Chapter 3

His hair a’ lang about his bree, His tap-lip lang by inches three— A slockened sort ‘mon,’ to pree A’ sensuality— A droutly glint was in his e’e An’ personality.

An’ day an’ nicht, frae daw to daw, Dink an’ perjink an’ doucely braw, Wi’ a kind o’ Gospel ower a’, May or October, Like Peden, followin’ the Law An’ no that sober.

Whusky an’ he were pack thegether. Whate’er the hour, whate’er the weather, John kept himsel’ wi’ mistened leather An’ kindled spunk. Wi’ him, there was nae askin’ whether— John was aye drunk.

The auncient heroes gash an’ bauld In the uncanny days of auld, The task ance fo(u)nd to which th’were called, Stack stenchly to it. His life sic noble lives recalled, Little’s he knew it.

Single an’ straucht, he went his way. He kept the faith an’ played the play. Whusky an’ he were man an’ may Whate’er betided. Bonny in life—in death—this twae Were no’ divided.

An’ wow! but John was unco sport. Whiles he wad smile about the Court Malvolio-like—whiles snore an’ snort Was heard afar. The idle winter lads’ resort Was aye John’s bar.

What’s merely humorous or bonny The Worl’ regairds wi’ cauld astony. Drunk men tak’ aye mair place than ony; An’ sae, ye see, The gate was aye ower thrang for Johnie— Or you an’ me.

John micht hae jingled cap an’ bells, Been a braw fule in silks an’ pells, In ane o’ the auld worl’s canty hells Paris or Sodom. I wadnae had him naething else But Johnie Adam.

He suffered—as have a’ that wan Eternal memory frae man, Since e’er the weary worl’ began— Mister or Madam, Keats or Scots Burns, the Spanish Don Or Johnie Adam.

We leuch, an’ Johnie deid. An’ fegs! Hoo he had keept his stoiterin’ legs Sae lang’s he did’s a fact that begs An explanation. He stachers fifty years—syne plegs To’s destination.

I WHO ALL THE WINTER THROUGH

I WHO all the winter through Cherished other loves than you, And kept hands with hoary policy in marriage-bed and pew; Now I know the false and true, For the earnest sun looks through, And my old love comes to meet me in the dawning and the dew.

Now the hedged meads renew Rustic odour, smiling hue, And the clean air shines and tinkles as the world goes wheeling through; And my heart springs up anew, Bright and confident and true, And my old love comes to meet me in the dawning and the dew.

LOVE, WHAT IS LOVE?

LOVE—what is love? A great and aching heart; Wrung hands; and silence; and a long despair. Life—what is life? Upon a moorland bare To see love coming and see love depart.

SOON OUR FRIENDS PERISH

SOON our friends perish, Soon all we cherish Fades as days darken—goes as flowers go. Soon in December Over an ember, Lonely we hearken, as loud winds blow.

AS ONE WHO HAVING WANDERED ALL NIGHT LONG

AS one who having wandered all night long In a perplexed forest, comes at length In the first hours, about the matin song, And when the sun uprises in his strength, To the fringed margin of the wood, and sees, Gazing afar before him, many a mile Of falling country, many fields and trees, And cities and bright streams and far-off Ocean’s smile:

I, O Melampus, halting, stand at gaze: I, liberated, look abroad on life, Love, and distress, and dusty travelling ways, The steersman’s helm, the surgeon’s helpful knife, On the lone ploughman’s earth-upturning share, The revelry of cities and the sound Of seas, and mountain-tops aloof in air, And of the circling earth the unsupported round:

I, looking, wonder: I, intent, adore; And, O Melampus, reaching forth my hands In adoration, cry aloud and soar In spirit, high above the supine lands And the low caves of mortal things, and flee To the last fields of the universe untrod, Where is no man, nor any earth, nor sea, And the contented soul is all alone with God.

STRANGE ARE THE WAYS OF MEN

STRANGE are the ways of men, And strange the ways of God! We tread the mazy paths That all our fathers trod.

We tread them undismayed, And undismayed behold The portents of the sky, The things that were of old.

The fiery stars pursue Their course in heav’n on high; And round the ‘leaguered town, Crest-tossing heroes cry.

Crest-tossing heroes cry; And martial fifes declare How small, to mortal minds, Is merely mortal care.

And to the clang of steel And cry of piercing flute Upon the azure peaks A God shall plant his foot:

A God in arms shall stand, And seeing wide and far The green and golden earth, The killing tide of war,

He, with uplifted arm, Shall to the skies proclaim The gleeful fate of man, The noble road to fame!

THE WIND BLEW SHRILL AND SMART

THE wind blew shrill and smart, And the wind awoke my heart Again to go a-sailing o’er the sea, To hear the cordage moan And the straining timbers groan, And to see the flying pennon lie a-lee.

O sailor of the fleet, It is time to stir the feet! It’s time to man the dingy and to row! It’s lay your hand in mine And it’s empty down the wine, And it’s drain a health to death before we go!

To death, my lads, we sail; And it’s death that blows the gale And death that holds the tiller as we ride. For he’s the king of all In the tempest and the squall, And the ruler of the Ocean wild and wide!

MAN SAILS THE DEEP AWHILE

MAN sails the deep awhile; Loud runs the roaring tide; The seas are wild and wide; O’er many a salt, o’er many a desert mile, The unchained breakers ride, The quivering stars beguile.

Hope bears the sole command; Hope, with unshaken eyes, Sees flaw and storm arise; Hope, the good steersman, with unwearying hand, Steers, under changing skies, Unchanged toward the land.

O wind that bravely blows! O hope that sails with all Where stars and voices call! O ship undaunted that forever goes Where God, her admiral, His battle signal shows!

What though the seas and wind Far on the deep should whelm Colours and sails and helm? There, too, you touch that port that you designed— There, in the mid-seas’ realm, Shall you that haven find.

Well hast thou sailed: now die, To die is not to sleep. Still your true course you keep, O sailor soul, still sailing for the sky; And fifty fathom deep Your colours still shall fly.

THE COCK’S CLEAR VOICE INTO THE CLEARER AIR

THE cock’s clear voice into the clearer air Where westward far I roam, Mounts with a thrill of hope, Falls with a sigh of home.

A rural sentry, he from farm and field The coming morn descries, And, mankind’s bugler, wakes The camp of enterprise.

He sings the morn upon the westward hills Strange and remote and wild; He sings it in the land Where once I was a child.

He brings to me dear voices of the past, The old land and the years: My father calls for me, My weeping spirit hears.

Fife, fife, into the golden air, O bird, And sing the morning in; For the old days are past And new days begin.

NOW WHEN THE NUMBER OF MY YEARS

NOW when the number of my years Is all fulfilled, and I From sedentary life Shall rouse me up to die, Bury me low and let me lie Under the wide and starry sky. Joying to live, I joyed to die, Bury me low and let me lie.

Clear was my soul, my deeds were free, Honour was called my name, I fell not back from fear Nor followed after fame. Bury me low and let me lie Under the wide and starry sky. Joying to live, I joyed to die, Bury me low and let me lie.

Bury me low in valleys green And where the milder breeze Blows fresh along the stream, Sings roundly in the trees— Bury me low and let me lie Under the wide and starry sky. Joying to live, I joyed to die, Bury me low and let me lie.

WHAT MAN MAY LEARN, WHAT MAN MAY DO

WHAT man may learn, what man may do, Of right or wrong of false or true, While, skipper-like, his course he steers Through nine and twenty mingled years, Half misconceived and half forgot, So much I know and practise not.

Old are the words of wisdom, old The counsels of the wise and bold: To close the ears, to check the tongue, To keep the pining spirit young; To act the right, to say the true, And to be kind whate’er you do.

Thus we across the modern stage Follow the wise of every age; And, as oaks grow and rivers run Unchanged in the unchanging sun, So the eternal march of man Goes forth on an eternal plan.

SMALL IS THE TRUST WHEN LOVE IS GREEN

SMALL is the trust when love is green In sap of early years; A little thing steps in between And kisses turn to tears.

Awhile—and see how love be grown In loveliness and power! Awhile, it loves the sweets alone, But next it loves the sour.

A little love is none at all That wanders or that fears; A hearty love dwells still at call To kisses or to tears.

Such then be mine, my love to give, And such be yours to take:— A faith to hold, a life to live, For lovingkindness’ sake:

Should you be sad, should you be gay, Or should you prove unkind, A love to hold the growing way And keep the helping mind:—

A love to turn the laugh on care When wrinkled care appears, And, with an equal will, to share Your losses and your tears.

KNOW YOU THE RIVER NEAR TO GREZ

KNOW you the river near to Grez, A river deep and clear? Among the lilies all the way, That ancient river runs to-day From snowy weir to weir.

Old as the Rhine of great renown, She hurries clear and fast, She runs amain by field and town From south to north, from up to down, To present on from past.

The love I hold was borne by her; And now, though far away, My lonely spirit hears the stir Of water round the starling spur Beside the bridge at Grez.

So may that love forever hold In life an equal pace; So may that love grow never old, But, clear and pure and fountain-cold, Go on from grace to grace.

IT’S FORTH ACROSS THE ROARING FOAM

IT’S forth across the roaring foam, and on towards the west, It’s many a lonely league from home, o’er many a mountain crest, From where the dogs of Scotland call the sheep around the fold, To where the flags are flying beside the Gates of Gold.

Where all the deep-sea galleons ride that come to bring the corn, Where falls the fog at eventide and blows the breeze at morn; It’s there that I was sick and sad, alone and poor and cold, In yon distressful city beside the Gates of Gold.

I slept as one that nothing knows; but far along my way, Before the morning God rose and planned the coming day; Afar before me forth he went, as through the sands of old, And chose the friends to help me beside the Gates of Gold.

I have been near, I have been far, my back’s been at the wall, Yet aye and ever shone the star to guide me through it all: The love of God, the help of man, they both shall make me bold Against the gates of darkness as beside the Gates of Gold.

AN ENGLISH BREEZE

UP with the sun, the breeze arose, Across the talking corn she goes, And smooth she rustles far and wide Through all the voiceful countryside.

Through all the land her tale she tells; She spins, she tosses, she compels The kites, the clouds, the windmill sails And all the trees in all the dales.

God calls us, and the day prepares With nimble, gay and gracious airs: And from Penzance to Maidenhead The roads last night He watered.

God calls us from inglorious ease, Forth and to travel with the breeze While, swift and singing, smooth and strong She gallops by the fields along.

AS IN THEIR FLIGHT THE BIRDS OF SONG

AS in their flight the birds of song Halt here and there in sweet and sunny dales, But halt not overlong; The time one rural song to sing They pause; then following bounteous gales Steer forward on the wing: Sun-servers they, from first to last, Upon the sun they wait To ride the sailing blast.

So he awhile in our contested state, Awhile abode, not longer, for his Sun— Mother we say, no tenderer name we know— With whose diviner glow His early days had shone, Now to withdraw her radiance had begun. Or lest a wrong I say, not she withdrew, But the loud stream of men day after day And great dust columns of the common way Between them grew and grew: And he and she for evermore might yearn, But to the spring the rivulets not return Nor to the bosom comes the child again.

And he (O may we fancy so!), He, feeling time forever flow And flowing bear him forth and far away From that dear ingle where his life began And all his treasure lay— He, waxing into man, And ever farther, ever closer wound In this obstreperous world’s ignoble round, From that poor prospect turned his face away.

THE PIPER

AGAIN I hear you piping, for I know the tune so well,— You rouse the heart to wander and be free, Tho’ where you learned your music, not the God of song can tell, For you pipe the open highway and the sea. O piper, lightly footing, lightly piping on your way, Tho’ your music thrills and pierces far and near, I tell you you had better pipe to someone else to-day, For you cannot pipe my fancy from my dear.

You sound the note of travel through the hamlet and the town; You would lure the holy angels from on high; And not a man can hear you, but he throws the hammer down And is off to see the countries ere he die. But now no more I wander, now unchanging here I stay; By my love, you find me safely sitting here: And pipe you ne’er so sweetly, till you pipe the hills away, You can never pipe my fancy from my dear.

TO MRS. MACMARLAND

IN Schnee der Alpen—so it runs To those divine accords—and here We dwell in Alpine snows and suns, A motley crew, for half the year: A motley crew, we dwell to taste— A shivering band in hope and fear— That sun upon the snowy waste, That Alpine ether cold and clear.

Up from the laboured plains, and up From low sea-levels, we arise To drink of that diviner cup The rarer air, the clearer skies; For, as the great, old, godly King From mankind’s turbid valley cries, So all we mountain-lovers sing: I to the hills will lift mine eyes.

The bells that ring, the peaks that climb, The frozen snow’s unbroken curd Might yet revindicate in rhyme The pauseless stream, the absent bird. In vain—for to the deeps of life You, lady, you my heart have stirred; And since you say you love my life, Be sure I love you for the word.

Of kindness, here I nothing say— Such loveless kindnesses there are In that grimacing, common way, That old, unhonoured social war. Love but my dog and love my love, Adore with me a common star— I value not the rest above The ashes of a bad cigar.

TO MISS CORNISH

THEY tell me, lady, that to-day On that unknown Australian strand— Some time ago, so far away— Another lady joined the band. She joined the company of those Lovelily dowered, nobly planned, Who, smiling, still forgive their foes And keep their friends in close command.

She, lady, as I learn, was one Among the many rarely good; And destined still to be a sun Through every dark and rainy mood:— She, as they told me, far had come, By sea and land, o’er many a rood:— Admired by all, beloved by some, She was yourself, I understood.

But, compliment apart and free From all constraint of verses, may Goodness and honour, grace and glee, Attend you ever on your way— Up to the measure of your will, Beyond all power of mine to say— As she and I desire you still, Miss Cornish, on your natal day.

TALES OF ARABIA

YES, friend, I own these tales of Arabia Smile not, as smiled their flawless originals, Age-old but yet untamed, for ages Pass and the magic is undiminished.

Thus, friend, the tales of the old Camaralzaman, Ayoub, the Slave of Love, or the Calendars, Blind-eyed and ill-starred royal scions, Charm us in age as they charmed in childhood.

Fair ones, beyond all numerability, Beam from the palace, beam on humanity, Bright-eyed, in truth, yet soul-less houris Offering pleasure and only pleasure.

Thus they, the venal Muses Arabian, Unlike, indeed, the nobler divinities, Greek Gods or old time-honoured muses, Easily proffer unloved caresses.

Lost, lost, the man who mindeth the minstrelsy; Since still, in sandy, glittering pleasances, Cold, stony fruits, gem-like but quite in- Edible, flatter and wholly starve him.

BEHOLD, AS GOBLINS DARK OF MIEN

BEHOLD, as goblins dark of mien And portly tyrants dyed with crime Change, in the transformation scene, At Christmas, in the pantomime,

Instanter, at the prompter’s cough, The fairy bonnets them, and they Throw their abhorred carbuncles off And blossom like the flowers in May.

—So mankind, to angelic eyes, So, through the scenes of life below, In life’s ironical disguise, A travesty of man, ye go:

But fear not: ere the curtain fall, Death in the transformation scene Steps forward from her pedestal, Apparent, as the fairy Queen;

And coming, frees you in a trice From all your lendings—lust of fame, Ungainly virtue, ugly vice, Terror and tyranny and shame.

So each, at last himself, for good In that dear country lays him down, At last beloved and understood And pure in feature and renown.

STILL I LOVE TO RHYME

STILL I love to rhyme, and still more, rhyming, to wander Far from the commoner way; Old-time trills and falls by the brook-side still do I ponder, Dreaming to-morrow to-day.

Come here, come, revive me, Sun-God, teach me, Apollo, Measures descanted before; Since I ancient verses, I emulous follow, Prints in the marbles of yore.

Still strange, strange, they sound in old-young raiment invested, Songs for the brain to forget— Young song-birds elate to grave old temples benested Piping and chirruping yet.

Thoughts? No thought has yet unskilled attempted to flutter Trammelled so vilely in verse; He who writes but aims at fame and his bread and his butter, Won with a groan and a curse.

LONG TIME I LAY IN LITTLE EASE

LONG time I lay in little ease Where, placed by the Turanian, Marseilles, the many-masted, sees The blue Mediterranean.

Now songful in the hour of sport, Now riotous for wages, She camps around her ancient port, As ancient of the ages.

Algerian airs through all the place Unconquerably sally; Incomparable women pace The shadows of the alley.

And high o’er dark and graving yard And where the sky is paler, The golden virgin of the guard Shines, beckoning the sailor.

She hears the city roar on high, Thief, prostitute, and banker; She sees the masted vessels lie Immovably at anchor.

She sees the snowy islets dot The sea’s immortal azure, And If, that castellated spot, Tower, turret, and embrasure.

FLOWER GOD, GOD OF THE SPRING

FLOWER god, god of the spring, beautiful, bountiful, Cold-dyed shield in the sky, lover of versicles, Here I wander in April Cold, grey-headed; and still to my Heart, Spring comes with a bound, Spring the deliverer, Spring, song-leader in woods, chorally resonant; Spring, flower-planter in meadows, Child-conductor in willowy Fields deep dotted with bloom, daisies and crocuses: Here that child from his heart drinks of eternity: O child, happy are children! She still smiles on their innocence, She, dear mother in God, fostering violets, Fills earth full of her scents, voices and violins: Thus one cunning in music Wakes old chords in the memory: Thus fair earth in the Spring leads her performances. One more touch of the bow, smell of the virginal Green—one more, and my bosom Feels new life with an ecstasy.

COME, MY BELOVED, HEAR FROM ME

COME, my beloved, hear from me Tales of the woods or open sea. Let our aspiring fancy rise A wren’s flight higher toward the skies; Or far from cities, brown and bare, Play at the least in open air. In all the tales men hear us tell Still let the unfathomed ocean swell, Or shallower forest sound abroad Below the lonely stars of God; In all, let something still be done, Still in a corner shine the sun, Slim-ankled maids be fleet of foot, Nor man disown the rural flute. Still let the hero from the start In honest sweat and beats of heart Push on along the untrodden road For some inviolate abode. Still, O beloved, let me hear The great bell beating far and near— The odd, unknown, enchanted gong That on the road hales men along, That from the mountain calls afar, That lures a vessel from a star, And with a still, aerial sound Makes all the earth enchanted ground. Love, and the love of life and act Dance, live and sing through all our furrowed tract; Till the great God enamoured gives To him who reads, to him who lives, That rare and fair romantic strain That whoso hears must hear again.

SINCE YEARS AGO FOR EVERMORE

SINCE years ago for evermore My cedar ship I drew to shore; And to the road and riverbed And the green, nodding reeds, I said Mine ignorant and last farewell: Now with content at home I dwell, And now divide my sluggish life Betwixt my verses and my wife: In vain; for when the lamp is lit And by the laughing fire I sit, Still with the tattered atlas spread Interminable roads I tread.

ENVOY FOR “A CHILD’S GARDEN OF VERSES”

WHETHER upon the garden seat You lounge with your uplifted feet Under the May’s whole Heaven of blue; Or whether on the sofa you, No grown up person being by, Do some soft corner occupy; Take you this volume in your hands And enter into other lands, For lo! (as children feign) suppose You, hunting in the garden rows, Or in the lumbered attic, or The cellar—a nail-studded door And dark, descending stairway found That led to kingdoms underground: There standing, you should hear with ease Strange birds a-singing, or the trees Swing in big robber woods, or bells On many fairy citadels: