth thy harp neglected lie? Is there no harp thy bard to be, To wake that soul of melody? Is liberty herself a slave? No! God forbid it! On, ye brave!

APPROACH OF WINTER

The Autumn day now fades away, The fields are wet and dreary; The rude storm takes the flowers of May, And Nature seemeth weary; The partridge coveys, shunning fate, Hide in the bleaching stubble, And many a bird, without its mate, Mourns o'er its lonely trouble.

On hawthorns shine the crimson haw, Where Spring brought may-day blossoms: Decay is Nature's cheerless law-- Life's Winter in our bosoms. The fields are brown and naked all, The hedges still are green, But storms shall come at Autumn's fall, And not a leaf be seen.