Chapter 1
Transcribed from the 1905 Longmans, Green and Co. edition by David Price, email [email protected]
NEW COLLECTED RHYMES
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BY ANDREW LANG
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LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON NEW YORK AND BOMBAY
1905
_All rights reserved_
PREFACE
THIS poor little flutter of rhymes would not have been let down the wind: the project would have been abandoned but for the too flattering encouragement of a responsible friend. I trust that he may not “live to rue the day,” like Keith of Craigentolly in the ballad.
The “Loyal Lyrics” on Charles and James and the White Rose must not be understood as implying a rebellious desire for the subversion of the present illustrious dynasty.
“These are but symbols that I sing, These names of Prince, and rose, and King; Types of things dear that do not die, But reign in loyal memory. _Across the water_ surely they Abide their twenty-ninth of May; And we shall hail their happy reign, When Life comes to his own again,”—
over the water that divides us from the voices and faces of our desires and dreams.
Of the ballads, _The Young Ruthven_ and _The Queen of Spain_ were written in competition with the street minstrels of the close of the sixteenth century. The legend on which _The Young Ruthven_ is based is well known; _The Queen of Spain_ is the story of the _Florencia_, a ship of the Spanish Armada, wrecked in Tobermory Bay, as it was told to me by a mariner in the Sound of Mull. In _Keith of Craigentolly_ the family and territorial names of the hero or villain are purposely altered, so as to avoid injuring susceptibilities and arousing unavailing regrets.
CONTENTS
DEDICATORY PAGE IN AUGUSTINUM DOBSON 3 LOYAL LYRICS HOW THE MAID MARCHED FROM BLOIS 7 LONE PLACES OF THE DEER 9 AN OLD SONG 10 JACOBITE “AULD LANG SYNE” 12 THE PRINCE’S BIRTHDAY 14 THE TENTH OF JUNE, 1715 15 WHITE ROSE DAY 17 RED AND WHITE ROSES 18 THE BONNIE BANKS O’ LOCH LOMOND 19 KENMURE 21 CULLODEN 23 THE LAST OF THE LEAL 25 JEANNE D’ARC 27 CRICKET RHYMES TO HELEN 31 BALLADE OF DEAD CRICKETERS 32 BRAHMA 34 CRITICAL OF LIFE, ART, AND LITERATURE GAINSBOROUGH GHOSTS 37 A REMONSTRANCE WITH THE FAIR 39 RHYME OF RHYMES 42 RHYME OF OXFORD COCKNEY RHYMES 44 ROCOCO 47 THE NEW ORPHEUS TO HIS EURYDICE 47 THE FOOD OF FICTION 59 “A HIGHLY VALUABLE CHAIN OF THOUGHTS” 51 MATRIMONY 53 PISCATORI PISCATOR 55 THE CONTENTED ANGLER 56 OFF MY GAME 58 THE PROPERTY OF A GENTLEMAN WHO HAS GIVEN UP COLLECTING 60 THE BALLADE OF THE SUBCONSCIOUS SELF 62 BALLADE OF THE OPTIMIST 64 ZIMBABWE 66 LOVE’S CRYPTOGRAM 68 TUSITALA 70 DISDAINFUL DIAPHENIA 72 TALL SALMACIS 73 JUBILEE POEMS WHAT FRANCESCO SAID OF THE JUBILEE 72 THE POET AND THE JUBILEE 79 ON ANY BEACH 81 ODE OF JUBILEE 82 JUBILEE BEFORE REVOLUTION 84 FOLK SONGS FRENCH PEASANT SONGS 89 BALLADS THE YOUNG RUTHVEN 93 THE QUEEN O’ SPAIN AND THE BAULD MCLEAN 97 KEITH OF CRAIGENTOLLY 101
DEDICATORY
_In Augustinum Dobson_.
JAM RUDE DONATUM.
DEAR Poet, now turned out to grass (Like him who reigned in Babylon), Forget the seasons overlaid By business and the Board of Trade: And sing of old-world lad and lass As in the summers that are gone.
Back to the golden prime of Anne! When you ambassador had been, And brought o’er sea the King again, Beatrix Esmond in his train, Ah, happy bard to hold her fan, And happy land with such a Queen!
We live too early, or too late, You should have shared the pint of Pope, And taught, well pleased, the shining shell To murmur of the fair Lepel, And changed the stars of St. John’s fate To some more happy horoscope.
By duchesses with roses crowned, And fed with chicken and champagne, Urbane and witty, and too wary To risk the feud of Lady Mary, You should have walked the courtly ground Of times that cannot come again.
Bring back these years in verse or prose, (I very much prefer your verse!) As on some Twenty-Ninth of May Restore the splendour and the sway, Forget the sins, the wars, the woes— The joys alone must you rehearse.
Forget the dunces (there is none So stupid as to snarl at _you_); So may your years with pen and book Run pleasant as an English brook Through meadows floral in the sun, And shadows fragrant of the dew.
And thus at ending of your span— As all must end—the world shall say, “His best he gave: he left us not A line that saints could wish to blot, For he was blameless, though a man, And though the poet, he was gay!”
LOYAL LYRICS
_How the Maid Marched from Blois_.
(Supposed to be narrated by James Power, or Polwarth, her Scottish banner-painter.)
THE Maiden called for her great destrier, But he lashed like a fiend when the Maid drew near: “Lead him forth to the Cross!” she cried, and he stood Like a steed of bronze by the Holy Rood!
Then I saw the Maiden mount and ride, With a good steel sperthe that swung by her side, And girt with the sword of the Heavenly Bride, That is sained with crosses five for a sign, The mystical sword of St. Catherine. And the lily banner was blowing wide, With the flowers of France on the field of fame And, blent with the blossoms, the Holy Name! And the Maiden’s blazon was shown on a shield, _Argent_, _a dove_, _on an azure field_; That banner was wrought by this hand, ye see, For the love of the Maid and chivalry.
Her banner was borne by a page of grace, With hair of gold, and a lady’s face; And behind it the ranks of her men were dressed— Never a man but was clean confessed, Jackman and archer, lord and knight, Their souls were clean and their hearts were light: There was never an oath, there was never a laugh, And La Hire swore soft by his leading staff! Had we died in that hour we had won the skies, And the Maiden had marched us through Paradise!
A moment she turned to the people there, Who had come to gaze on the Maiden fair; A moment she glanced at the ring she wore, She murmured the Holy Name it bore, Then, “For France and the King, good people pray!” She spoke, and she cried to us, “_On and away_!” And the shouts broke forth, and the flowers rained down, And the Maiden led us to Orleans town.
_Lone Places of the Deer_.
LONE places of the deer, Corrie, and Loch, and Ben, Fount that wells in the cave, Voice of the burn and the wave, Softly you sing and clear Of Charlie and his men!
Here has he lurked, and here The heather has been his bed, The wastes of the islands knew And the Highland hearts were true To the bonny, the brave, the dear, The royal, the hunted head.
_An Old Song_.
1750.
OH, it’s hame, hame, hame, And it’s hame I wadna be, Till the Lord calls King James To his ain countrie, Bids the wind blaw frae France, Till the Firth keps the faem, And Loch Garry and Lochiel Bring Prince Charlie hame.
May the lads Prince Charlie led That were hard on Willie’s track, When frae Laffen field he fled, Wi’ the claymore at his back, May they stand on Scottish soil When the White Rose bears the gree, And the Lord calls the King To his ain countrie!
Bid the seas arise and stand Like walls on ilka side, Till our Highland lad pass through With Jehovah for his guide. Dry up the River Forth, As Thou didst the Red Sea, When Israel cam hame To his ain countrie. {11}
_Jacobite_ “_Auld Lang Syne_.”
LOCHIEL’S REGIMENT, 1747.
THOUGH now we take King Lewie’s fee And drink King Lewie’s wine, We’ll bring the King frae ower the sea, As in auld lang syne.
For, he that did proud Pharaoh crush, And save auld Jacob’s line, Will speak to Charlie in the Bush, Like Moses, lang syne.
For oft we’ve garred the red coats run, Frae Garry to the Rhine, Frae Baugé brig to Falkirk moor, No that lang syne.
The Duke may with the Devil drink, And wi’ the deil may dine, But Charlie’s dine in Holyrood, As in auld lang syne.
For he who did proud Pharaoh crush, To save auld Jacob’s line, Shall speak to Charlie in the Bush, Like Moses, lang syne.
_The Prince’s Birthday_.
ROME, 31ST DECEMBER, 1721.
(A new-born star shone, which is figured on an early Medal of Prince Charles.)
A WONDERFUL star shone forth From the frozen skies of the North Upon Rome, for an Old Year’s night: And a flower on the dear white Rose Broke, in the season of snows, To bloom for a day’s delight.
Lost is the star in the night, And the Rose of a day’s delight Fled “where the roses go”: But the fragrance and light from afar, Born of the Rose and the Star, Breathe o’er the years and the snow.
_The Tenth of June_, 1715.
(Being a Song writ for a lady born on June 10th, the birthday of his Most Sacred Majesty King James III. and VIII.)
DAY of the King and the flower! And the girl of my heart’s delight, The blackbird sings in the bower, And the nightingale sings in the night A song to the roses white.
Day of the flower and the King! When shall the sails of white Shine on the seas and bring In the day, in the dawn, in the night, The King to his land and his right?
Day of my love and my may, After the long years’ flight, Born on the King’s birthday, Born for my heart’s delight, With the dawn of the roses white!
Black as the blackbird’s wing Is her hair, and her brow as white As the white rose blossoming, And her eyes as the falcon’s bright And her heart is leal to the right.
When shall the joy bells ring? When shall the hours unite The right with the might of my King, And my heart with my heart’s delight; In the dawn, in the day, in the night?
_White Rose Day_.
JUNE 10, 1688.
’TWAS a day of faith and flowers, Of honour that could not die, Of Hope that counted the hours, Of sorrowing Loyalty: And the _Blackbird_ sang in the closes, The _Blackbird_ piped in the spring, For the day of the dawn of the Roses, The dawn of the day of the King!
White roses over the heather, And down by the Lowland lea, And far in the faint blue weather, A white sail guessed on the sea! But the deep night gathers and closes, Shall ever a morning bring The lord of the leal white roses, The face of the rightful King?
_Red and White Roses_.
RED roses under the sun For the King who is lord of land; But he dies when his day is done, For his memory careth none When the glass runs empty of sand.
White roses under the moon For the King without lands to give; But he reigns with the reign of June, With the rose and the Blackbird’s tune, And he lives while Faith shall live.
Red roses for beef and beer; Red roses for wine and gold; But they drank of the water clear, In exile and sorry cheer, To the kings of our sires of old.
Red roses for wealth and might; White roses for hopes that flee; And the dreams of the day and the night, For the Lord of our heart’s delight— For the King that is o’er the sea.
_The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond_.
1746.
THERE’S an ending o’ the dance, and fair Morag’s safe in France, And the Clans they hae paid the lawing, And the wuddy has her ain, and we twa are left alane, Free o’ Carlisle gaol in the dawing.
So ye’ll tak the high road, and I’ll tak the laigh road, An’ I’ll be in Scotland before ye: But me and my true love will never meet again, By the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond.
For my love’s heart brake in twa, when she kenned the Cause’s fa’, And she sleeps where there’s never nane shall waken, Where the glen lies a’ in wrack, wi’ the houses toom and black, And her father’s ha’s forsaken.
While there’s heather on the hill shall my vengeance ne’er be still, While a bush hides the glint o’ a gun, lad; Wi’ the men o’ Sergeant Môr shall I work to pay the score, Till I wither on the wuddy in the sun, lad!
So ye’ll tak the high road, and I’ll tak the laigh road, An’ I’ll be in Scotland before ye: But me and my true love will never meet again, By the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond.
_Kenmure_.
1715.
“THE heather’s in a blaze, Willie, The White Rose decks the tree, The Fiery Cross is on the braes, And the King is on the sea!
“Remember great Montrose, Willie, Remember fair Dundee, And strike one stroke at the foreign foes Of the King that’s on the sea.
“There’s Gordons in the North, Willie, Are rising frank and free, Shall a Kenmure Gordon not go forth For the King that’s on the sea?
“A trusty sword to draw, Willie, A comely weird to dree, For the Royal Rose that’s like the snaw, And the King that’s on the sea!”
He cast ae look across his lands, Looked over loch and lea, He took his fortune in his hands, For the King was on the sea.
Kenmures have fought in Galloway For Kirk and Presbyt’rie, This Kenmure faced his dying day, For King James across the sea.
It little skills what faith men vaunt, If loyal men they be To Christ’s ain Kirk and Covenant, Or the King that’s o’er the sea.
_Culloden_.
DARK, dark was the day when we looked on Culloden And chill was the mist drop that clung to the tree, The oats of the harvest hung heavy and sodden, No light on the land and no wind on the sea.
There was wind, there was rain, there was fire on their faces, When the clans broke the bayonets and died on the guns, And ’tis Honour that watches the desolate places Where they sleep through the change of the snows and the suns.
Unfed and unmarshalled, outworn and outnumbered, All hopeless and fearless, as fiercely they fought, As when Falkirk with heaps of the fallen was cumbered, As when Gledsmuir was red with the havoc they wrought.
_Ah_, _woe worth you_, _Sleat_, _and the faith that you vowed_, _Ah_, _woe worth you_, _Lovat_, _Traquair_, _and Mackay_; _And woe on the false fairy flag of Macleod_, _And the fat squires who drank_, _but who dared not to die_!
Where the graves of Clan Chattan are clustered together, Where Macgillavray died by the Well of the Dead, We stooped to the moorland and plucked the pale heather That blooms where the hope of the Stuart was sped.
And a whisper awoke on the wilderness, sighing, Like the voice of the heroes who battled in vain, “Not for Tearlach alone the red claymore was plying, But to bring back the old life that comes not again.”
_The Last of the Leal_.
DECEMBER 31, 1787.
HERE’S a health to every man Bore the brunt of wind and weather; Winnowed sore by Fortune’s fan, Faded faith of chief and clan: Nairne and Caryl stand together; Here’s a health to every man Bore the brunt of wind and weather!
Oh, round Charlie many ran, When his foot was on the heather, When his sword shone in the van. Now at ending of his span, Gask and Caryl stand together!
Ne’er a hope from plot or plan, Ne’er a hope from rose or heather; Ay, the King’s a broken man; Few will bless, and most will ban. Nairne and Caryl stand together!
Help is none from Crown or clan, France is false, a fluttered feather; But Kings are not made by man, Till God end what God began, Nairne and Caryl stand together, Gask and Caryl stand together; Here’s a health to every man Bore the brunt of wind and weather!
_Jeanne d’Arc_.
THE honour of a loyal boy, The courage of a paladin, With maiden’s mirth, the soul of joy, These dwelt her happy breast within. From shame, from doubt, from fear, from sin, As God’s own angels was she free; Old worlds shall end, and new begin To be
Ere any come like her who fought For France, for freedom, for the King; Who counsel of redemption brought Whence even the armed Archangel’s wing Might weary sore in voyaging; Who heard her Voices cry “Be free!” Such Maid no later human spring Shall see!
Saints Michael, Catherine, Margaret, Who sowed the seed that Thou must reap, If eyes of angels may be wet, And if the Saints have leave to weep, In Paradise one pain they keep, Maiden! one mortal memory, One sorrow that can never sleep, For Thee!
CRICKET RHYMES
_To Helen_.
(After seeing her bowl with her usual success.)
ST. LEONARD’S HALL.
HELEN, thy bowling is to me Like that wise Alfred Shaw’s of yore, Which gently broke the wickets three: From Alfred few could smack a four: Most difficult to score!
The music of the moaning sea, The rattle of the flying bails, The grey sad spires, the tawny sails— What memories they bring to me, Beholding thee!
Upon our old monastic pitch, How sportsmanlike I see thee stand! The leather in thy lily hand, Oh, Helen of the yorkers, which Are nobly planned!
_Ballade of Dead Cricketers_.
AH, where be Beldham now, and Brett, Barker, and Hogsflesh, where be they? Brett, of all bowlers fleetest yet That drove the bails in disarray? And Small that would, like Orpheus, play Till wild bulls followed his minstrelsy? {32} Booker, and Quiddington, and May? Beneath the daisies, there they lie!
And where is Lambert, that would get The stumps with balls that broke astray? And Mann, whose balls would ricochet In almost an unholy way (So do baseballers “pitch” to-day) George Lear, that seldom let a bye, And Richard Nyren, grave and gray? Beneath the daisies, there they lie!
Tom Sueter, too, the ladies’ pet, Brown that would bravest hearts affray; Walker, invincible when set, (Tom, of the spider limbs and splay); Think ye that we could match them, pray, These heroes of Broad-halfpenny, With Buck to hit, and Small to stay? Beneath the daisies, there they lie!
ENVOY.
Prince, canst thou moralise the lay? How all things change below the sky! Of Fry and Grace shall mortals say, “Beneath the daisies, there they lie!”
_Brahma_.
AFTER EMERSON.
IF the wild bowler thinks he bowls, Or if the batsman thinks he’s bowled, They know not, poor misguided souls, They too shall perish unconsoled. _I_ am the batsman and the bat, _I_ am the bowler and the ball, The umpire, the pavilion cat, The roller, pitch, and stumps, and all.
CRITICAL OF LIFE, ART, AND LITERATURE
_Gainsborough Ghosts_.
IN THE GROSVENOR GALLERY.
THEY smile upon the western wall, The lips that laughed an age agone, The fops, the dukes, the beauties all, Le Brun that sang, and Carr that shone. We gaze with idle eyes: we con The faces of an elder time— Alas! and _ours_ is flitting on; Oh, moral for an empty rhyme!
Think, when the tumult and the crowd Have left the solemn rooms and chill, When dilettanti are not loud, When lady critics are not shrill— Ah, think how strange upon the still Dim air may sound these voices faint; Once more may Johnson talk his fill And fair Dalrymple charm the Saint!
Of us they speak as we of them, Like us, perchance, they criticise: Our wit, they vote, is Brummagem; Our beauty—dim to Devon’s eyes! Their silks and lace our cloth despise, Their pumps—our boots that pad the mud, What modern fop with Walpole vies? With St. Leger what modern blood?
Ah, true, we lack the charm, the wit, Our very greatest, sure, are small; And Mr. Gladstone is not Pitt, And Garrick comes not when we call. Yet—pass an age—and, after all, Even _we_ may please the folk that look When we are faces on the wall, And voices in a history book!
In Art the statesman yet shall live, With collars keen, with Roman nose; To Beauty yet shall Millais give The roses that outlast the rose: The lords of verse, the slaves of prose, On canvas yet shall seem alive, And charm the mob that comes and goes, And lives—in 1985.
_A Remonstrance with the Fair_.
THERE are thoughts that the mind cannot fathom, The mind of the animal male; But woman abundantly hath ’em, And mostly her notions prevail. And why ladies read what they _do_ read Is a thing that no man may explain, And if any one asks for a true rede He asketh in vain.
Ah, why is each “passing depression” Of stories that gloomily bore Received as the subtle expression Of almost unspeakable lore? In the dreary, the sickly, the grimy Say, why do our women delight, And wherefore so constantly ply me With _Ships in the Night_?
Dear ladies, in vain you approach us, With books to your taste in your hands; For, alas! though you offer to coach us, Yet the soul of no man understands Why the grubby is always the moral, Why the nasty’s preferred to the nice, While you keep up a secular quarrel With a gay little Vice;