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LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THE NORTH AND OTHER POEMS AND SONGS. Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013459338 LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THE NORTH AND OTHER POEMS AND SONGS HUMOROUS AND GRAVE ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED BY DAVID ^RANT, A.C.P., F.E.I.S. AUTHOR OF 'METRICAL TALES,' 'LILY OF PARK HILL,' ETC. EDINBURGH OLIPHANT, ANDERSON, & FERRIER, 24 ST. GILES ST. ANDREW ELLIOT, 17 PRINCES STREET 1884 ^Ao^%05\ EBinSurgfj BSni&crsita ^nee: ■ AND A. CUN.STABLE, PRINTEKS TO HER MAJESTY. TO DAVID PHILIP, Esq., S.S.C. IN BOYHOOD MY HOPEFUL PUPIL IN MANHOOD MY CONSTAI>IT FRIEND I SJeBicstt THESE ' LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THE NORTH ' WITH FEELINGS OF SINCERE ESTEEM AND AFFECTIONATE REGARD. THE AUTHOR. gjtitrotiuction* ' Lays and Legends of the North'- Take them — take them at their worth. Pliant to whatever power Ruled the feelings of the hour, T have journeyed earth along. Singing grave or gleeful song: Freely, as a poet ought, Scatfring as the Muses brought. Shall I in these later tim.es, Can I now recast my rhymes ? As they came they needs must go, Prove the critic friend or foe ; Yet I fondly hope that none Shall desire 7ny work undone. Nor my own belovld North Judge it wholly void of worth. But rejoice that I have glassed Rural manners changing fast. CONTENTS. LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THE NORTH. PAGE The Muckle Spate of 'Twenty-nine, . i The Bodie fae Birse's Tale, 25 News o' Waterloo, . . • ■ • 33 Tammie. Tod's Trip to Elgin i' the Days o' Langsyne, 37 DrowneB in the Dee, ... 47 The Sounin' o' the Kirk, .' 52 Meerie's Christening, ..... 67 The Laird o' Littlefirlot's Wooin', . . 78 The Cooper's Weddin', ... 91 Doon Bellscavie, . . . 102 Sister Helen, . . 105 A Feughside Fairy Tale, . . . . 108 Luckless Tam Lowrie and the Accident Assurance Company, 117 The Brookes of Southbrook Hall, . 124 The Hapless Poet's last Lay, . .127 SONGS. My Mither Tongue, The Land o' Cakes, Robert Burns, Morayland, Back, back to Morayland, 133 136 138 140 142 Fair fa' the Guidwives o' Lhanbryd, 144 Elgin Toon, . I45 Contents. The old grey Tower, . "^ . 146 The Elgin Attorney, 148 Drowned at the Ford, 151 Christmas Song, IS3 Christmas Carol, . 1 54 Hurrah for Christmas, 156 Oh to be Young again. 157 Can this be Love ? . 1S8 The Night Winds speak in the old, old tone. 159 We have the World before us, 160 Maritima, the Ocean Child, i6i TheTrysting, .... 163 Song of the Railway Guard, 164 A Spring Song, . 16s A Summer Song, . 165 A Winter Song, 166 Kate Nicholson, 167 The Gardener's Daughter, . 168 Mary, the Flower of the Dee, 169 Boys' Holiday Song, 170 Auld Duncan, 172 The Willing Maiden, 173 I daurna come courtin' thee. 174 The Bonnie Lass o' Kirkwall, 175 The Child and the Bird, .... 176 The Invitation, 178 I winna tak' him. 179 My Lizzie's Charms, 179 The ae Kiss, 180 The Troubadour, . 182 Love Song— The dear little Yes, . 183 The Angel Bird, . 184 The Merman's Song, i8s Contents. The Robins— A Child's Song, ' . '. PAGE i86 O never sigh though friends forget, . i86 Song to Arabella, . 187 A Youth sat dreaming by a Brook, 188 Ah ! how will they gree.t us, . 189 Johnny, man, I'm wantin' Siller, . 190 A Gipsy Chorus, . 192 A Patriotic Song, . 193 The Glittering Eye, 194 An Exile's Song, . . 196 The Luckless Love o' Tailyour Tam, 197 The Farmer's Wooin', 198 The Naggletons, . . . . 199 Never meet Troubles half-way. 200 Auld Scotland yet, 201 The Last Song of the Season, 202 TRANSLATIONS AND PARAPHRASES. The Way to Paradise, King Enzio's Death, The Wives of Weinsberg, . The Lion's Bride, . The Fiddler, Solomon and the Sower, . The False Squire, . The Two Kings at Orkadal, The King and the Miller, . Evening, . The Child of Sorrow, A Winter Song, The Play of the Strings, . Hope, 205 209 214 217 219 222 222 224 224 226 227 229 230 232 X Contents. PAGE The Moss Rose, .... 234 The Brooklet, ... .235 The Partition of the Earth, . . .236 Mother-tongue, ... • 238 Longing, ..... 239 Prayer during Battle, . . . 240 The Bird and the Fowler, .... 242 Flower Angels, ..... 244 The Angel Brothers Sleep and Death, . . 247 The Old Countryman to his Son, . . . 249 Fairy Riddles, ... .251 The Monks of the Abbey of Grabaw, . . 255 Satan outwitted, ... . . 258 The Last Poet, . . . 259 The Battle, . . . 261 The Guardian Angel, . . 266 King Renaud, . . . . 268 Black Eyes and Blue Eyes, 271 Horace — Ode I. Book I., . . . . 272 The Shades of the Unburied and the Ferryman Charon, . 273 From the Greek of Anacreon — Qi\u> Xi'iiiv 'ArpeiSas, . . . 276 $i5(7ts K^para raiipow, ... . 277 B?s"B/)WTO, . ... 277 Au Revoir, .... . 280 LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THE NORTH. LAYS AND LEGENDS OF THE NORTH. THE MUCKLE SPATE OF 'TWENTY-NINE: Being sojne memorials o' the Muckle Spate in auchteen twenty-nine, as the same exhibited itseV i' the Howe o' Fcugh to the een an' imagination o* an indwaller i' the Parish o' Stra'an. jFjtte tlje jFirst. Shawin' the oncome n' the spate, alang wi' the general ruction ensuin' an' the special mishanters occurrin' to the Dystero' Dalsack ; at Mill o' Clinter ; to Ennochie's cluckin' hen ; to the fairmer o' Fytestane ; at the Mill o' Stra'an ; to the Souter o" Dalbreck ; to the Wyever o' the Strathy ; and to the Cairder at Haugh o' Stra'an. Tho' I was only but a bairn In auchteen twenty-nine, The mem'ry o' the Muckle Spate Has never left my min'. We had a byous weety time, A week, or maybe mair, The eident rain kept pelting on, Nae single hoor wis fair ; A The Muckle Spate of 'Twenty-nine. An' then for four-an'-twenty hoors There followed a doonfa' The like o' which, sin' Noah's flood, The warl' never saw. The thunner rum'lt roon the hills. The howes were in a soom, We thocht the warl', bwergaen wi' age, Drew near the crack o' doom ; We thocht the tulzie wis renew't Wi' yon uncanny ban' ; We thocht the deil hed speelt the lift, An' got the upper han' ; We thocht the promise wis forgot To droon the warl' nae mair ; We thocht — we kent na' fat to think, Oor hieds wi' thocht were sair. > It wis upon a Fiersday nicht. As near as I can think, When this ooncommon ootpoor fell Fae skies as black as ink ; An' when we raise at skriek o' day, In ilka bit ravine, A reamin' burn cam' rum'Iin' doon Faur bum wis nane thestreen. The Feugh cam' rairin' doon fae Birse, An' swept the haughs o' Stra'an ; Horse, pigs, an' kye were droont i' Dye, An' sheep by scores in A'an. An' yarn reels, an' spinnin' wheels. An' bowies, cogs, and caups. The Muckk Spate of ^Twenty-nine. An' tables, chairs, an' cutty steels, On ane anither's taps ; An' girnels, aumries, washin' tubs, An' smuggled whisky kegs ; Cheese chessils, butter kits, an' kirns, An' couple bauks an' legs ; An' divots, thack, an' tiihmer lums, An' rantle trees wi' cruiks, An' backets, baith for aise an' saut, An' racks for plates an' buiks ; An' barn-fans, an' flails, an' fleers, An' canasses an' seeks ; An' cheeks o' doors, an' doors themsel's, Wi' broken ban's an' snecks ; An' firlot measures, corn scythes, Wi' lang or forkit sneds ; An' harrows, barrows, cairts, an' pleughs, An' neep machines an' sleds ; An' skeps o' bees, an' sowen sieves. An' skulls, an' tatie creels ; An' reets, an' trunks, an' taps o' trees, An' palin' bars, an' deals. An' sides, an' reefs o' sheds for peats. Or sheds for liaudin' nowt, And hay that steed in soos or colls. Or lay into the 'bout ; An' bere an' aits in sheaves or taits, Weel haint the simmer through, Ther'out in rucks or i' the barn, Weel biggit in a mow. And ither things that I 've forgot Amid sae gryte a steer. The Muckle Spate of ^ Twenty-iwie. Or winna inter into rhyme For crabbit names or queer, Gaed chasin' ane anither doon Far, far ayont oor ken. For we at hame were bairns a', The aul'est barely ten. And noo my Muse wad no' refuse To tell you scores o' things She notit as by-ordinar', But she maun cour her wings ; For sorra tak' that printer chiel, He winna listen till 'er ; He tells me that to print her screeds, Wud cost a soud o' siller. So I maun only wyle a fyou, An' maybe no' the best. An' leave till times o' better trade, Or never print the rest ; Nor need I wander far abroad, For me 'twill be eneuch To sing fat childish senses grasp'd, Alang the Howe o' Feugh. The dyster, like a drookit rat, Escapit fae Dalsack, Wi' naething save his ham sark Upon his dreepin' back. He saved his life, an' little mair, By perfect speed o' fit, But lost his shop an' a' his claith, His bowies, pots, an' lit. The Muckle Spate of ' Twenty-nine. At Clinter Mill a raealer lay, The aits had come fae Knowes, Unweigh't, unseckit i' the troch, As gweed 's a dizzen bowes ; Plish-plash the water skelpit in, Across the disty fleer, Owre-lap the trocli, an' in a trice The mealer wis caul' steer. At Ennochie a cluckin' hen Wis sittin' in a kist, Baith it an' her were svveelt awa' Afore the creatur' wist ; We saw her passin' near Heugh-head As canty as ye like. Afore her ark a droonit stirk, Ahint a droonit tyke, An' ran anent her doon the banks For half-a-mile or mair, Observin' that, at ilka jolt, She lookit unca scare, As gin she said within hersel' — ' Faur ever am I gyaun ? I never saw the like o' this In Birse nor yet in Stra'an. Faur ever am I gyaun, bairns ? Nae canny gait, I doot ; Gin I cud but get near the side, I think I wad flee cot.' We left her near the Burn o' Frusk, An' speculatit lang The Muckle Spate of 'Twenty-niiie. Gin she were carri't to the sea Afore her ark gaed wrang, An' may be spairt by Davie Jones To bring her cleckin' cot, Gin she wad rear them like a hen Or like a water coot ? Twa muckle rucks o' fairnyear's aits Wer' stanin' at Fytestane When Fytie gaed to bed at nicht ; He raise, an' there wis nane ! Noo, Fytie wis a gethert carle, Fa weel the loss cud bide ; But yet he lap as he were wud, An' poo't his hair an' cry't — ' We 're herrit, wife ! we 're herrit clean ! Faur, faur 's the fusky pig ? Oor rucks o' corn are baith awa'. An' sae 's the timmer brig !' An' Fytie's Brig, the Lady's Brig, An' mony brigs forbye, That spate sent rumblin' doon the Feugh, Or doon the A'an an' Dye. A timmer brig ye wadna seen Faure'er yer fit micht fa', An' barely ane o' lime an' stane That hedna lost a wa'. At Mill o' Stra'an, the millert's man Wis busy grinnin' aits, Wi' a' his thochts on Mary Bell, An' nane to spare for spates, The Muckle Spate of ^Twenty-nine. When ' clipper-clapper' flew the mill, As ne'er flew mill afore ; An' helter-skelter gush'd the spate Through ilka hole an' bore. Nae langer noo on women folks Scared Sandy's notions ran, There wis eneuch o' thochtfu' wark For maister an' for man ; Nor yet for a' 'at baith cud lave, Or dicht, or dem, or close. Wis ever seen at Mill o' Stra'an So big a caup o' brose. A smatchet o' a lassie serv't The souter at Dalbreck, He lost a dizzen ham sarks Through her entire neglec'. She left them bleachin' o' the green, Wi' ither claes a cum ; The spate cam' on upo' the nicht. An' a' gaed doon the burn. A wudder souter lingan ne'er Through leather tried to rug ; He took the smatchet wi' his neive A riesle on the lug> ' Tak' that,' quo' he, ' ye careless shard, I'se gar ye wear my marks, Yer trachle for a dizzen years Wad no' renew my sarks !' The sharger sat an' hoor an' grat Upo' the deece the but The Muckle Spate of 'Twenty-nine. Until her e'en were baith as red As collops newly cut. ' I '11 tell my mither noo,' she cried, ' As sure as I 'm alive, She '11 gar the souter smairt afore The lawwers o' Stanehive.' The wyever o' the Strathy's leem Wis connacht oot-an'-oot, His wobs o' wincy dawdlt waur Nor any scoorin' cloot. His pirns an' clews, an' worset hesps, Beclairtit i' the glaur, Till 'twud hae taen a clever chiel To tell ye fat they war. A dowie man the wyever wis. When to the shop he comes, ' Preserve 's,' he cries, ' the hale concern 's Nae worth a bunch o' thrums !' The Cairdin' Mill at Haugh o' Stra'an, The eelie pigs an' woo'. Were ruint, smasht, or sweelt awa', Alang wi' Cairdy's coo. Fat wye the Cairder an' the wife, Wi' little'ns twa or three. Got aff wi' Ufe, I dinna ken. An' winna tell a lee ; For tho' I ken that mony ane Fa han'le pen an' ink, Wad no' regaird a lee or twa To gar their story clink, The Muckle Spate of ' Twenty-nine. Yet I am nae romancin' bard, In lees I dinna deal, But only tell the stories learnt In natur's simple skweel. JFjtte tlje ©econn. Shawin' the mishanters occurrin' to Johnny Joss the Cadger, Davie Durrit, aul' Willie Wilson, peer Tain IWRory, Cammie, my Sister's Lam', an' aul' Meg Mill. A cadger body, Johnny Joss, Nae far fae Bogendreep, Lost shawltie, cairtie, creels an' a' At ae unlucky sweep. The shawlt wis droonit at the sta', The cairt washt fae the shed, An' Johnny made a nar' escape Fae droonin' in his bed ; But aifter a' the splore wis owre. The body, far fae blate, Contrived to turn to gweed account The losses by the spate. He got a beggin' paper drawn By some buik-learnt chiel, An' beggit Banchory, Birse, an' Stra'an An' bits o' Dores as weel ; An' took a soud o' siller up. An' when his pouch wis foo, Crap slyly o'er the Cairn o' Month Wi' very sma' ado. An' took a tackie i' the Mearns, An' got a braw gudewife, The Mtickle Spate of 'Twenty-nine. An' lived a much respectit man The remnant o' his life. He wadna win in twenty years By sellin' stinkin' skate The half o' fat he got in lieu O' losses by the spate. Fae Caulmeer Davie Durrit ran The skeely wife to ca', But ere he got to Bowsie's Haughs, The water cover't a'. He got a horse at Templeton, An' boldly ventured o'er ; He cross't the brig, he pass'd the kirk, He lan't at Lerachmore ; The skeely wife lap fae her bed, An' buskit in a glint. Douce Davie took his seat afore, The skeely wife ahint, An' Davie got her doon the brae, Wi' neither jolt nor jirk. An' cantily they pass'd the manse An' cantily the kirk ; But when they turn't the merchant's shop, For a' his canty cawin', ' I wadna gyang across,' cried she, ' For a' the wives o' Stra'an ! Preserve 's ! the water 's ower the brig. An' oot at baith the en's ; Turn back the beast, else I '11 loup doon, Though I sud brak my banes !' The Muckle Spate of 'Twenty-nine 1 1 The ne'er a word douce Davie spak', But gae his beast a lick, An' doon the road, an' owre the brig, He plash'd through thin an' thick. The skeely wife she pray't an' bann't, An' grat for fear an' spite ; But ne'er a word douce Davie spak', For a' that she could flyte. Wi' stick an' heel, owre stream an' peel, He rade wi' niicht an' main. But to his pairtner's angry words He answerin' word gae nane ; Till baith were safe afore his door, Then lichtly he lap doon, ' Get aff the beast, gyang in,' cries he, ' An' try an' gie 's a loon. Gyang in at ance, an' ben the hoose. It 's eeseless noo to fryne ; Sae tak' a dram an' dae yer wark. For I 'm seer I 've deen mine.' Afore an hoor a loon was born, I min' the little'n weel, A gyangrel at his mither's fit, When we were at the skweel. An' aye the howdie eest to brag. Through a' her aifter life, Hoo bravely she rade through the spate To Davie Durrit's wife. Aul' Willie Wilson lost his coo. An' never got anither, The Muckle Spate of 'Twenty-nine. He left her near the waterside A' nicht upo' the tether. She brak' the tether in a fleg, An' clam upon a heugh, But mist a fit, or took a dwam, An' tum'lt i' the Feugh, She sank into the muckle pot, Aneth the kelpie's stane, An' afterwards wis swirl't awa', — He lost her skin an' bane. Peer Tam M'Rory's breedin' soo, Gaed doon the Burn o' Cammie, A muckle loss, an' sair heart-brak' Baith to the wife an' Tammie, For they were just expectin' pigs, An' pigs were gey an' dear. The litter wad 'a paid the rent, An' left a note, or near. O' Cammie's hay gaed doon the Feugh, As gweed's a dizzen stanes. But for the loss richt weel I wat He made a braw amends. I maunna say the carlie wrang. He's lost the vital spank, But troth for weeks he gather't hay Fae Cammie to Deebank. For ilka stane o' hay he lost 'Twas said he gather't ten, An' aifter a' wis deen declair't He hadna half his ain. The Mitckle spate of ' Twenty-nine. 13 He gethert tip as well as doo7i, An' maybe wisna wrang, For fa cud tell in sic a spate Fat gait their gear micht gang 1, My sister lost the brocket lam' She got fae Tammie Durrit — 'Twis said she micht 'a got a croon O' gweed fyte siller for it. Peer silly ted, it brak' its string An' ran upo' the brae, An' saw a sheep come bleatin' doon Upon a coll o' hay. We didna ken — it micht 'a thocht The bleatin' sheep its mither. At onyrate it jumpit in. An' baith were droon't thegither. But wae's my hairt for aul' Meg Mill, Far kent as ' Birlin' Meg,' Fae Persie to the mou' o' Feugh Nane got a gryter fleg. Her liefu' lane in her wee hoose She span the thread like Fate, Till splash against her ain kailyard She heard the muckle spate. ' Preserve 's ! and guide's ! fat 's this ?' cried Meg, ' The kelpie seer eneuch ! He 's never met wi' sic a spate Sin' ever Feugh wis Feugh; 14 The MucMe Spate of 'Twenty-nine. It 's clean owregaen him in his pot, An' fairly forced to flee, He's come to howff in my kailyard, Or scrammle up a tree. ' An' glaid am I the coord'y klype Has got's deserts for ance, To punish him for fleggin' bairns, An' folks fa live them lanes. But, safe me ! I maun haud my tongue, For gin the klype come ben, He '11 harl me awa' at ance To Satan's fiery den.' An' here sic fears assail'd her min', O' kelpie, spate, and deil, That fae her fingers drapt the thread, An' ceased the birlin' wheel ; Her hairt lap fairly till her mou', An' thumpit like a drum ; She heard anither splash, and thocht Her hinner en' had come ; She luiket but, she luiket ben, To window and to door, An' aye she heard the ither splash, An' aye the ither roar. She luik't to window and to door, But dared na ventur' oot ; She scrammlt to the rantle-tree, An' warstlt i' the soot. Wi' a' her micht an' main she tried To lift the timmer lum. In hopes o' creepin' through the hole, But oot it wadna come. The Mttckle spate of ' Twenty-nine. . 15 She cudna warstle through the lum, Nor through the divot reef; O' a' the ills that e'er cam' doon, That nicht's were seer the chief. She reestit o' the rantle-tree Till it wis braid daylicht : Then doon, an' startit for the hills, Ye ne'er saw sic a sicht. ' Noo, faur ye gyaun ? ' quo' Cammie's herd ; Quo' Meg, ' To Clochnaben ; Rin, laddie, rin, an' leave yer beasts, The wordle 's at an en' ! The days hev come fan Scriptur' says The fouks in toons fa be, Sail leave their hames an' wor'dly gear, Ah' to the mountains flee. Rin, laddie, rin, an' dinha stan' An' stare as ye were wud, For Gweed forgie 's, the sins o' men Hev brocht a second flood. Rin, laddie, rin to Clochnaben, There's nae a glint to spare. The angels micht rax doon for us Gin we cud but get there.' 1 6 The Muckle Spate of 'Twenty-nine. Shawin' the mishanters occurrin' to Johnny o Blackness, to Davit o' the Toll o' Feugh, and to Watch o' Gellan, alang wi' a fyou concludin' remarks by the author. The lowe o' love hed fired the hairt O' Johnny o' Blackness ; The tryst wis set, an' he maun gang To coort Achattie's Jess. The flame that brent within his briest— His first for maiden fair — As fiercely as a rozet log On winter hearth did flare. Nae water's wecht cud droon it oot Till it hed droont himsel', An' he wad mak' his wye to Jess Though rain in buckets fell. His muckle coat wis nearly new, His beets were close an' thick. He hed an airm wi' nerves like thairm, A trusty aiken stick ; Wis he to disappoint his Jess For show'rs o' simmer rain ? Ae kiss fae her were high reward For nichts o' toil an' pain. An' hoor intil Achattie's neuk Wi' Jess upon his knee. That very nicht his rich reward, His taste o' bliss sud be. Sic thochts as these, sic high resolves. In Johnny's min' prevail, The Muckle spate of ' Twenty-nine. 17 As he in Blackie's kitchen sits, An' sups his brose an' kail. But when he buckles for the road, An' comes to cross ' The Burn,' It tak's him mair than oxter deep. An' he is fain to turn. ' I daurna gang anither fit, 'Twere death an' naething less, I winna risk to droon mysel' Nae ev'n for sake o' Jess ! ' So Johnny he crap hame agen. In spite o' love's desire, An' hang his dreepin' duds to dry Aroon' the chaumer fire. But sorra tak' the orra man ! He spread it far an' near. That Johnny hed set out to court, But turn't agen for fear. He didna lat ae word escape Aboot the awfu' nicht. But made it seem that Johnny turn't For pure an' simple fricht. The story spread, the story grew. It cam' to Jess's ears. That Johnny cudna come to court Because o' ghostly fears. So slander't Johnny got the seek : An' so it cam' to pass. The millert o' Tillwhillie woo'd An' mairret Johnny's lass. My cousin Joseph made a sang To saften Johnny's care, B 1 8 The Muckle Spate of 'Twenty-nine. An' I '11 insert a copy here, For copies noo are rare. ©sng— ' Dotoie 3(otinttj.' ' The laverock 's liltin' i' the lift, The mavis i' the tree, An' gatherin' gear wi' eident thrift, I hear the honey bee. ' Fae hill an' dale an' leafy wood Delightfu' ditties ring ; Auld Nature, in her blithest mood, Rejoicin' i' the spring. ' But foo do I, alang the Feugh, Sae sadly, lanely stray. An' think o' loupin' owre a heugh. Like honest Duncan Gray ? ' Like honest Duncan I 've been cross't, An' cross't in love fu' sair ! For me my Jessie's hairt is lost. An' lost for evermair ! ' The disty millert he 's the loon That 's stown my gem awa' ; O' a' the ills that e'er cam' doon Nae harder ill cud fa' ! ' My early love, my only ane, That I believed sae true ! O' gin I were a bairn again I think I wad boo-hoo ! The Muckle Spate of 'Twenty -nine. 19 ' I weel cud greet, I weal cud ban, But that sail never be ; Whate'er his ills, a manly man Wi' dauntless hairt will dree. ' I '11 wuss the millert luck o' Jess, An' whistle care awa' ; The back o' ane may noo distress, But prove the face o' twa.' The tollman at the Brig o' Feugh, He like't the drappie weel. The night afore the spate he drank Till he fell owre the steel. For souter Spriggs and tailor Twist Hed ca'd to ' weet their mou',' An' they an' Davit teem't the stoup Till a' the three were fou ; An' Davit, when his cronies left, Aneth the table sank. But for his nose ye micht 'a' thocht He 'd lost the vital spank. His wife's attempts to wauken him Owercam' her skill and mettle, So wi' an unco fecht she row't An' trail't him to the settle. An' then her tartan plaid she threw Abeen the snorin' sot. An' wi' a grunt or twa aboot ' The hardness o' her lot,' She fill't the eelie lamp wi' oil, Pat in a rashen wick. The Muckle Spate of ' Twenty-nine. Made doors an' windows but an' ben As fest as they cud steek, Pat i' the fire a risten-clod, Drew up the asse atap, Then slowly up the stairs to bed Wi' weary steps she crap. She gaed to bed, but nae to sleep, For aye the rain cam' doon. An' aye the Feugh gaed rairin' past Wi' lood an' looder soun', Abeen the brig, abeen the brae, Up to the window sole The water raise, an' filter't in At ilka cranny hole. The water roun' the settle plashed An hoor ere brak o' day ; The tollman wauken't up an' bawl't — ' Fair play ! my boys, fair play ! I winna drink anither drap ! My head is like to rive, An' gin ye jilp it doon my throat, Then you an' I '11 strive. An' mair nor that, ye Ve droon't the drink ; The fushion o'tis oot. It 's caul', it 's weak, it 's waur, I say, Nor water fae the spoot.' Aul' Eppie here cam' doon the stair Else Davit had been droon't. An' when she saw the state o' things, In fac' she nearly swoon't ' Davit, we 're in sic a spate As never yet cam' doon ! The Muckle Spate of ' Twenty-nine. Come up the stair, ye senseless gowk, Unless ye want to droon. Ye drunken, doitet ne'er-do-weel, Come up the stair at ance ! Ere I come at ye wi' a rung An' brak yer lazy banes ! Fat ever keeps ye ficherin' there ? Ye 're either fey or daft ; Gin tliere be safety i' the hoose It 's i' the eemest laft. That I wis left to mairry you — O weary fa' the day ! But yet I dinna want ye droon't — Ye 're a' the man I hae !' An' there, owermaister't by her grief, A tear ran doon her nose ; She micht 'a' ventur't to the deece. But Davit, pechin', rose, An' stoitet forret, sair perplex't, Through water three feet deep, Scarce kennin' gin he wis awauk Or dreamin' fast asleep. Till Eppie got him by the tap An' pu't him up the stair. Quo' Davit then, ' 1 'm wauken't, wife, Lat go my puckle hair ! I 'm wauken't, wife ! lat go my hair ! Ye 're lowsin't at the reet ! ' Quo' Eppie than, ' Come up the stair, Ye gweed-for-naething breet ! ' Nor farther sail the Muse relate Fat passed atween the pair, The Miickle Spate of ^Twenty-nine. But neepers always blamed the spate For thinnin' Davit's hair. Peer breet, the dog o' Gellan gaed Wi' Tarn to Brig o' Feiigh, He spies a stick come soomin' dooii, Ae word fae Tam 's aneuch, An' in springs Watch to fetch the stick, An' tulzies lang an' sair, But in a swirl he sinks at last, We saw him never mair. A dowie, dovvie loss to me. An' to my brither Joe, I do believe 'twis full a raith Ere we owercam' the blow, For aye when we to Gellan gaed Peer Watch wis at the door, An' waggit's tail and lickit's chaft^. An' gambols made galore, As gin he wud 'a' said, ' Step in, I '11 follow gin ye please. An' eat the mealocks ye lat fa' Fan ye get bread an' cheese ; For bread and cheese ye 're sure to get, A drink o' milk as weel, An' mealocks ye '11 lat fa' for me. Else I hae tent my skeel. Step ben the hoose ; yer auntie's in. An' sae 's yer cousin Bell ; They 're i' the kitchen trockin' baith, I saw them there mysel'. The Muckle Spate of 'Twenty-nine. 23 Step in, my bairns, an' get a piece ; At Gellan we hae raff'. Tak' doon the the aul'est kebbock, Bell, An' cut them knievlocks aff.' Nae wunner then though Joe an' I Owre Watch made muckle main, An' mis't him sair at Gellan's door When we gaed back again. But still the spate made some amends,- We captured troots an' eels, An' noo an' than a protty grilse For weeks amo' the peels. Fae brak' o' day till fa' o' nicht Alang the haughs we ran, An' skilpit barefit i' the peels, — O sirs, but it wis gran' ! Ye sud' 'a' seen us wade an' plash, An' heard oor shouts ring oot When we espy't a siller grilse, Or 'muckle yallow troot. O sirs, it gars me hand my head. To think upo' the time ; It chokes my voice, it blin's my een, It drives me aff my rhyme. An' sae sic samples maun suffice, For mair ye mauna luik, Since ane fa scarce can sing a sang, Wud ill mak' up a buik. ' Sic samples,' faith, I fear my Muse Has run at railway speed, 24 The Muckk Spate of 'Twenty-nine. An' fyou her ' samples ' may peruse, An' fyouer buy her screed. An' sae I '11 en' as I began — In Scotlan's boun's sin' syne, We hinna hed anither spate Like auchteen twenty-nine. THE BODIE FAE BIRSE'S TALE. The Bodie fae Birse sat doon on a stane, Wi' his sneeshin-mull in his neive, ' An' they 're gane ! ' he said, ' my cronies are gane, An' I 've little langer to live. ' We drap like leaves fae the autumn trees, An' ithers spring up in oor place, Again to wither an' pass wi' the breeze, While Time continues his race. ' Peer aul' Francie Gibb lies under yon knowe, Thick covered, like ithers, wi' girse ; When I was a laddie his like i' the Howe There wasna ae tailyour in Birse. ' When he deet I made his bit epitaph thus. An' thocht he micht get a bit stane ; But only owre wealth the warl' mak's a fuss, Owre decent peer folks it mak's name. EPITAPH. ' ' Aneth this knowe lies Francie Gibb, A man esleem't byfrem'd an sib : For threescore years, wi* sicker steeks. He made oor fathers' fathers' breeks. Syne ged faur you an' I are joggin' , But left a weel replenished moggin." 26 The Bodiefae Birse's Tale. ' Anent this same moggin I made a bit screed, An' thocht to hae put it in print, But I '11 leave it wi' you, gie it ithers to read. Gin ye think that there's onything in 't.' It 's lang sin' the Bodie fae Birse was laid doon, Nae far fae his frien' Francie Gibb ; An I 've printit his ' Screed,' as I think I was boun' ; May it pleasure the frem'd an' the sib. THE BURNIN' O' FRANCIE GIBE'S HOOSE : THE STORY O' THE HOGGIN. I mind it weel, I was a loon But barely turn't o' ten ; My father hed a hoose in Birse, A decent but and ben ; Aul' Francie Gibb lived owre the burn, A tailyour to his trade, My father's claes for forty years By Francie Gibb were made. Nae ' Howe' nor ' Simpson' Francie eesed, He kent o' nae sic leems ; Nor hed he Fashion's newest cut, But sicker were his seams ; An' Francie's wife, aul' Eppie Gibb — I min' the bodie weel — To eke their sober livin' oot She kept a sort o' skweel. The Bodiefae Birse's Tale. 27 An draggit 's through our ABC, The Proverbs, an' fat not ; Nae fyou hed Eppie Gibb to thank For a' the lear' they got She cudna write, she cudna count, But weel cud read an' spell. I got the grun-wark o' my lear' Fae Eppie Gibb inysel' ; An' though I warstled noo an' than Wi' crabbit Scripture chiels, Or ca'd them ither names than those O' newer-fangled skweels, Afore I gaed fae Eppie Gibb I cud hae gien ye clair The Catechis fae en' to en', An' maybe something mair. Aweel, aul' Eppie weer avva'. For Death's impartial knocks At doors o' learned dames will ca' As weel 's at simple folks'. An' Francie Gibb, a dowie man, Hed lived his liefu' lane For something mair than half-a-year, Sin' his gudewife was ta'en. I canna tell the day an' date. But Lammas Fair was by. The weather hed been byous warm. An' everything was dry. Aul' Francie's wis a thackit hoose. The shoppie i' the en' ; He hed a seet or twa to mak', An' orra things to men'. 2 8 The Bodiefae Birse's Tale. Cross-leggit on his boord he sat, An' phed the eident steeks, For Faulie's dother hed ca'd in To wyte her father's breeks. When Francie a' at ance lap up, An' cried, ' The lum 's alowe ! Gweed safe me ! gin the thack sud catch 'Twill burn like tarry towe !' An' Faulie's dother aften said, Though prodded wi' a swoord, He cudna gien a gryter start. Nor quicker cleared the boord. He didna gie ae thocht to claith, Nor yet to finished claes. Nor rin for water to the burn To droon the spreadin' blaze ; But ben the hoose he flew like wud, His length at ilka sten', Although his age was little less Than threescore years and ten. An' Faulie's dother noo took fleg. Her hairt lap till her mou', An' owre the burn, an' up the brae. To Souter Bain's she flew. The souter bang't a beet aside — A blucher o' the Laird's — He cudna shawn it less respec' Though it hed been a caird's. His bonnet wi' the scarlet tap, That hang upo' the pin, He pu'd upo' his shinin' pow. An' dashed thro' thick an' thin ; The Bodiefae Birse s Tale. 29 My father chanced to be at hame, He saw the blaze an' ran ; The smith cam' tearin' doon the bog, A bucket in his han', The millert, an' the millert's man, The fairmer o' the Howe, An' Meerie's men took fit an' ran, Whene'er they saw the lowe ; An' herds, an' bairns, ye needna doot, Forgather'd by the score. Less gleg to len' a helpin' han', Than share in ' sic a splore.' Five buckets, an' an iron pail, Twa tubs, an' cogs a curn, Were soon at wark to droon the flames Wi' water fae the burn. The smith wis worth a score o' men, He steed upo' the wa', An' plashed the water owre the reef. Till bairns cried, ' Hip, hurrah ! ' He steed until we cudna see His burly buik for reek. He steed until the flames hed sung The whiskers on his cheek. He steed until a burnin' bauk Cam' crash upo' his queet. An' burnt it to the very bane. In spite o' hose an beet. An' then my father took his place, But strange eneuch to say. The wily souter bore awa' The honours o' the day ! JO The Bodiefae Birs^s Tale. The smith rushed ricbt amo' the fire, An' droon't it like a spate, The souter scarcely daur't to stan' Faur 'twas a kin' o' het. But then he was the richest man. An' wagged a wily tongue. An' so the praises o' his deeds Were loodest, widest sung. An' I hae aft observed sinsyne, 'Mang folks o' gryter mark, Pretension carry aff the prize. While merit work't the wark. Upon a stane, weel oot o' scaith, The wily souter sat, An' cried, ' My boys, rin here ! rin there ! My man, dee this, dee that.' An' when the flames began to fa', ' We 've saved the hoose,' quo' he, ' There wadna been a rammack left. An 't hadna been for me. The thack and divots o' the shop Were hardly worth a thrum, An' twa three shillings wud repair The couples an' the lum. We 've saved the hoose, but keep 's an' guide 's ! Fat 's come o' Francie Gibb ? ' An' here a dowie grane brak' oot. Alike fae frem'd an' sib : ' Peer Francie's dead, I '11 wad my head, O sirs, it 's ray opinion We '11 get 'im smored amo' the reek, Or roasted like an onion ! ' The Bodie foe Birsis Tale. 31 Wi' that the multitude brak' in, Ye ne'er saw sic a steer, Ye cudna see yer thoom for reek. An' scarce ae word cud hear. But yet I ventured ben the hoose, An' in a chair I saw 'im, Wi' face as fyte as ony cloot, Nae dead, but in a dwaum. ' He 's dead ! ' cried ane, ' He 's nae ! ' cried I, ' I saw his fingers woggin' ; He 's hidin' something in his briest.' Cried Nanny Reid, ' A moggin ! ' ' Come, lift 'im oot and gie 'im air, I think he '11 seen come roun'.' Quo' Nanny Reid, ' That 's wisely said ; There 's wisdom i' the loon !' They carried Francie to the loan ; He maist gied life the slip, But at the warst he never quat That moggin fae his grip. Fat cash was in 't was never kent, A' sort o' tales were rife ; But this I ken that Nanny Reid Wis shortly Francie's wife ; An' Francie lived but just a year, A fitless dottled man, But fat o' that ? — aul' Francie's brass Bocht Nanny a new pan. She mairret ane o' half her age, A chielie Robbie Wattie, His forebears had a tackie ance Upo' the Burn o' Cattie. 32 The Bodiefae Birse's Tale. I kept my counsel to mysel' While they through life were joggin'; But noo I Ve gien ye 't crap and reet, ' The Story o' the Moggin.' NEWS O' WATERLOO. Donal' Gillon wis a souter Near the banks o' Feugh ; Famous for his upper leathers, Soles an' weltin' teuch. Donal' Gillon liked the bottle, Aften staggered hame, Barely fit to keep the causey ; Whisky wis to blame. Aft kept honest Eppie sittin' Girnin' against Fate — ' Weary drink,' and ' worthless Donal' ' Till the nicht wis late. Auchteen hunner an' fifteen — It wis the year o' grace — Donal' midst his tipplin' cronies Held the highest place. That, as ye may weel remember, Wis a famous year ; Bonaparte, escaped fae Elba, Held the warld in fear. Till the Iron Duke an' Bliicher Marched to put him doon : Nocht save fearsome tales o' ' Bonny' Ran the country roon ; c CcC^ 34 News o' Waterloo. Mithers stilled their bairns wi' ' Bonny,' Bairns at battles played ; Fae the Shetlands to the Volga Sodgerin' wis the trade. Donal's sons had baith enlisted, Baith were wi' the Duke ; Donal' wis a politician, Fu' as Hansard's buik ; Nichtly sat at Kirkie's alehoose, 'Mangst the rustics chief, Makin' leagues, an' fechtin' battles, Sair to Eppie's grief. So ae evenin' by anither, Near the tail o' June, Thirst o' news an' thirst o' liquor Donal' gaed to droon. Eppie sat an' waitit Donal' Till the hoor o' twa Chappit on the faithful cuckoo Hung against the wa'. ' Fat keeps Donal' at the Kirkton Till this hoor ? ' cried she ; ' Sure he is to spen' his siller To the last bawbee ! O, wis ever honest 'oman Foughten sae wi' man ? There ! — at last I hear him comin', Drunk !— 'at I sud ban !' News o' Waterloo. 35 Donal' — it wis nane but Donal' Ficherin' at the sneck, Eppie met him wi' a ' blessin',' Fat cud ye expec' ? ' Eppie ! Eppie ! weesht,' quo' Donal', ' Weesht, an' dinna flyte, I hae news will set ye singin', Dancin' wi' delight. News, I tell ye postie never Brocht sic news fae toon ! — Wellington has met the Frenchmen — Bonnypairtie 's doon. Conquered i' the biggest battle Ever focht till noo ; Conquered at a place — the postman Ca's it Waterloo. Never wis there sic a battle Sin' the warld began ; Never sae did cannon rattle, Tummel horse an' man. Death, they say, was fairly gluttit, Fairly tent the breath. Never wis so sair forfouchten Sin' his name wis Death. Yet oor laddies, Rob an' Willie, , Steed as stieve as stanes ; Baith un wounded — here's the letter !- May be hame at ance ! Baith are like to be promotit, For it 's written here — 36 News (?' Waterloo. " We twa chased a score o' Frenchmen Like a score o' deer ! '" ' Baith oor laddies ! baith oor laddies ! ' Eppie here brak' cot, Drappin' on the wooden settle Fyter nor a cloot. ' Baith oor laddies hame unwounded ! Donal', baud my head, Gin ye dinna want to see me In a dwaum — or dead ! ' ' Dead ! ' cries Donal'; ' nonsense, Eppie, Rise an' lat us dance, Baith oor laddies safe ! promotit ! Bonny driven fae France ! ' Donal' here began to caper, Eppie scorned to luik, Left her seat, an' fae the awmrie Drew the blessed Buik. Fae her pouch drew oot her glaisses. Spelt a chapter through. Then fell on her knees an' thankit Heaven for Waterloo. TAMMIE TOD'S TRIP TO ELGIN I' THE DAYS O' LANGSYNE. part i. ' Start at ance an' gang to Elgin, Gweed preserve 's ! ' quo' Tammie Tod ; ' Start at ance an' gang to Elgin ? Tibbie, think upo' the road : Ninety miles — mayhap a hunner — Lie atween 's an' Elgin toon ; Think on that, an' count expenses — Thirty shillings, I '11 be boun' ! Wife, my langest wob o' wincey Wadna cover a' the cost, Nae to reckon up mishanters — Wark at hame, an' custom lost. It wad cost my wob o' wincey Holus-bolus, warp an' waft. Tak' the gait an' gang to Elgin ! Tibbie Smith, ye maun be daft ! ' ' Tammie ! Tammie ! stop yer blether, Shaw yersel' a man o' pluck, Rise for ance an' battle fortune. Toil an' courage conquer luck. 38 Tammie Tod's Trip to Elgin i the Bailie Brodie is yer cousin, Bailie Brodie 's far fae weel, Lyin' maistly i' the dead-thraw, Past the doctor's drogs an' skeel ; Bailie Brodie he hes siller — Hunners, thoosan's, fa wad ken ? He 's nae bairns, an' bleed relations Sibber than yersel' he 's nane. ' Here 's his letter : " Come to Elgin, Though but seldom we hae met. Bleed is thicker aye thnn water, This the hert can no' forget ; When the nicht is darkenin' roond us. When the fatal hoor is near. Then the faces o' cor kindred By oor side are doubly dear.'' Tak' the gait an' gang to Elgin, Weel ye '11 think yer traivel wair'd Gin ye get yer cousin's siller, Hame return a bonnet laird.' Mair wis said, an' Tibbie conquered, Tammie Tod was forced to yield, Turn his back on auld Dramslockit, Dangers face by flood an' field. Claid was he in honest hodden. Woven in his ain true leem, Made an' mounted by a tailyour Far renoon't for sicker seam. On his head his braid blue bonnet. Centred wi' a crimson tap ; Days o' Langsyne. 39 In his han' an aiken cudgel, Fit to bide or gie a rap ; In his purse twa poun's o' siller, Won an' saved wi' muckle care, While at hame his marrow, Tibbie, Wisna a'thegither bare. Yet less dootfu' Jason's sailors Spread their canvas to the breeze ; Fyour fears assailed Columbus Entering never-traversed seas ; Far less timorous Orpheus ventured Doon to Pluto's dark abode, Than oor hame-abidin' wyver Started on his dreaded road. ' Wife,' said Tammie, ' I, a pilgrim, Forth fae you an' a' my ain. Farther forth than e'er I ventured. Venture noo for hope o' gain. Gin I fa' in some mishanter, Never see Dramslockit mair, I will dee the lichter-herted That I hinna left you bare. Tibbie, ye will likely mairry ' (Here the tears blin't Tammie's e'e), ' Mairry gin ye want to mairry, Dinna brak' yer hert for me.' ' Mairry gin I want to mairry ? Plague yer sex ! 'at I sud ban ; Gin. ye fail me, ne'er sail Tibbie Slave to please anither man. 40 Tamtnie Tod's Trip to Elgin i' the Gang yer wa's, an' Gweed be wi' ye, Lead ye safely there an' back, Heir to Bailie Brodie's siller, Countin' poun's for ilka plack.' Thus set Tammie oot for Elgin, Aifter Bailie Brodie's gear ; Hoo he prospered on his journey. Gin ye listen, ye sail hear. Part il. Owre the Cairn o' Month gaed Tammie, Through Glendye, an' past Fytstane, Through Kincardine, an' past Auchlossan, Ere the first daylicht hed gaen. Then, fit-sair and unco weary, Aifter nicht hed sattl't doon, Luikin' for a decent hostel, Lichtit he on Knappyroon. Here forgathered wi' a couper — Geordie Lowrie was his name — Drinkin', leein', cheatin' Geordie, Up to ony sort o' game. Geordie was gaen north to Huntly, Hed a shawlt or twa in han', Wud set Tammie on a beastie Quater nane in Scottish Ian'. Tammie Tod was now in clover, Trusted Geordie like a brither. Drew his purse, an' spent oongrudgin' First ae shillin', syne anither. Days d Langsyne. 4.1 Then oonkent was Eorbes M'Kenzie, Yet oonframed his ' Closin' Ac' ;' Folks micht drink fae early mornin' Till anither morn cam' back. Couper Geordie sae hed drunken, Helter-skelter, nicht an' day, While he fand in simple Tammie Dupe wi' will an' cash to pay ; But oor traiveller fae Dramslockit, Less accustomed to the drink, Likewise wi' his tramp forfouchten, Soon began to yawn an' blink, Drapt his airms upo' the table, Drapt thereon his sleepy head. Ceased to speak, began a snorin'. Was by Knappy harl't to bed. Fair the mornin' sun was shinin', Fair an' far on hill an' plain. Ere the licht o' waukenin' reason Dawned again on Tammie's brain. ' Faur on earth am I ? ' cried Tammie, ' Foo on earth did I come here ? Fat wye are my legs sae crampit ? Fat wye is my head sae queer ? Oh, I min', I 'm gaen to Elgin, Cam' the streen to Knappyroon, Spent thereaifter twa fyte shillin's Drinkin' wi' a couper loon ; 42 Tammie Tod's Trip to Elgin i' the So the day my heid is splittin', So I 've noo a lichter purse, Plague on that confoonit fusky, Lang hes it been Scotland's curse !' Here wi' face like ruddy Phoebus, Standin' in the cloodless sooth, Glaiss in han' the couper entered. Words o' comfort in his mooth. ' Drink,' quo' he, ' this glaiss o' bitters. Better physic ne'er was tried. They 're the vera best o' doctors, Drink them aff an' binna fleyd.' Tammie drank as was directed. Though the water filled his e'en, Drest himsel' an' gaed to breakfast. Yet wi' unco hang-dog mien. Then the couper, seasoned barrel, Shawed him weel the wye to cram, Sweelin' doon his ample solids Wi' an aft-repeated dram. Then he got his beasties ready — Moniments o' skin an' bane, Set himsel' upo' the stootest, Tammie on the frailest ane. ' Decent beast,' observed the couper, ' Ance the minister's o' Foveran, Worth a five-poun' note, or near it, Though I bocht him for a sovereign. Keep yer han' weel on his bridle, Haud his nose weel i' the air, Days o' Latigsyne. 43 For the creetur', lang priest-ridden, , Aften kneels to say a prayer.' Thus on their respective chargers, Fae the door o' Knappyroon, Owre the hill an' doon through Cushnie, Rade the pair to Alford toon. Here they fand anither hostel, Entered in to weet their mou's, Tammie paid, and fain hed Geordie Sattl't till a lang carouse. But oor traiveller still cried ' Forret ! ' Fast the precious moments fled, He micht come owre late to Elgin, Bailie Brodie micht be dead, Micht hae willed awa' his' siller Till anither than himsel' ; Gi'en't to chapel, kirk, or almshouse, Skweel, or college — fa could tell ? Geordie, surly, ill-contented. Baffled o' 's expected spree, Past the Kirk o' Tullynessle Rade, wi' mischief in his e'e. Hoddin' on through Tullynessle, Up the hichts an' doon on Clatt ; Wi' a seat nae unco sicker, Tammie, upo' Foveran sat ; Till, where at the road was steepest, Couper Geordie loot his stick Drap on Foveran's hinner hurdies, Wi' an unexpected lick. 44 Tammie Tod's Trip to Elgin i' the Forret sprang the frichtened beastie, Tript its fit upon a stane, Fell, an' owre its head flew Tammie, Brakin' 's nose an' collar-bane ! ' Gweed forgi'e my sins !' cried Tammie, ' Elgin I sail never see, Bailie Brodie an' his siller Baith may gang to Banff for me ; Tibbie Smith within oor dwallin' Noo may rule withoot a check. Here her Tammie, fairly foonert, Lies wi' broken niz an' neck ! Water ! gie me water, couper ! Cut my gravat wi' yer knife, Tak' me to a Christian biggin', Fetch a doctor while there 's life. ' Fetch a doctor !' cried the couper, ' Doctor for a tummle an' scrat ! A' my born days I never, Never heard the like o' that !' ' Tummle an' scrat ! May Gweed forgie ye, Hertless man ! ' quo' Tammie Tod, ' But ye '11 girn through hempen gravat Gin I dee upo' the road.' Tammie's face turn't noo sae ghastly That the couper took affricht, E^de like win', an' got assistance Fae the nearest toon in sicht. Days o' Laiigsyne. 45 Thither on a twa-han' barrow Luckless Tammie Tod was borne, There for twenty days a beddal Lay, his sad mishap to mourn. Then, whenever he got fitted, Warselt through to Elgin toon, Though his scarce-cemented collar Gae him mony a painfu' stoun'. Bailie Brodie, dead an' buried, Hedna left his gathered gear To his cousin, simple Tammie, But to wily Nellie Weir! Nelly Weir hed served the Bailie Fae the year he lost his wife. An' he ne'er wis better tented. Better managed a' his Hfe. Elgin gossips said that Nellie Kept the Bailie weel in han', Made him like a trained retriever — Fetch an' carry at comman' ; Never parlour, never kitchen, Enter wi' undichtit feet. Think faur he hang coat or bonnet. Left a paper, book, or seat. Years the Bailie hed been dowie, Lang an unco han'fu' till 'er. But she kept awa' relations, Nursed him weel, an' got his siller. 46 Tammie Tod's Trip to Elgin. Tammie got a shabby something, Scarce fat paid his doctor's bill, Nae to mention those who nursed him Through his sair and weary ill : Fairmer folks were they whase labour Didna overfill their cup, Yet they ne'er to gangrel bodie Grudged a passin' bit and sup. ' Gang yer wa's,' quo' they to Tammie ; ' Gin ye come the gait agen, Ca', although ye sudna fesh us Either niz or neck to men' ; Ca' an' see us, ye '11 be welcome, What ye 've got we winna miss 't ;' Yet their decent names hed never Swallt a lang subscription list. Tammie warselt hame to Tibbie, In his person far fae stoot. In his pouch just forty shillings Peerer than when he set oot. ' Tibbie, here am I !' cried Tammie, ' Martyreesed, as ye may see, Neist time I gang fortune-huntin' Twa sins i' the lift sail be.' DROWNED IN THE DEE: A BALLAD OF BANCHORY-TERNAN. (Founded on Fact.) Che Sarh Sara. Some time early in the nineteenth century, young Russell of Blackhall, on the Dee, near Banchory-Ternan, was drowned in some such mysterious manner as that attempted to be set forth in the following ballad. I often heard the story of his fate when I was a boy, but the particulars have mostly escaped my memory, and on a recent visit to Deeside I could meet with no one to tell me much more than I myself remembered, only I was confirmed in the belief that in the minds of the natives the unfortunate affair was invested with more of mystery and romance than I have been able to give it. The snows on the distant Grampian hills Dissolved in the breath of May ; To rivers swollen the trickling rills Swept lashing the granite grey. Through every hollow a torrent roared Adown to the roaring Dee, Who swept his valleys, resistless lord, From Ballater on to the sea. Many a tree, by the roots uptorn, To the mighty ocean sped ; Many a meadow of sprouting corn Was a mimic ocean's bed. 48 Drowned in the Dee. And ever the roaring waters rushed From the mountains and the glens, Till cowering larks their warblings hushed, And foxes fled to their dens. ' Beware the river,' the lady cried, To her handsome, headstrong son, ' Beware of trusting its waters wide Till this awful spate be run.' ' The spate ! ' said the youth, and laughed aloud. But his laugh had a boding ring, ' How long am I to be curbed and cowed. And tied to an apron-string?' He turned on his heel and left the spot. With a haughty air and stride ; But he bent his steps to the woods, and not To the dreaded river's side. And the mother went to her household cares, In her heart right well content, For little she heeded her darling's airs. When she saw how his steps were bent. ' This fierce impatience of leading-strings Is doubtless all for the best ; My pretty bird is feeling his wings. And tires of the parent nest. ' And a bird of powerful wing he '11 be, And lofty will be his flight, A wonder and joy to more than me, If I read his future right. Drowned in the Dee. 49 ' Ah ! soon or late, the young and the old, The parent and child must part, But few can cling with a closer hold Than mine to a parent's heart. ' I 've chafed him now with my foolish fears In one of his wayward moods, But yet, when he saw my starting tears. He turned his steps to the woods. ' I dread, and he knows that I dread, the Dee, For thrice I have dreamt of late That a lifelong grief would come to me All through the river spate. ' My darling laughs at my boding dream, And myself would fain do so. But yet he turns away from the stream To pleasure my whim, I know. The mother's heart was elate with hope, And her eyes were bright with joy. In the wide, wide world there was barely scope, She deemed, for her gifted boy. And he — he turned his steps to the woods, And set him down on a stone, But ever he saw the sheen of the floods, And ever he heard their moan. He tried to whistle, he tried to sing. And vainly he tried to think. Till drawn and drawn by a viewless string, He strolled to the river's brink. 50 Drowned in the Dee. How wide was the river ! how smooth and fair Was the well-known Coble Pot ! A man, a boy, an infant might dare To row in that favoured spot. Was it water-wraith or kelpie's spell That lured him into the boat ? Nor I nor any on earth can tell What madness set him afloat. But this is sure, that he loosed the band That bound the boat to the shore, And sure it is that he pushed from land And reached it alive no more. The ' Pot ' was smooth, but the current strong. And its all-resistless might Impelled the boat along and along, Till the rapids raged in sight. A peasant saw, with a shriek of fear. The boat in the rapids leap. And far beneath in her mad career Upturned to the ocean sweep. 'Twas thus that the heir of the Hall went down In the rapids of the Dee, And over his body the waters brown Swept on to the raging sea. Ah, many a weary week went by Ere his marred remains were found. And wet for him was many an eye In the country far around. Drowned in the Dee. 5 1 But who hath the pencil, pen, or tongue, May tell the grief at the Hall ; Or say how long to the parents clung That sorrow shadowing all. For me, I cannot depict their woe. When struck by a loss so great ; Nor reckon the years so sad and slow. Till they bowed their heads to Fate. They passed from the Hall, from the earth away. With their grief and sterling worth, And after them lingered many a day Their memories here in the North. But few of the peasants now alive Can this tragic tale relate, Or care with the fading past to strive On matters of fact and date. They, too, have passed, or they leave us fast. While strangers gather around. Perchance I gleaned my facts from the last Who lived when Russell was drowned. 'Tis long since the Hall had other lords. But escutcheons left declare. With their motto of three Italian words,' That the Russells were masters there. ' Notably at the principal entrance to the extensive grounds of Blackhall, a goat (the Bedford Crest) with the motto Che Sard. Sara under, still stands over the arched gateway. THE SOUNIN' O' THE KIRK : Being soTne account of that cereviony as the same took place during the Restoration of the Parish Church of Bcbbintap, in theyear i8 — . Pairt He .(First. It fell aboot the tail o' hairst — The year we needna min' — The craps were maistly i' the yard, But still the days were fine. The clover an' the aiftergirse, The neeps an' kail were green ; An' nicht by nicht, wi' siller hcht, Sailed roon the hairvest mean. ■ The fairmer and the fairmer's man Alike were blithe an' gay, Rejoicin' in the walie craps O' barley, aits, and hay. A mail' contented peasantry Than we o' Bobbintap, There wisna then, there isna yet, On natur's ample lap. An' I aver cor pairis' folks, Sin' ever Dee has run, Surpass'd by nane in human ken For hairmless, rural fun. The SounM Gallants handsome as Apollo Set imprisoned damsels free ; Snappin' chains like rotten lingans, Garrin' doors in flinders flee ; Routin' armies single-handed, Slashin' heads o' dragons aff ; A Feughside Fairy Tale. 109 Scatterin' foes o' a' description, Just as win' wad scatter cawf. Roon her knees ae winter evenin', Joseph, Nellie, an' mysel', Pressin', cried in chorus, ' Betty, Hae ye ony thing to tell ?' ' Ony thing to tell?' quoth Betty, ' Little 'ns, naething new, I doot.' ' Betty, ripe the story wallet !' ' Betty, turn it inside oot !' ' Betty, tell 's the wye the fairies Pinched an' proddit Duncan Deans, When they lured 'im to the hollow In the lonely " Sheetin' Greens."' Such were oor respective orders, An', consenting to the last, Betty plunged into the story. Which the Muse has here recast. Betty's language, voice, an' manner Minstrel's skill may never seize, Nor may auditors like Betty's Press a story-teller's knees. Watchin' ilka word an' accent Drappin' fae the speaker's mou', Level stretch an' crookit corner, Fain an' faithful to pursue. Sat we there that winter evenin'. Deaf to rain an' rattlin' hail. While oor story-teller, Betty, Thus rehearsed her fairy tale : — A Feughside Fairy Talc. Wat jFairj ^alc. ' Tailyour Deans, at Haugh o' Sluie, Hed been workin' a' the week, Which was gettin' near its hin'most, When he drieve his closin' steek, Drank a glaiss o' Sluie's whisky, Bade gude-nicht, an' trudged awa' ; Reached Potarch, an' wad hae passed it. But the wife had bidden 'im ca'. " Min'," said she to him on Monday, " Min', luik in as ye come back ; Folks fa hae sae mony little 'ns Aye hae claes to men' or mak' ! Potty has a coat to alter ; An' we'll hae a bigger job — Winter claes for Rob an' Willie — Fan we get oor plaiden wob ; But the wyver — drucken bodie ! He wad drink his vera sark — While he can get cash or credit, Winna dee a jot o' wark." So for bisness, nae for pleasure, Duncan entered Potty's inn ; Mair for trade than love o' liquor. Spent a shillin' o' his win. Duncan Deans o' Deeside tailyours Was the vera pick an' pink ; Seldom three times in a twal'month Neepers saw 'im waur o' drink. A Feughside Fairy Tale. Fan he left Potarch that evenin', Twal' o'clock it micht ha' been, Wi' a sicker fit he steppit Owre the Feein' Market Green. Fan he crossed the burn o' Cattie, Passed the fairm o' Tullentech, Clam' a mile o' brae, or near it, Then he did begin to pech. Then he, did begin to stagger, But it wisna' wi' the drink ; An uncommon dwaum cam' owre 'in Fat it wis he cudna think. A' at ance his head grew dizzy, Hert gaed thumpin' like a flail, Legs aneath 'im turned as dwaible As an autumn salmon's tail. Fae the beaten road he staumered. Utter darkness closed 'im roon' ; Lichtless, doited, dazed he wan'er't, Missed a fit, an' tummelt doon. Whether he had swoon't or sleepit. Whether lang or short he lay Till he neist had sense o' bein', Duncan Deans cud never say ; But o' this he wis as certain As that day succeeds to nicht, That upon his waukin' vision Burst a strange, unearthly licht. Never — an' he tell't the story While he lived to whip the cat — Cud his tongue describe fat fairlies Met his e'en fan up he sat. A Feughside Fairy Tale. Owre 'im curved a dome o' sapphire, Hung wi lamps o' gowden sheen ; Underneath 'im stretched a carpet, Velvet-saft an' emerald green ; Precious stanes an' sparklin' crystals Walled his ample palace roon' ; Little folks, in green apparel, Thronged it wi' melodious soun' ; Pigmy lords an' pigmy ladies Strutted through the spacious ha', Or on rose an' lilac couches Sat an chattered roon' the wa'. At the en' remote fae Duncan Sat the fairy king and queen — He o' stern an' wrinkled visage. She o' sweet an' smilin' mien. Baith, as weel's their gaithered subjects, Micht 'a' come frae Lillipoot ; Yet in ilka lira' an' feature Perfect they fae head to foot. Richest gems o' earth an' ocean Glittered on the royal pair. Courtiers roon' them boo't an' scraipit, Robed in splendours maist as fair. Fae his throne the King descended, Fae his throne the pigmy Queen, Music burst fae an orchestra To the tailyour's eyes unseen. Never fell on ears o' mortal Strains sae rich, sae clear, an' sweet ; Never yet to mortal measures Raise and fell sic timous feet. A Ftughside Fairy Tale. 1 1 3 O sic music ! O sic dancin' ! Duncan weel cud fit the fleer, But the deftest human dancer Were a clumsy Bruin here. Lang did Duncan glower enraptured, Lang he watched the belles and beaux : Hoo the latter leered an' smirkit, Hoo the former jinkt their joes ; An' he cudna dee but notice That the men were auld an' staid, While the women, young and frisky, Wi' their pairtners' frailties played. Near 'imsel', an ancient mannie, Seemingly a hunner auld, Had been linkit wi' a lammie Just escapit fae the fauld ; An' the pranks the limmer played 'im Wad 'a' driven a mortal mad, But the carlie, fan bamboozled, Merely luikit vext an' sad. Noo ahin' a couch or sofa, Like a little 'n she wad. hide ; Noo amang the dancers skimmin', Swift as swallow she wad glide. Weel, fan Duncan saw a mannie, Aulder, grimmer than her ain, Jouk ahin' a sofa wi' her, Kiss, an' kiss her owre again ; While her ain bamboozled bodie, Socht her here, an' socht her there — Tint the hert an' fell 4-greetin', Thinkin' sport like this unfair — H 114 A Feughside Fairy Tale. " Luik ahin' the sofa, mannie ! " Duncan cried wi' a' his micht ; Then a thoosand angry glances Pierced 'im like a glint o' light. He was seized, an' pinched, an' proddit By a hunner hands at ance ; Shak'n, showdit, thrashed, an' thumpit, Till he thocht his vera banes Crackit, crummelt into powder, Fand his vera blood rin cauld, An' the flesh upon his body, In his banes the marrow crawl'd. " Gweed receive my saul ! " cried Duncan, Mair he hedna time to say Ere the fairy palace vanished. An' alane the tailyour lay. Velvet carpet wasna under. Sapphire dome owre Duncan Deans. Bed was his within a hollow Near the weel-kent Sheetin' Greens. Roon 'im brak' an autumn mornin', Hung a drizzlin' weetin' mist, Ilka minute in sic chaumer, Ca'd a nail in Duncan's kist. Drookit, dowie, an' disjaskit, Duncan left his dreepin' lair. Ilka bane within his body. Ilka joint an' sinew sair. Owre the hill he hitch't an' hirplet, Tulzied hame an' wan to bed, Whaur he lay a month or langer. Ere he waxed anither thread. A Feughside Fairy Tale. 115 Neipers said 'twas sair rheumatics Laid the tailyour on his back. " Naething o' the kin' ! " cried Duncan ; " 'Tis that cursfed fairy pack, Wi' their pinchin' an' their proddin', Wha have caused this weary ill ; I were noo a corp, for certain, Had they got their wicked will. But I think I 've got a lesson Nae to mak' nor meddle mair Amang lovers' silly quarrels Be they folks or fairy pair." ' Sequel. ' What became o' Duncan after ? Betty, Betty, tell us that.' ' Duncan Deans got weel an' flourished Mony years to " whip the cat," Up an' doon amo' the fairmers I' the Howe o' Birse an' Stra'an. Noo he 's gaen ta join the mony, Gaen the road we a' are gyaun.' ' Tell us faur we 're gyaun ? ' cried Joseph ; Answered Betty, ' Till yer beds ; Aff at ance, an' on yer pillows Lay yer toozy sleepy heads.' Such was one of Betty's stories. Not her longest nor her best ; But the story-teller slumbers Where the weary are at rest. ii6 A Feughside Fairy Tale. Old and gray are we who listened, Nay, are two who then were three ; And between us two survivors Stretch a thousand leagues o' sea. LUCKLESS TAM LOWRIE AND THE ACCIDENT ASSURANCE COMPANY. Tam Lowrie was a luckless lad As ever was born on earth, For black misfortune followed him Frae the moment o' his birth. Whenever a fever, croup, or cauld, Amang neiper infants cam', As sure as fate, in its sairest shape It fell upon Lowrie's Tam. A gangrel he fell frae dikes an' trees, Frae gates, frae pailin's, an' stanes ; He brak' his nose, his teeth, his knees, An' bruised his flesh to the banes. A laddie at schule his case was waur. For, besides his ain mishaps, He had aften to thole for ithers' fauts The dominie's sairest raps. A blithesome day it was for Tam When he left the schule to herd ; But still misfortune followed him Like an evil-omened bird. 1 1 8 Luckless Tain Lowrie and The heat wad drive a coo to the moss To sink in a watery lair ; Or Tarn wad sprain an ankle or wrist An' hirple hame in despair. The laddie wadna hae hairmed a flee, As gentle he as a lamb, But his neiper herds wad disagree An' the reddin-straik fa' upon Tam. Aft did the luckless loon come hame Bleedin' an' bruised an' torn. An' aft wad his worrit mither exclaim — ' I wis' ye hed never been born ! ' Nae that yer thochts or acts are bad. But certain o' this I am. There never was mither plagued wi' bairn As I hae been plagued wi' Tam ! ' Ah me ! but the lot o' luckless Tam Was cauldrife, crabbit, an' dour. An' Nature hersel' is bricht or dark As Fortune is kindly or sour. Ev'n Frien'ship lookit at Tam askance An' Love hed naething to say, Till the milk o' kindness in his briest Was turned into curds an' whey. An ugly scowl cam' owre his broo, As lie walkit the world alane, An' muttered, ' I 'm surely 'witched or cursed Wi' a heavier curse than Cain !' The Accident Assurance Company. 119 We 've kent o' women that dung to waifs Like moss to a granite stane ; But luckless Tam got the blithesome blinks An' the kisses o' love frae nane. Unblest by love, uncheered by frien's, Pursued by a fate severe, But yet wi' his quota o' limbs complete He entered his thirtieth year. 'Twas then that a bloomin' buxom lass To serve in the quarter cam', An' lit the lowe o' a quenchless love In the lanely hairt o' Tam. But Nanny Bower was cautious an' wise, As weel as fair to behold, An' kent that the sweetness o' mairrit life Depends nae a little on gold. She saw that naething prospered wi' Tam, That cash in his pocket was scant, She weighed him up an' she weighed him doon. An' judged he was waur than want. She thus delivered her mind to Tam, At the end o' the auld hay-stack — ' Na, Tam, I canna buckle wi' you Tho' your hairt for my sake sud brak' ! ' Na, Tam, I canna be yours, my man, An' she wha wad wad be rash, Unless you cud somehoo fa' on a plan To turn mishanters to cash.' Ltickless Tarn Lowrie and ' To turn mishanters to cash,' cried Tam, ' I '11 strive frae this hoor an' forth ; Fa kens, I yet may fa' on a plan. To gar mishanters hae worth ?' Tam speedily met wi' a Company, Far noted throughout the land. That spread its buckler owre such as he, An' paid mishanters off-hand. A policy wasna ill to procure ; Ae fa, an' the brak' o' an airm, Got Tam a sowd o' siller at ance. That set him up in a fairm. An' Nanny Bower took a second thocht When the fairmer a-courtin' cam' ; She smiled content when he urged his suit, An' agreed to buckle wi' Tam. The day was set, but was twice deferred. For Tam got a pair o' fa's That shook him a bit, but found the cash To pay for the mairriage braws. The mairriage cam' off wi' great 6c\aX, An' ae triflin' accident Which somehow happened to luckless Tam, But paid for a twalmonth's rent. He slipt on a morsel o' orange-peel. An' brak' the pan o' his knee ; But his foremost words as they raised him up Were, ' Another fifty for me ! ' Tke Accident Assurance Company. The day that his first-born saw the licht Was a dowie day to Tain, He rode to fetch the medicine at nicht, But harne on a shutter he cam' ! It seems his shawlt had shied on the road, An' Tam was thrown on his head, But kindly niepers gathered him up. An' carried him hame for dead. ' Alas !' sighed Nanny, 'he 's killed outricht, For me a dowie concern ; Yet there 's ne'er an ill but micht be waur, There 's a thoosand for me an' the bairn.' Tam lifted his heavy eyes an' groaned, ' I 'm nae quite finished,' quoth he, ' But this will be a serious job For oor frien's in the A.A.C. ! ' A grave affair, an' a great expense. For ihey hae the piper to pay.' An' he closed his eyes, an' kept his bed For mony a weary day, AVhile Nanny dandled her dear first-born. As canty as wife cud be. An' blessed the day when she met wi Tam, An' Tam wi' the Companie. When Tam got better he cannily crept To follow his rural toil. But soon again 'twas the Company Gat his parritch-pot to boil. Luckless lam Lowrie and Baith hame an' forth, on water an' land, By cut, collision, an' fa', Tam suffered abridgment aifter that, Till the volume left was sma'. He lost a foot, an airm, an' a leg, An' fingers by twas an' threes : ' I 'm leavin' you, Nanny, wife,' he said ; ' I 'm leavin' you by degrees. ' But when you 've gathered me bit by bit, To the graves o' my auld forebears : A thoosand pounds in your lap, I think. Will help to lessen your tears. ' An' mair than that, oor laddie Tam Is just anither o' me ; Assure him, wife, an' assure him quick. He '11 thrive in the A.A.C. ' He '11 mair than fill his father's shoes. He '11 triple his father's gains ; So ye maunna mourn for mysel', my love. When ye bury my scant remains.' There was still a fraction o' Tam in life The last time I passed his door. An' Nanny treasured the morsel left As miser his hoarded store. She said, as she sat by the ingle-cheek, A buxom an' braw gudewife, That she blessed her man an' the Company For a bien an' cosy life. The Accident Assurance Company. 123 An' their auldest callant, weel assured, Was risin' a hopefu' lad, Surpassed in the accident line by nana Save only his luckless dad. ' To see my man curtailed,' she said, ' Has vexed my innermost soul ; But I gie to the fragments a' the love That I e'er bestowed on the whole. ' 'Twas sair to see the loss o' his limbs An' bide the brak' o' his banes ; Yet I raither wad lose him bit by bit Than pairt wi' him a' at ance. ' But I hope the remnant will be spared Lang, lang to the bairns an' me, An' a monument to the special worth O'oorfrien' the A.A.C THE BROOKES OF SOUTHBROOK HALL A POEM OF THE DOMESTIC AFFECTIONS. As sudden deluge rolls destruction wide, And sinks 'midst ruins when the storms subside, So lawless passions devastate the mind, And leave their baleful ruin-trace behind ; But pure affection, ruled by wise control, Can strengthen, cheer, and elevate the soul, As streams that from perennial fountains run, Pursue their steady course in storm and sun, Draw tribute streams, in magnitude expand. Delight the eye, and fertilise the land. How smoothly glide the years of social life, Where faithful husband joins with loving wife In each vicissitude of changeful fate. To heighten joy and bid distress abate ; If wealth is theirs to spread its comforts round Or wring from dearth what scanty good is found. He ever prompt the graver weight to bear, She watchful still to ease his. load of care. In every change, by their domestic hearth. Affection smiles to Edenise the earth ! The Brookes of Southbrook Hall. 125 So lived, so loved the Brookes of Southbrook Hali, Themselves beloved, themselves revered by all Who climb the heights, or roam the valleys sweet Where Feugh and Dee in mingling currents meet ; The feelings theirs which lasting love inspires — Esteem, benevolence, and soft desires. One joy they lacked, on earth 'tis ever so. Completed bliss we mortals never know ; O were this boon — an heir to Southbrook — given What earthly gift could they have begged of Heaven ? But lo, the years, the rapid years had chased Till nine times earth her annual orb had traced Since Hymen joined the love-enchanted pair, Yet smiled at Southbrook Hall no infant heir. The tenth year comes, and dawns a joyous morn, A boy — bright image of his sire — is born ! On him unceasing love the parents pour, But spending love increase their former store. Mysterious joy, we stint thy sweets in vain. The more we give the more we still retain ! The seasons sped, young Henry waxed apace ; His father's stature, and his mother's grace, Her gentle temper, his capacious mind, With native virtues in the boy combined To render him the joy of great and small, His parents' pride, the light of Southbrook Hall. Thus waxed the boy, thus reached his thirteenth year, When fortune's smiles were changed to frowns austere. On Henry's eyes there fell a sudden blight Involving all in universal night. 126 The Brookes of Southbrook Hall. What words can paint the boy's, the parents' grief, When medicine's skill brought only pain's relief, But failed to bring to blighted orbs the ray Disease had banished from their earthly day ? Yet fond affection cheered the darkened hour When boastful science owned her baffled power, And, ever constant, led the blinded boy To fuller streams of intellectual joy ; Thus doth affection blunt the edge of woe. Illume the hearth, and gladden life below. THE HAPLESS POET'S LAST LAY. On the margin of a forest, Underneath an autumn sky, Far from face of friend or kinsman, Lay a Bard with glazing eye. In the fertile fields of Fancy He had conquered many spoils. Yet his fellows unrewarded Left his brain-exhausting toils. He had learning, he had genius, He had wisdom, he had wit ; Yet for wages-earning labour Men had deemed him all unfit. Few had begged his fellow-mortals More for leave to toil than he. But he owned himself a poet. And they laughed to scorn his plea. Till by debts and duns demented. Him in pauper livery clad. Sick, alike in mind and body, Men immured amid the mad. When the tardy law released him, Blighted both in heart and name. Little cared he more for fortune Whether good or evil came. 128 The Hapless Poefs last Lay. Little valued life's existence, Though he did not loathe it quite ; Nature still her countless beauties Freely spread for his delight. Far he wandered, much he suffered, Ere he passed from earth away, On the margin of a forest Breathing thus his latest lay : — • ' I am dying,' said the Poet , ' Dying with the autumn flowers. Like the fading leaves around me Wane this body's vital powers ; But the mind, the soul, the spirit Which controls this living me. When the blood has ceased to circle, Whither shall this essence flee ? ' Feeble Reason cannot answer ; Hope alone on daring wing. Far from earth, in seas celestial Finds the lands of ceaseless spring : Where the summer never scorches. Where the winters never freeze, Where an odour as of Eden Balms the ever-grateful breeze. ' Where the flowers for ever blossom. Where the fruits for ever glow ; Where the birds in cadence warble. Where the streams in music flow. The Hapless Poefs last Lay. 129 Where the limbs are never languid, Where the heart is never sore, Where the pangs of cold and hunger Can afflict the flesh no more. ' I am weary,' said the Poet, ' I have suffered life so long. Seen so much of man's injustice Borne so much of human wrong : Let me sleep, and never waken Where such evils have abode.' — So he slept, and so his spirit From the earth returned to God. SONGS. ' Ich singe, wie der Vogel singt, Der in den Zweigen wohnet ; Das Lied das aus der kehle dringt. 1st Lohn, der reichlich lohnet.' GOETHE. MY MITHER TONGUE ! (GIVEN AT A BURNS ANNIVERSARY DINNER IN SHEFFIELD.) My mither tongue J owre seldom heard, Your accents thrill me through ; Ye gar my heart loup to my lips, My very een rin fu' ; Ye waft me back to blither times. To days when I was young. When love an' hope baith spak' in thee, My couthie mither tongue ! My mither tongue ! my infant cares Were soothed to rest in thee j ' John Anderson ' an' ' Duncan Gray ' Hae aften closed my e'e ; An' ' Bonnie Doon,' or ' Auld Lang Syne,' Aboon my cradle sung, Hae made me dream that angel choirs Used aye my mither tongue. My mither tongue ! a bairn at schule In English buiks I read ; An' warsled sair wi' English facts To pang my laddie head. 134 My Mither Tongue! But when my heart was big wi' wae. Or lowin' love upsprung ; My feelin's aye gushed out in thee. My couthie mither tongue ! My mither tongue ! how aft hae I My very meals forgot, While porin' o'er the wizard page O' Ramsay, Bums, or Scott ! On ' Tam o' Shanter's ' midnicht ride, Or Hornbook's pranks I 've hung ; Rehearsed wi' matchless power in thee, My couthie mither tongue ! My mither tongue ! I daurna name The loves o' bygane years ; It ill becomes a bearded man To blin' his een wi' tears. I daurna name the welcomes warm That roun' my heart hae clung, The sad fareweels expressed in thee, My couthie mither tongue ! I daurna conjure up the spots Where cheerfu' childhood played, The broomy knowes, the fairy howes Where hopefu' manhood strayed. I daurna name departed frien's, Whase hands my hands hae wrung, An' poured their latest blessin's out In thee, my mither tongue ! My Mither Tongue I 135 My mither tongue ! some ca' ye rude, An' some hae wished ye dead ; Ye winna dee, ye canna dee, Sae lang as Burns is read ; An' that will be while warl's rin roun', An' suns in space are hung ; While wisdom, wit, an' music live, Ye '11 live, my mither tongue ! My mither tongue ! ye '11 haud the grip While words hae power to teach. While human feelin's link themsel's To blithe or dowie speech ; — While hopes an' fears, an' joys an' griefs. While loves are said or sung, Ye '11 haud the grip in spite o' a'. My couthie mither tongue ! — Till suns grow cauld, an' Natur's sel' Creeps feckless o'er a rung. Ye winna dee, ye canna dee, Dear Scotia's magic tongue ! 136 The Land 0^ Cakes. THE LAND O' CAKES. (GIVEN AT A SOCIAL GATHERING OF SCOTCHMEN IN ENGLAND, IN CONNECTION WITH THE TOAST, 'THE LAND O' CAKES.') Air — ' O' a' the airis,' etc. OwRE a' the lands aroun' the earth Where Fortune casts our lot, There smiles to us frae out the North A memory-charmbd spot — O Scotia, fairest land o' a' ! Sweet hame where we were born ! On you there fell an' still maun fa' The blithest blinks o' morn. An' aye your name bids mountains rise, An' burnies wimple doon ; To fairy glen the fancy flies Or bonnie burgh's toon. Again we roam where Tweed, or Tay, Where Clyde, or silver Dee, Or drumly Don, or swirlin' Spey Winds towards the parent sea. Your name 's a spell to conjure back The lang-departed years. Afore our feet had trod the track Adoon the ' vale o' tears.' The Land 0^ Cakes. 137 It bids departed frien's return, An' linger by our side, A warmer love within us burn For kindred severed wide. It wafts us back to early days An' hames for ever sweet ; We sit on gow'ny simmer braes. Or sport along the street ; The young, the gay, our pleasures share, A' gowden are the hours ; The hopefu' past appears ance mair, When earth was strewn wi' flowers. Awa', ye dreams o' fancy bred ! Awa', delusive flights ! Around us here this night are spread Earth's real, earth's chief delights. Here patriot love and friendship shine. An' plenty crowns the board ; What further could their feasts divine To fabled gods afford ? An' sparkles here a nectar rare Olympus never knew, A draught distilled in northern air, Auld Scotia's mountain dew ; Despondent care before it flies, Ilk gladsome feeling wakes, Our sangs ring out, our bumpers rise, Our toast, ' The Land o' Cakes !' 138 Robert Bums. ROBERT BURNS. (given at a dinner in honour of the birth of our great national bard.) Air — ' A man 's a man for a' that." Is there for Scotland's ploughman bard That hangs his head, an' a' that ? We spurn the coof from our regard Wi' scorn, contempt, an' a' that ! For a' that, an' a' that, His senseless pride, an' a' that ; Beyond his ken this wale o' men, This prince o' bards, an' a' that. What though he sometimes made a slip In sliddery paths, an' a' that, Or raised the beaker to his lip A kennin' aft', an' a' that ? For a' that, an' a' that, In spite o' fauts, an' a' that, A bard was he by Heaven's decree, Wha bravely sang, for a' that. A poet he that rose sublime. In song, an' ode, an' a' that. O'er a' wha wriggle into rhyme. An' pithless blank, an' a' that. Robert Burns. 139 For a' that, an' a' that, Their scansion, feet, an' a' that ; An' sapless rules weel conned at schules An' colleges, an' a' that. Ye see yon birkie caM a bard, Wha struts an' stares, an' a' that ; Though critics' praise be his reward, An' public pay, an' a' that ; For a' that, an' a' that. His pictured page, an' a' that. Although his name is ' puffed ' to fame, 'Twill die wi' him, for a' that. Let schoolmen pang their pates wi' Greek An' Latin roots, an' a' that, To mak' a bard they needna seek, — Aboon their power is a' that. For a' that, an' a' that, 'Tis Nature's self, an' a that. That lends the fire to strike the lyre, Like Robert Burns, for a' that ! His common sense, his tender heart, His piercing ken, an' a' that. Were far beyond the pith o' art — Were gifts frae Heaven, an' a' that. For a' that, an' a' that. His wisdom, wit, an' a' that, Will live as lang as Scottish sang Is dear to Scots for a' that ! 140 Morayland. MORAYLAND. Air — ' There 's nae luck aboot the koose.' We 'll sing a sang o' Morayland, We want nae better theme, Nor ask we aid o' foreign Muse Frae Grecian fount or stream ; The name o' Morayland 's a power Aboon your fabled ' Nine,' It warms the heart, an' fills the head Wi' mem'ries o' lang syne. Chorus — For there 's nae land like Morayland, There is nae land ava, Nor kinder hearts than Moray hearts Arouiid the warl' a'. We dinna lichtly Southern lands. Nor Southern faith an' truth. But aye the nearest to our hearts Are scenes an' frien's o' youth ; An' when we meet a ' Moray loon,' An' grasp his friendly hand, We 're back thegither bairns at school, In bonnie Morayland. Chorus — For there 's nae land like Morayland, etc. Morayland. 141 Amid the budding woods o' spring The cowsHps sweet we pu', While round us trill the throstle's notes Or am'rous cushats coo. We climb together side by side The scented heather braes, Where bees collect their gowden loads An' simmer lambkin plays. Chorus — For there 's nae land like Morayland, etc. We catch the trout in siller streams. We gather berries ripe, ' Or sit upon the mossy bank An' hear the curlew pipe ; Or mingle round the cheery hearth When wintry tempests blaw, An' picture how when day returns We '11 build our huts o' snaw. Chorus — For there 's nae land like Morayland, etc. Or better yet, wi' flying feet We thread the mazy dance. Return the pressure o' a hand Or meet an answering glance ; Or — remnant best to mortals left Frae Eden's parted bliss, — We mingle lips an' hearts an' sighs In love's first raptured kiss. Chorus — For there 's nae land like Morayland, etc. 142 Back, back to Morayland. Gae bring a stoup o' Milton Duff, Glen Lossie, or Glen Grant, The nectar o' our native North — What mair cud mortals want ? Gae bring a stoup o' ' Mountain Dew,' The best that hands can draw, We '11 drain it dry to Morayland Though morning cock sud craw. Chortts — For there 's nae land like Morayland, eh. BACK, BACK TO MORAYLAND. (SUGGESTED BY THE LETTER OF AN EMIGRANT AT ONE OF THE AUSTRALIAN GOLD-DIGGINGS TO HIS FRIENDS IN MORAYSHIRE.) Back, back to Morayland, O'er the blue sea, Far from this hated strand, O let me flee ! Back where the smile of love Sweetened my toil. Like the sweet sun above, Gladdening the soil. Down in the sparry caves, Sleep, tempest, sleep; Over the laughing waves Sweep, my bark, sweep. Back, hack to Morayland. 143 Swift as the swallow's flight, Home let us flee ; There, there are eyes of light Watching for me. Here doubt and danger reign Wedded to fear. Back to my home again, Morayland dear ! Pride of my native North, Brave land of old. Where every heart is worth Mountains of gold. Back, back to Morayland, O'er the blue sea. Far from this hated strand, O let me flee ! Swift as the swallow's flight, Back to the isle Where love and truth unite Hearts without guile. 144 Fair fa' the Guidwives o' Lhanbryd. FAIR FA' THE GUIDWIVES O' LHANBRYD.i Fair fa' the guidwives o' Lhanbryd, The comely guidwives o' Lhanbryd : Nane fairer indeed Frae Pentland to Tweed ; Nane better in Scotland sae wide, wide, Nane better in Scotland sae wide. Fair fa' the guidwives o' Lhanbryd, The cheery guidwives o' Lhanbryd : Gin Fortune look sour. Just gang for an hour An' plant yoursel' doon by their side, side. Just plant yoursel' doon by their side. Fair fa' the guidwives o' Lhanbryd, The couthie guidwives o' Lhanbryd : They keep for their ain A blithe but an' ben, An' blithely for strangers provide, 'vide, An' blithely for strangers provide. 1 Lhanbryd is one of the Lowland parishes of Morayshire, and famed for its hospitality, even in that hospitable county. Elgin Toon. 145 Fair fa' the guidwives o' Lhanbryd, The sonsie guidwives o' Lhanbryd : The man wha 'd misca' 'em Deserves — an' sae fa' him — A cudgel to wallop his hide, hide, A cudgel to wallop his hide. ELGIN TOON. Oh, Elgin toon is brawly kenn'd To ilka Moray loon, Wha thinks it ance, o' a' the warl', The biggest, bonniest toon ; An' though there may be bigger toons. An' toons wi' braider streets, I ken o' nane whar social frien' Wi' frien' sae kindly meets ; I ken o' nane wi' lasses fair, As some that I could name, Wha claim our kintra for their ain, An' Elgin for their hame. Our auld Cathedral 's dear to me. An' fair is Ladyhill, An' aft I 've strayed on Lossie banks, Till evenin' dews were chill. K 146 The old grey Tower. I like to tread our hummin' streets, When market days are thrang, I like to see our buskit fair, When simmer days are lang ; But what mak's Elgin dear to me. O'er ilka ither toon, I meet my darling lassie there, When simmer suns gae doon ; I meet her 'neath the gloamin' star. When daily toil is o'er ; An' think, to watch the mantUn' blush That tells me o' my power, Or slyly pree her cherry lip. Can match the bliss aboon ; An' that 's what warms my heart to think O' bonny Elgin Toon. THE OLD GREY TOWER.i The old grey Tower, the old grey Tower, Methinks I see it rise, The grassy slope around its base, Above, the summer skies ; 1 The ancient Tower of Coxton stands in the parish of Lhan- tryd, overlooking the railway running from Aberdeen to Inverness and the Far North. The old grey Tower. 147 The white-walled cottage standing near, The children all at play, The great brown dog that shares their sport And gambols blithe as they. The brave old Tower, the strong old Tower, It rears its head sublime. Unbent beneath the weight of age, Unscathed by wasting time. It tells me not of tyrant might Nor fettered captives' tears ; It mingles with my dreams of home And thoughts of early years. 'Tis wrought in all the golden dreams That hopeful Fancy weaves Its name is written sibyl-like On all her mystic leaves ; And 'neath her spell I see again. In Beauty's noontide hour, My dark-eyed love awaiting me Beside the old grey Tower. The brave old Tower, the dear old Tower, Where'er my feet may roam, Its massive walls and vaulted roof Will rise with dreams of home ; And gentle tones and looks of love Come back in all their power To knit my heart with silken bands To Coxton's old grey Tower. 1 48 The Elgin Attorney. THE ELGIN ATTORNEY. Tune — ' Old Dan Tucker.' The Elgin Attorney, he's no fool, His head is clear and his temper 's cool, And he can pick or patch a flaw And clear the knottiest points of law — Singing, Out of the way for the Elgin Attorney ! Clear the way for the Elgin Attorney ! Who knows law like the Elgin Attorney ? The Attorney is up to every trick — At catching a client none so quick ; And he can hunt a debtor down, And drain his purse of the last half-crown — Singing, Out of the way for the Elgin Attorney ! Clear the way for the Elgin Attorney ! Down with your dust to the Elgin Attorney ! No desperate debt's beyond his reach. He sticks to insolvents like a leech, They may duck, and dodge, and wriggle, and cry ; But he holds them fast, and sucks them dry — Singing, Out of the way for the Elgin Attorney ! Clear the way for the Elgin Attorney ! No dodger dodges the Elgin Attorney ! The Elgin Attorney. 149 No panel fears the judge's face If once the Attorney backs his case, For Justice opens both her eyes As soon 's she hears the Attorney rise — Crying, Out of the way for the Elgin Attorney ! Clear the way for the Elgin Attorney ! No bar nor bench can match the Attorney ! He '11 clearly prove that wrong is right. That blue is black, and black is white, He '11 hocus judge and jury too To bring a client safely through — Singing, Out of the way for the Elgin Attorney ! Clear the way for the Elgin Attorney ! You can't chop law with the Elgin Attorney ! The Elgin Attorney 's a man of parts ; The ladies call him king of hearts. And vow that none knows half so well How to court or cut a swell — Singing, Out of the way for the Elgin Attorney ! Clear the way for the Elgin Attorney ! What youth 's so smart as the Elgin Attorney ? The Elgin ladies all declare There 's none so smart or half so fair, Altho' the Attorney 's wont to scoff, And talk of a club to keep them off — Singing, Out of the way for the Elgin Attorney ! Clear the way for the Elgin Attorney ! You can't a// wed the Elgin Attorney ! 150 The Elgin Attorney. When press of business drives him West, At Forres he 's an honoured guest ; Through street and lane the cry runs rife — ' The Attorney 's here as large as life — Hip, hip, hurrah for the Elgin Attorney ! Clear the way for the Elgin Attorney ! Off caps and hats to the Elgin Attorney ! ' The maids of Banff have heard his fame. He 's set their tender hearts aflame ; And now they cry to every beau, ' You like the Elgin Attorney ?' ' No !' Singing, Out of the way for the Elgin Attorney ! Clear the way for the Elgin Attorney ! You 're all eclipsed by the Elgin Attorney ! At Dufftown he 's in high repute, And there they say when folks dispute, ' Just wait till the Elgin Attorney come, He '11 talk a score such wranglers dumb ' — Singing, Out of the way for the Elgin Attorney ! Clear the way for the Elgin Attorney ! You won't outwit the Elgin Attorney ! The other week at Pluscarden, He quite extinguished sS!^ the men, And smote the heart of country queans. As Samson smote the Philistines — Singing, Out of the way for the Elgin Attorney ! Clear the way for the Elgin Attorney ! No ass hath a jaw like the Elgin Attorney ! Drowned, at the Ford. 151 But where 's the bard of modern days That 's fit to sing the Attorney's praise ? Old Homer's self had been at fault, And therefore I must call a halt — Singing, Out of the way for the Elgin Attorney ! Clear the way for the Elgin Attorney ! Unequalled stands the Elgin Attorney. DROWNED AT THE FORD: A BALLAD FOR THE DOG-DA VS. The lady looked over her castle wall ; Low winds, low. The frost and the snow were over all ; Snow, deep snow. She looked far into the wildering night ; Low winds, low. Leaning her chin on her hand so white ; Snow, deep snow. She looked far into the night, and sighed ; Low winds, low. • Why does he tarry so long ?' she cried ; Snow, deep snow. 152 Drowned at the Ford. The lady looked out for her absent lord ; Low winds, low. He had to cross the moor and the ford ; Snow, deep snow. The moon went down, and the stars grew dim ; Low winds, low. Aurora hung on the mountain's rim ; Snow, deep snow. But still the lady watched for her lord ; Low winds, low. He crossed the moor, but never the ford ; Snow, deep snow. The ice was thick at the river's brink ; Low winds, low. Who could have dreamt that a man could sink ? Woe, deep woe. The ice was thin at the middle stream ; Low winds, low. The moon in clouds had hidden her beam ; Woe, deep woe. The moon had hidden her face so pale ; Low winds, low. A splash arose and a drowning wail ; Woe, deep woe ! Christmas Song. 153 CHRISTMAS SONG. Good morn, old Father Christmas ! We 're glad to see you here, For when you come we always look For mirth and pleasant cheer ; You bring us geese and turkeys. And good roast-beef to eat. Plum-puddings, pies, and oranges, And many another treat. We love to see your burly form, No matter how you 're drest ; But when you wear your snowy suit 'Tis then we like you best. You always have a comely face, But never seem so fair As when you come with frozen beard And ice-entangled hair. But come with frost, or come with thaw. It matters little which. If you with peace and plenty come You 're dear to poor and rich ; And eyes are lit with brighter sheen, And hearts with warmer glow, In presence of your holly leaves And magic mistletoe. 154 Christmas Carol. Speed on, old Father Christmas ! With love to great and small, With balm to every aching heart Where'er your footsteps fall. Give guileless merriment to youth, And smooth the wrinkled brow, Till all exclaim, ' We 've loved you much. But ne'er so much as now.' CHRISTMAS CAROL. Hark ! the merry Christmas Waits Singing at the outer gates ! Nearer, clearer, at the door, Now their voices blend and soar. Pealing forth the glad refrain — ' Peace on earth, good-will to men !' ' Peace on earth, good-will to men ! ' Loud the joyful notes arise, Floating up to starry skies ; Young and old in' union meet Raise on high the anthem sweet ; Let us join the glad refrain — ' Peace on earth, good-will to men ! ' Christmas Carol. ' Peace on earth ! ' — ah, would that we Peace in every land might see — Peoples wage a single strife- — Which shall rise to noblest life, Pealing wide the glad refrain — ' Peace on earth, good-will to men !' ' Peace on earth !' — the radiant morn. When the Prince of Peace was born, Then a milder faith began. Dawned a brighter day for man. Sang the herald angels then — ' Peace on earth, good-will to men !' ' Peace I'^when man to man is just, Sword and scimitar shall rust, Cease the deadly cannon's roar. Battle-fields be seen no more, Nations join the glad refrain — ' Peace on earth, good-will to men ! ' ' Peace ' in all our tribes and climes ! Then the merry Christmas chimes Round and round the globe shall peal, Chimes of universal weal, All upraise the glad refrain — ' Peace on earth, good-will to men ! ' 155 156 Hurrah for Christmas I HURRAH FOR CHRISTMAS! Hurrah ! the Christmas times are here, The times of mirth and dainty cheer, The evenings which allow, From laughing matron, struggling miss, To snatch the half-reluctant kiss Beneath the mistletoe bough. Hurrah ! the merry school-boy troops. And girls in joyous chattering groups, Partake the sweets of home. The hated task neglected lies No straining now of aching eyes Above the dog-eared tome. Hurrah ! the sternest brow unbends. Amidst the radiant, happy friends Around the Christmas board. Where Plenty pours her copious horn. And Joy, of Peace and Plenty born. Presides the smiling lord. Hurrah ! the Christmas times are here, The gayest times of all the year. The times of feast and song. Oh to he Young again I 157 Let joy and kindness rule the hour, Their gentle sway with all your power Support, extend, prolong. Chorus. Hurrah ! the Christmas times- are here, The times of mirth and dainty cheer, The gayest times of all the year, The times of feast and song. OH TO BE YOUNG AGAIN ! Out on the flowery meadow, Down by the chattering brook, Reading a fairy legend Out of a pictured book ; Weeping over the princess — Deeming her story true — Raging over the giants. Blessing the prince who slew. Watching the tiny troutlets Catching their airy prize ; Stringing a daisy chaplet, Chasing the butterflies ; Hunting the mystic land-rail Over the grassy slope ; Hunting, but baffled ever, Tust as I Ve been bv hone. iS8 Can this be Love ? Creeping under the hedges, Climbing up on the walls, Little heeding the scratches, Seldom hurt by the falls ; Watching the sturdy reapers Smiting the golden grain ; Out in the glowing sunshine. Out in the gushing rain : Oh to rub out my wrinkles 1 Oh to be young again ! CAN THIS BE LOVE? A BALLAD. What ails my heart to flutter so, Whene'er I meet his eye ? Why shakes my voice, or sinks so low. Whenever he draws nigh ? What ever makes the world so bright When he is near and gay, But wear the sable hue of night When he is far away ? When I am drinking in his words. How swift the wingfed hours ! How musical the songs of birds ! How sweet the scented flowers ! The Night Winds speak in the old, old Tone. 159 A glamour hangs on all. below, A glory floats above : I wonder why it should be so — Can this — can this be love ? Ah, surely this is love ! THE NIGHT WINDS SPEAK IN THE OLD, OLD TONE. A BALLAD. We met by the old kirk-stile at eve, For, though I was often, often forbid, I came to the trysting by true love's leave, And we met at the old kirk-stile, we did. They said he was poor, I nurtured in wealth. But his love was a priceless mine to me. And his manly daring and ruddy health Were better than titles and pedigree. But he sailed away to a foreign land To conquer a fortune fitting his bride ; And he never returned to claim my hand. For his ship went under, not over, the tide. i6o We have the World before us. And I come to the old kirk-stile at eve, And sit by myself on the mossy stone ; I have ceased to hope, I have ceased to grieve, But the night winds speak in the old, old tone. WE HAVE THE WORLD BEFORE US. Be mine to chant a merry stave And yours to join in chorus ; For why should we be dull and grave ? We have the world before us. Why should we mourn departed joys Which time can ne'er restore us ? Why mix our mirth with sad alloys ? We have the world before us. Be Fortune sterner than she 's been Since nurse in swaddlings bore us — Shall we succumb beneath her spleen ? We have the world before us. Let scornful beauties toss the head, And hint they don't adore us ; As fair as they are yet unwed — We have the world before us. We know that time's unwearied foot With silent steps steals o'er us. That hollow hearts and guileful arts Are in the world before us. Mariiima, the Ocean Child. i6i. But shall we thence for ills to come Like silly fools deplore us, And add our griefs to swell the sum Of those that are before us ? Let honour be our polar star, With virtue's banner o'er us, ' And scarce will future evils mar The joys that are before us. To those who don't admire our song. To all who won't encore us. We say — The world is broad and long. Its favours are before us. MARITIMA, THE OCEAN CHILD. A BALLAD. Thus spoke the Captain of our ship. Becalmed a-near the Line, ' I'll tell you how so fair a girl Has linked her lot to mine : ' We saved her off a sinking wreck, When winds and waves were wild. And " Maritima" was the name We gave the ocean child. L 1 62 Maritima, the Ocean Child. ' She was a gentle tiny thing, But beautiful to see, And never seemed so happy as When prattling on my knee. ' She learnt to run about the ship, And grew the sailors' pride, But never seemed so happy as When tripping by my side. ' She grew a tall and comely lass. With soft and sunny hair. And eyes that looked into my heart, • So full of love they were. ' But people said 'twas very wrong, And I was ill at ease. That she, a girl, with bearded men Should sail the stormy seas. ' I knew the sailors loved her all, And yet I had my fears ; But when I moved that we should part. She shed a sea of tears. '" Then be my wedded wife !" I cried ; She raised her head and smiled. And still she is my heart's delight. My darling ocean child !' The Try sting. 163 THE TRYSTING. MEET me at eve in the valley, Beneath the grey church on the hill ; 1 '11 wait at the end of the alley That leads to the old ruined mill. O come, for there 's something I 'm dying With burning desire to impart ; A something which long has been lying Just ready to burst from my heart. O come, and I '11 whisper it only, I '11 whisper it low in your ear ; Moreover, the valley is lonely. And so you '11 have nothing to fear. O come when the zephyrs are wending Their odorous way through the grove. While Sol in departure is blending His gold with the azure above. O come, as I ever have found you. With smiles on your beautiful lips. As if Fate had scattered around you A gladness that nought, could eclipse. O come, and I '11 whisper my story, I '11 whisper it low in your ear ; O come, like a spirit of glory Descended to bless and to cheer. 1 64 Song of the Railway Gttard. SONG OF THE RAILWAY GUARD. 'All right! All right !' Away and away- Through the beainless night Or the sunlit day, I and my iron steed On our iron pathway speed. Like the rushing wind, Like the lightning's flash, Like a glance of the mind, Untiring we dash Through the haunts of men. Through the lonely glen, O'er meadow and stream Where the lambkins bleat, Where the eagles scream In the summer's heat. In the winter's snow. Whether the breezes sleep or blow ; Bearing the commerce of every clime. Onward we go at a pace sublime, Outspeeding all save the foot of Time. A Summer Song. 165 A SPRING SONG. Surly Winter is soft'ning his reign, Blossoms are whit'ning down in the lane, Bees through the arbours are humming. Over the mountains, over the main, Over the valleys, over the plain. The beautiful Spring is coming, Is coming, is coming, The beautiful Spring is coming. II. Eyes that are dimmed by misfortune's tear. Limbs that have shivered in winter sere. Hearts that are wearily aching, Brighter, blither, and better of cheer, Now may ye be, for balmy and clear The beautiful Spring is breaking ; Deep in the forest, and wide on the mere, The beautiful Spring is breaking, Is breaking, is breaking. A SUMMER SONG. The beautiful Su,mmer hath come from the south. And verdure and fragrance are blown from his mouth. The hills are empurpled, the valleys below In leafage and blossoms are gardens aglow. 1 66 A Winter Song. The streamlets are rippling in music along, The forests are vocal with love-speaking song, And all on the ocean, on earth, and in air, Are rapture and radiance unspeakably fair. Oh beautiful Summer ! why art thou so sweet, Or why dost thou leave us with footsteps so fleet ? Ah Summer! sweet Summer ! the young and the grey Would love thee for ever if thou wouldst but stay. A WINTER SONG. The leaves have fallen from the trees ; The fields are bleak and bare ; The birds of song have crossed the seas In quest of summer air. Ah ! happy, happy birds to flee And leave this wintry world to me ! This wintry world of wind and rain. Of hail, and sleet, and snow. Of storms careering o'er the main, And threat'ning all below ; Ah ! happy, happy birds to flee And leave this wintry world to me ! But pile the coals up in the grate. And set the lights ablaze, Kate Nicholson. 167 For griefs indulged but darken fate, And mar our nights and days ; Let feathered songsters come or flee, What signifies their flight to me ? Ho ! heap the dainties on the board, And pour the sparkling wine. Let Mirth preside, the jocund lord, And Beauty's smile be mine ; Let feathered songsters come or flee. Within my heart shall summer be. Bright summer be, sweet summer be, Within my heart shall summer be. KATE NICHOLSON. Kate Nicholson ! Kate Nicholson ! I saw ye only ance, But in my memory ye hae run For ever, ever since ; Your sunny face an' laughin' een My simple heart ensnared, An' ye hae been its rulin' queen Where'er my feet hae fared. ' Kate Nicholson ! Kate Nicholson ! ' I murmur nicht an' day ; But I hae fortune still to win An' doubtful is the fray ; 1 68 The Gardener's Daughter. In life's grim battle overthrown Heaps piled on heaps we see, Yet aye a power to cheer me on Kate Nicholson will be. THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER. I SAW her in the garden stand, And knew not which was fairer, The roses in her lily hand, The roses or the bearer. '■ Is this a goddess true ?' I cried, ' The lovely goddess Flora ?' ■* Nay, nay !' the gardener straight replied, ' 'Tis but my daughter Nora.' I sat beside the river's brink, And through the arbour ringing I heard a voice which made me think On seraph sweetly singing. ' Is that an angel's voice ?' I cried ; Beside me, sine mora, A sweeter voice to mine replied — ' I 'm but the gardener's Nora.' And thus it is where'er I stray. In August or December, In surly March or sunny May, A voice I still remember ; Mary, the Floiver of the Dee. 169 Alike 'neath Luna's silver beams, Or golden-haired Aurora, A form beside me ever seems — The gardener's daughter Nora. MARY, THE FLOWER OF THE DEE. O Mary, fairest flower on Dee, To what shall I resemble thee ? Or to what Muse petition raise For fitting strains to sing thy praise ? As early rose in opening day. Excels the sister flowers of May ; As diamonds dim a row of pearls, My love outshines all other girls. A rose, a gem, on earth, in air, In ocean depths beyond compare, Her name upon ray heart is writ, And there will live while pulses it. O fair the night, and sweet the morn ! O dear the day my love was born ! O brightest gem in memory set. The raptured hour when last we met ! Beside the Dee we sat alone Upon a birch by winds o'erthrovvn ; The zephyrs murmured soft and low, The passing river hushed its flow, 1 70 Boys' Holiday Song. As listening for the melody That fainter poured from bush and tree ; For fast the sun in cloudless blue Towards the purpling mountains drew. Though still his gleams on grove and glade, And rippling waters softly played, And all around appeared so fair, I felt that Paradise was there. And gazing on the blissful scene, The golden waves, the forest green, On her who sat myself beside. Transported with delight I cried — ' O fairest, dearest maid, be mine, For ever let our lives entwine,' And met the sweetest of replies — The love-light from my Mary's eyes. BOYS' HOLIDAY SONG. We 'll make our .voices chime To greet the merry time ; And we a joyful song will raise To hail the happy holidays ; The days, the days Of merry pranks and plays. Boys' Holiday Song. 171 The holidays are here, The gayest of the year ; The pretty, pretty flow'rets spring, The butterflies are on the wing ; With song, with song The fields and forests ring. From mountain and from vale Sweet odours scent the gale ; The earth is gay with golden light ; But ah ! too rapid is the flight Of days, of days So beautiful and bright. Away, ye musty books, Go, sleep in dusky nooks ! We hear our merry comrades call ; We 're off' with wickets, bats, and ball ; No work, no work, But merry play for all. We '11 make our voices chime To greet the merry time ; And we a joyful song will raise To hail the happy holidays ; The days, the days Of merry pranks and plays. 172 Auld Duncan. AULD DUNCAN. A BALLAD. Auld Duncan was stiff an' rheumatic, A martyr to spasms and pains ; His bluid was sae chill an' phlegmatic, It scarcely wad crawl through his veins. In winter he shivered, an' toastit His shins by the side o' the fire ; In simmer he hirpled an' hostit. An' death was his only desire. His wife, wi' his grainin' sae weary, Was fain to have seen him awa' ; But wasna it dowie an' eerie ? — Hersel' was the first gat the ca'. Then Duncan's rheumatics forsook him. His pains an' his aches took their flicht ; To market an' kirk he betook him, Fu' gleg o' baith hearin' an' sicht. He jokit, he leer'd, an' he smirkit, The hearts o' the fair to engage ; Ere sax months he 'd marrit an' kirkit A hizzy o' half his ain age ! The limmer ! ah, sair she tormentit An' worrit the auld body's life, Till hourly he grat an' lamentit The loss 0' his ancient guidwife. The willing Maiden. 173 THE WILLING MAIDEN. Gin Johnny come na here for love, I 've little skeel o' men, But gin his love will marriage move I dinna, dinna ken. I never seem to ken or care Hoo aft he come or gang, Tho' twenty times an' twenty mair He 's come an' sitten lang. An' tho' he 's aye sae mini an' douce, Yet I can brawly see That but the house, an' ben the house, He herds me wi' his e'e. ^n' tho' they say I 'm hard o' heart. He wadna find it sae. For gin he likes to say the word I winna answer nae. He 's nae a man o' muckle gear. But I hae heard it said, Wi' health an' strength we needna fear To win our daily bread. An' tho' our path at times micht be Beset wi' vexin' care. Gin Johnny tak' the yoke wi' me, I '11 try to pu' my share. 174 I daurna come courtin' Thee. I DAURNA COME COURTIN' THEE. I CANNA come courtin' thee, Mary, I daurna come courtin' thee, For your father would frown And your raither look down In high disdain upon me, Mary — In high disdain upon me. Ye ken 'at I loe ye weel, Mary, For lang I hae lo'ed ye weel : An affection so true As I cherish for you, But hearts like mine ever feel, Mary — The ardent only can feel. But beauty and wealth are thine, Mary — Ay, beauty and wealth are thine. While the hope-blighting curse Of an ill-plenished purse Is doomed by the fates to be mine, Mary- Still doomed by the fates to be mine. Yet I never found fault with fate, Mary — I patiently bowed to my fate ; Ever willing to toil Like a serf of the soil, I drudged both early and late, Mary- Aye drudged both early and late. The Bonnie Lass ered weel in trade. An aye the times are gettin' harder, Wi' profits sma' an' sma'er made While mou's grow mair to toom the larder ; But still my Katie's cry 's the same. Or maybe sharper whiles an' shriller. Her constant cry when I come hame Is, 'Johnny, man, I'm wantin' siller.' Chorus — The constant sang where'er I gang, etc. I hae a thrivin' brither Tam, At fifty years an' three he's single ; But yet for his, though poor I am I wadna change my canty ingle ; Johnny, man, I'm wantin' Siller. 191 For Katie has a couthie wye That won my hairt an' knits it till her, In spite o' that dementin' cry O' ' Johnny, man, I 'm wantin' siller.' Chorus — The constant sang where'er I gang, etc. I lo'e my wife, I lo'e my bairns ; Gin Fortune wad but use me better I 'd buy them bonnie things in cairns An' nana hae power to ca' me debtor ; But plague on Fortune ! a' my life I 've found in her a sair ill-wilier. An' ithers noo as weel 's my wife Cry, ' Johnny, man, I'm wantin' siller.' Chorus — The constant sang where'er I gang, etc. But I 've a frien' o' genius rare Wha has a clever scheme to patent For keepin' wives an' bairns on air Or something in the air that 's latent ; Gin it succeed, nae mair I '11 dread To meet the souter or the miller. Nor yet will Katie craze my head Wi' ' Johnny, man, I 'm wantin' siller.' Chorus — The constant sang where'er I gang, etc. 192 A Gipsy Chorus. A GIPSY CHORUS. From place to place we gaily roam, We make and sell our wares, And always find a fitting home Unvexed by Fashion's cares. The gay Bohemian life we lead Is hearty, hale, and free, Howe'er gentility may plead Its non-gentility. They call us idlers, cheats, and tramps. But we their scorn defy So long as we can pitch our camps Beneath a rural sky. The gay Bohemian life we lead Is hearty, hale, and free, Howe'er gentility may plead Its non-gentility. The leafy woods, the verdant grass, The rough-and-ready cheer, The sturdy lad, the winsome lass, To gipsy hearts are dear. The gay Bohemian life we lead Is hearty, hale, and free. Although gentility may plead Its non-gentility. A Patriotic Song. 193 We envy neither pope nor king, We let the world go by, And laugh, and quaflf, and dance, and sing. Beneath the sunny sky. The gay Bohemian life we lead Is hearty, hale, and free, Howe'er gentility may plead Its non-gentility. A PATRIOTIC SONG. When Britain into being rose. Her Maker stamped her free, And gave to guard from grasping foes A zone of girdling sea. Her daughters, formed in Beauty's mould. Were dow'red with matchless charms. Her sons, the boldest of the bold, No equals found in arms. We Britons still our birthright prize, And unimpaired retain. Beneath whatever change of skies, Whatever change of reign. And where oppression rears his head. Or base submission cowers, Our name evokes the tyrant's dread, The slave's resistive powers. N 194 The Glittering Eye. Our fathers proved Britannia's might O'er mild and torrid zone, Undaunted guardians of the right, A brother's as their own. The glorious cause which they upheld, That cause uphold will we Till stern oppression shall be quelled On every land and sea. Yea, by the memories of our sires, Who died on field or flood In Freedom's cause with equal fires, We stand as they have stood. The friends of liberty and truth, With willing heart and hands, To-day, as in our island'? youth, Each free-born Briton stands. THE GLITTERING EYE. I 'll tell you how she jilted me. The story is not long, And then the less to weary you, I '11 tell my woes in song. For like the ' Ancient Mariner,' The stranger I assail, And hold him with my glittering eye Till he hath heard my tale. We met, we loved, we plighted vows. We parted both in tears, The Glittering Eye. 195 We wrote in strains of burning love Our plans, our hopes and fears ; For, like an ardent lovier, Her heart I did assail, And held her with my glittering eye Till I had told my tale. I thought her heart was all my own — A trusting, doting fool ; ' But when she knew how poor I was. Her love began to cool ; Now, like the 'Ancient Mariner,' The stranger I assail. And hold him with my glittering eye Till he hath heard my tale. Another suitor sought her hand, With future not so dim, ' Struck ile ' had he in foreign parts, And so she married him ; For, like an ardent lovier. Her heart he did assail, And held her with his glittering eye Till she had heard his tale. A splendid ' breach of promise case ' In mine my lawyer saw ; A farthing damages I got. And paid my costs at law ; Now like the 'Ancient Mariner,' The stranger I assail. And hold him with my glittering eye Till he hath heard my tale. 196 An Exiles Song. AN EXILE'S SONG. Far, far in foreign lands Fated to roam, , Friends who have pressed my hands, Loved me at home. Friends have forgot my face. Hold me as dead ; In my first dwelling-place. Stranger feet tread. Oft do I sit in dreams Where the woods wave. Oft in the crystal streams Lips and brow lave. Must I in dreams alone Roam at sweet will, As in long years agone. Valley and hill ? Early loves ne'er forgot, Early friends, hail ! Meet we or meet we not. Till the pulse fail ; Ye must remain with me. Go where I go, Graven on memory Through weal and woe. The Luckless Love o' Tailyour lam. 197 THE LUCKLESS LOVE O' TAILYOUR TAM. There wons a miller near the Dee, Wha has a dochter Nancy, Wha has a something in her e'e That surely is unchancy. I dinna ken when wise King James O' Britain swayed the sceptre. But water-pot or lowin' flames Frae mischief wad hae kept her. But as it is she 's witched a chiel, The tailyour at the Murtle, Till white his face as ony meal That e'er was steered by spurtle. He 's dwinin,' deein' for her sake. And yet she winna hae 'im, Altho' a lad o' comely make, And evil nane can say 'im. The heartless jade she sees him fade Aneath a hopeless passion ; She scorns his suit, although 'tis made Upon the newest fashion. Alas ! in thae degenerate days. We dinna burn our witches, Else I sud cure the tailyour's craze. An' free him frae his stitches. igS The Farmet's Wooin\ THE FARMER'S WOOIN': A DEESIDE SANG. There wonned a farmer near the Dee, A wealthy wily carle, O, A bonnie lassie met his e'e, Somewhere about Inchmarlo. ' My cantie quean,' the farmer cried, ' I 'm seeking for a marrow ; And if ye will but be my bride, Ye'se trail my easy harrow.' ' Good man,' quoth she, ' that canna be ; I 'm promised to the weaver, The house is sought, the ring is bought ; I maunna turn deceiver. My lad is poor, but I 'm content To be his wedded dearie. He'll win our bread and pay our rent, While true love keeps us cheery.' ' A struggling, starving wabster's wife ! ' Exclaimed the wily farmer ; ' With me how different were your life ! '— He knew the way to charm her — ' I 've horse, and kye, and sheep forbye, I 've pigs and poultry plenty ; You 'd share my best, at pleasure drest In silks and satins dainty.' ' In silks and satins ! ' cried the maid, In dress a true believer ; ' kind gudeman, I 'm sore afraid I '11 have to jilt the weaver ! ' The Naggletons. 199 And thusjthe farmer's suit prevails, Alas ! within the warl', O, Wealth wins the prize and true love fails Elsewhere than at Inchmarlo. THE NAGGLETONS. Love often flies oot at the window As Poortith comes in at the door, An' leaves unca little ahin' too That brichtened existence afore. John mairrit his Effie at twenty, An' had a gudewife unsurpassed. For Fortune had blessed them wi' plenty, An' smoothly the sunny years passed. But first came a loss wi' a brither. An' neist in the brak' o' a bank, His penny an' Effie's thegither Were equally swallowed an' sank. An' sober sin' syne is their dinner. Their supper fu' aft but a bite ; An' John thinks that Effie 's the sinner. While Effie gies John a' the wyte. As age wi' his ailments advances They nagget ilk ither doon hill, Oppressed by mistaks an mischances, Whase remedy baffles their skill. Never meet Troubles half-way. For Love flew awa' through the window As Poortith cam' in at the door, An' oh ! there 's richt little ahin' noo To brichten their lot at threescore. For the hardships o' Fortune are doubled Alike in number an' weight, Gin ane, when the ither is troubled, But adds to the worry an' fret. While burdens seem fewer an' lichter, An' smoother an' shorter the brae. An' threatfulest skies become brichter When Love is the guide o' the way. NEVER MEET TROUBLES HALF-WAY. Around us is raging the battle of life. We all must take part in the fray. And some must be posted where buffets are rife. But never meet troubles half-way, Halfway, half-way, O never meet troubles half-way. Our Captain hath wisely allotted to each His statioh, his strength, and his day, Set one in the trenches, and one in the breach, And wherefore meet troubles half-way, Half-way, half-way? O never meet troubles half-way. Auld Scotland yet ! 2c Ye tell me the weakest must go to the wall ; The adage I dare to gainsay ; The weakest may stand and the strongest may fall So never meet troubles half-way, Half-way, half-way, O never meet troubles half-way. Look hopefully forward, not ruefully back, Unquelled by despair or dismay ; The strongest are those for defence or attack That never meet troubles half-way. Half-way, half-way. O never meet troubles half-way. AULD SCOTLAND YET ! ( Composed on the heights above Rouen. ) AuLD Scotland yet ! auld Scotland yet ! Though bigger lands there be, Thy beauties I can ne'er forget. Far less can lichtly thee. There 's nae a land aneath the sun — An' nane do I despise — A warmer love frae me can win Or mair delight mine eyes. My Fatherland ! — My Mitherland ! — There 's nae a term in speech Will shape itsel' at my command My love for thee to reach — 202 The Last Song of the Season. Auld Scotland yet ! auld Scotland yet ! Whatever lands I see, Within my benmost bosom set Owre a' thou bear'st the gree. THE LAST SONG OF THE SEASON. Dame Nature has changed her many-hued gown, For a sad-looking vestment of yellow and brown ; Scarce a flower that bespangled her dress can be found, They 're deep in her wardrobe that' s under the ground ; I 'm sorry she thought that it did not become her, That beautiful garb which she wore through the summer; But ladies, you know, have ever a passion To keep at the heels of the little god Fashion, And in this town of ours I hear there 's a rumour, That Nature intends to come out d, la Bloomer, And I won't be surprised, nor either ought you. When Spring comes to find the prediction prove true ; But let her put on any garb that she may, I can't like her less than I like her to-day ; Oh, her looks and her humour don't suit me at all, She 's as dull as a lady fagged out at a ball. Not a voice in the woods, nor a song from the sky. All sullen, and silent ! so also shall I ; Lest you should complain, with a shadow of reason, Of the dulness of this, My Last Song of the Season. TRANSLATIONS AND PARAPHRASES FROM GERMAN, FRENCH, ITALIAN, LATIN, AND GREEK. THE WAY TO PARADISE. (From the German of Vogl. ) ' What seeks the child so often This hospital before ? Why comes she always weeping And knocking at the door ?' ' I pray thee let me enter, I seek my mother dear ; Two weary months are ended Since she was carried here.' ' Thou hapless little maiden, I pity thee full sore ; Yet thou wilt find thy mother, Ah ! never, never more ; ' For know, the cold earth o'er her A week ago was placed.' So spake the aged porter, And shut the door in haste. Yet long before the portal The weeping infant stays, As if the porter's answer No sense to her coaveys. 2o6 The Way to Paradise. At length in silent sorrow Returns she to the dame, Who tends her as a mother Since God her own did claim. But early on the morrow Returns she as before ; With tiny hands keeps knocking, And will not leave the door. ' Oh porter ! naughty porter ! Do let me in, I pray ; At home I cannot tarry, When mother is away !' Then answers her the porter, — ' Poor child ! in vain your cries, Your mother, gone from mortals, Now lives in Paradise !' He shuts, and now the infant. Alone with her despair. Of Paradise stands thinking. And how she may get there. Then forth with feet uncovered, And thin and scanty dress, Along the stony pathway She speeds in sore distress. And meekly asks each passer Where'er her journey lies, ' O' tell me, I beseech thee. The way to Paradise !' The Way to Paradise. 207 But none can tell her truly Where that dear place may be : So always speeding onward And further on goes she. When night, with gloomy horrors, Around her grimly falls, She sinks with hands enfolded And on her Maker calls. And 'neath the sheaves of harvest Reclines the wearied one, Till bright the fields are shining Beneath the morning sun. Then up again, and onward, And further on she hies, Imploring of each passer The way to Paradise. The sympathising people Bewail her sad pursuit ; And many a kindly mother Presents her bread and fruit. So wanders always further The child from place to place. Until her feet with walking Are in an evil case. Her hair is sorely tangled, Her cheeks are sunk and pale, Her garments dank and draggled Around her cling and trail. 2o8 The Way to Paradise. Thus fourteen days have drifted With Time's incessant tide, Since from her father's cottage The infant wandered wide. And now (grown more dejected, And weak and weaker still. Her tiny feet refusing To aid her eager will) Against the vaulted welkin She sees a convent rise, Its gilded spires are sparkling Beneath the morning skies. And thither creeping slowly, Half dead with toil and cold, To knock for aid and counsel The drooping child makes bold. And quickly at the summons A sister hastens near. And asks, ' Poor little infant. What errand brings thee here ?' ' Alas ! I 've lost my mother, She 's gone to Paradise, Nor yet can I discover Where that dear dwelling lies.' ' Poor hapless, hapless orphan !' The kindly sister says, And straight within the convent The wondering child conveys. Ki/ig Enzids Death. 209 And quivering with emotion, With aspect strange and wild, Down sinks to death exhausted The dying angel-child. And all the nuns come running, Each eager to be chief In bringing healing medicines And yielding her relief. And pressing closely round her They stand with tearful eyes. But lo ! the child hath found it — The way to Paradise ! KING ENZIO'S DEATH. (From the German of B. F, W. Zimmermann.) Enzio, or Hensius, was an illegitimate son of Frederick II., of the German dynasty of Hohenstaufen. He greatly aided his father in his unsuccessful attempts to overthrow the Papal power, and was honoured with the royal title on account of his valour, his fine talents, and marvellous personal beauty. Beaten by the Bolognese in the battle of Fossalta, 1249, he was taken prisoner, and kept at Bologna in confinement more or less close, according to the turn of events, till his death, which happened twenty-two years after. He Is described as of an extremely cheerful and hopeful disposition, and very fond of poetry and music, as he is portrayed in the ballad. Messenger. King Enzio, so beautiful, With hair like burnished gold. With eyes as blue as azure heaven, Caged eagle, proud and bold, o King Enzio's Death. The waves of the Reno echo Thy free and joyous strain ; In prison and in bondage, Breaks not thy heart in twain ? King Enzio. In prison and in bondage Stay joy and hope with me, For chains may fetter the body, But the soul, the soul is free. Still laughs the sun in the welkin, The stars still glitter on high ; My father holds crown and kingdom ; My hour of freedom is nigh. Messenger. O King, O King so beautiful. Fling joy and hope in the sea ! No more the sun in the welkin, The golden sun laughs he. Let all the sources of sorrow With blood-red currents be fed. Nor hope for help from thy father; The Kaiser, the Kaiser is dead ! King Enzio. And hath my father fallen ? Is the mighty Frederick dead ? Then God o'er me and the empire His hand in pity spread. For ten long months my sorrow No gleam of joy shall know; For ten long months my raiment Be the sable robes of woe. King Enzio's Death. I '11 teach the birds to warble My griefs instead of their own ; The waves shall listen, and utter My verse in their mournful moan ; But again the spring shall come hither, And songs of gladness revive ; The stars still brighten the azure, — My brothers for me are alive. Messenger. O King, O King so beautiful, Fling joy and hope in the sea ! The stars have fallen from the azure. Their brightness ceases to be. Thy brothers have perished in battle, In the hot and bloody fight, And thou art the only ruin Of thy house's royal might. King Enzio. Have the stars fallen from the welkin. The stars so fiery and fair ? With dust I '11 spatter my raiment. With ashes this golden hair. As son laments for his mother, For her young the nightingale ; I, with tears of blood, shall my kindred And the fall of my house bewail. But yet the meadows shall echo The song of the gladsome bird ; And yet, to gladden my prison. Shall the voice of joy be heard. King Enzio's Death. My father hath risen to glory, My brothers are in the tomb ; But friend, and harp, and true love Are left to lessen my gloom. Two suns, the eyes of my true love, Beam on my prison wall, I bask in their heavenly splendour, And my cell is a royal hall. The wit of my friend by the wine-cup Brightens the fleeting hours ; The harp resounds, and the landscape Is radiant with blooming flowers. Messenger. O King, O King so beautiful, Fling joy and hope in the sea ! No more can your true love dazzle ; In the silent grave is she. And he, thy jovial comrade, Thy faithful friend, is dead ; This very night on the scaffold His blood for thee was shed. King Enzio. And has my heart's love perished. And bled for me the true ? Well might this heart be broken. This heart by grief in two. Of father, brothers, true love. Of friend by death bereft. Thou, harp, art all the solace An evil fate hath left ; King Enzio's Death. 213 And I '11 tune thee to such wailings, That the sun in cloud shall keep, That the moon and the stars shall darken, And the rose and the lily weep. And still as I weave into numbers The songs of the years gone by, The loved and the lost shall listen, And hover in spirit nigh. The olden songs and gleeful The golden bridge shall be To carry my pale love over With her warm, true heart to me. The olden songs and gleeful, Like joy-bells' sweetest chime, Shall call from his grave my comrade. And the olden jovial time 1 Messenger. O King, O King so beautiful, Fling joy and hope in the sea ! These walls no more shall echo The clang of thy minstrelsy. Thy harp, the soul of joyance. Thy foes have sworn to break. That thou within thy prison Yet loner moan mayst make. King Enzio. And must my harp be broken ? Then joy and pain farewell ! You've crushed my heart within me, Ring out my funeral knell. 314 The Wives of Weinsberg. Heart, harp, in music swan-like Breathe out your latest sighs ; Fair earth, adieu for ever, The last of the Staufens dies ! THE WIVES OF WEINSBERG. (From the German of Chamisso. ) In the wars between Conrad iii. (1138-1152), the first King of the celebrated Hohenstaufen dynasty, and Henry the Proud, the httle town of Weinsberg, in the modern kingdom of WUrtemberg, was be- sieged by Conrad's troops, and it was then that the event celebrated in the following ballad is said to have taken place. In a church at Weinsberg a painting may still be seen representing the women trudging out at the port with their husbands, lovers, fathers, and brothers on their backs. The first great Hohenstaufen, The brave King Conrad, lay With horse ^nd foot at Weinsberg For many an irksome day. Without, the Guelfs were vanquished, Within, the rest held out. Defended by the valour Of burghers firm and stout. But hunger came, stern hunger, In war the sharpest thorn. And they who sued for mercy Then met the sting of scorn : The Wives of Weinsberg. 215 ' Here many a noble hero By caitiff hands lies low, But now your gates must open, Your blood for theirs shall flow.' Then came the women weeping — ' Alas ! that this must be ; But grant us safe departure. Our hands from blood are free.' Then fell the hero's anger, And pity filled his breast. To see the unoffending By anguish so distressed. ' I grant the wives of Weinsberg Permission to go forth, And each may bear the treasure She deems of highest worth. Each woman with her burden Shall find a peaceful way ; A King the word hath spoken — The King shall none gainsay !' And when the early morning Next streaked the east with white. The camp of the besiegers Beheld a mirthful sight. Then opened softly, softly, The rampart's guarded gate. And lo ! a line of women Pressed through its issue strait ; 2i6 The Wives of Weinsberg. Each loaded with her husband, Or man of highest worth, Her brother, sire, or true love, The women staggered forth. ' Ha ! stop the cunning women,' Cried many an angry foe ; ' Why this,' cried out the Chancellor, ' Was never meant, I trow.' But when the King had heard it, He laughed in merry mood — ' If that was not my meaning, They 've made the meaning good : I 've spoken what I 've spoken, A King's word fast and true ; No wise, no crafty Chancellor, Shall change or misconstrue.' Thus sacred and unsullied Remained the golden crown, And still survives the legend Through ages handed down. Eleven hundred and forty, As I have heard them tell. The year in which, at Weinsberg, These same events befell, — What time true love and duty Went sweetly hand in hand, And the word of a King was holy In the German Fatherland. The LMs Bride. 217 THE LION'S BRIDE. (From the German of Chamisso, ) With myrtle decked, in bridal gems arrayed, The warder's daughter, beauteous, rosy maid, Tripped daintily within the lion's cage. For at her feet the lion tamed his rage. The mighty brute, to others fierce and wild. With her was ever tractable and mild ; And now the tender maid, exempt from fears. Caressed him gently midst regretful tears. ' We were, in days for ever passed away, As child with child, companions in our play ; Each love for each, each joy in each had we, In childhood now remote from you and rrie. ' By thee protected, tranquil was my bed. My head upon thy shaggy kingly head ; I waxed apace, nor longer dost thou find In me the child, with childhood's simple mind. ' My strong, my faithful, honest beast, right fain To stay with thee would I turn child again ; But I must follow hence, for bliss or ban. To stranger lands, the fated stranger man : The Lion's Bride. ' It pleased Jiim to behold, and find me fair : He wooed, and won, 'tis past, and lo ! my hair. My good companion, wears the wreath for him, Though thus regretful tears mine eyes bedim. ' Dost comprehend ? Art wroth at what I tell ? I am prepared, be tranquil thou as well. He comes whom I must follow, nor must grieve ; Mine ancient friend, my parting kiss receive.' And as the maiden stooped and kissed the brute, The cage was shaken by a coming foot ; The lion spied the youth beside the grate, The bride too, saw, and trembled all too late. For swift the lion bounded to the door, Lashed up his wrath, and uttered roar on roar : She coaxed, commanded, threatened, all in vain. Nor threats could move nor blandishments re- strain. Without, a tumult rose of rage and- fear. ' Ho !' cried the youth, ' quick ; quick, a weapon here! I '11 shoot him down ! my aim is good and true.' More loud and fierce the lion's fury grew. The hapless bride the issue dared essay ; The brute transformed rushed blindly on his prey ; That form so fair so brief a space before, Lay mangled, bloody, lifeless, on the floor. The Fiddler. 219 And as he licked the precious blood, the brute Sank down beside the corse, his ragings mute. And thus lay sunk, in gloomy grief and smart. Until the fatal bullet pierced his heart. THE FIDDLER. (From the German of Sallet.) A FIDDLER roamed from land to land His minstrel skill to show, And with a deft and cunning hand He knew to wield the bow. His strains were strong, his strains were sweet, Were manifold in tone ; They stirred the heart, the frame complete. Through marrow and through bone. The music swelled, the minstrel peered Within his deepest mind ; — ' The finest strain that e'er I heard Nowhere herein I find. ' My aged father played it me, When I was yet a child ; Transported by its melody, I trembled, wept, and smiled. ' I 've thought my best, and played my best. But thought and played in vain ; And never more shall I have rest Till I can play that strain.' The Fiddler. He speaks, he plays another tone, 'Tis sweet, 'tis strong, 'tis grand ; It thrills through marrow and through bone ; The bow drops from his hand. ' Ah, wretched flourish ! sheer disgrace ! Shall this be nicknamed play?' He thrusts the fiddle in its case. And wildly bursts away. He wanders here, he wanders there. He ceases now to roam ; His hand is heavy, grey his hair, A cell becomes his home. Yet, haunted by that melody. He cries in his despair — ' O blessed God, give rest to me, A man of hoary hair !' One morn a boy he taught to play Beheld him in a dream ; He softly smiled as tranced he lay In morning's fairest beam. He wakes again, and murmurs low, ' Thanks, Ruler of the skies, That Thou hast deigned my sire to show Before my living eyes. ' All glorious in my dream he seemed. Majestically fair ; Around his ample shoulders streamed His flowing silver hair. The Fiddler. ' He played the wondrous melody Which I have sought in vain. Haste ! bring the fiddle, boy, to me, Methinks I hold the strain 1' He seized the bow, and poured a flood Of melody so rare. That every sound which stirs the blood Seemed born and blended there. The aged hand unwearied plies, On roll the tuneful streams, From out the aged minstrel's eyes A holy light out-gleams. Entranced by strains so strangely sweet. The minstrel's boy draws near, And listens at the master's feet In wonder, joy, and fear. The music dies, the bow doth drop The fiddler's final stave, His hand and heart together stop ; But even in eternal rest He clasps the fiddle to his breast ; — Thus lay him in his grave. The False Squire. SOLOMON AND THE SOWER. {From the German of Jiiickert.) In open air King Solomon Made in a field his royal throne, And there he saw a sower stride, Scattering the corn on either side. ' What dost thou there ? ' inquired the King, ' No harvest from this field can spring ; Give o'er the fooKsh task, I pray, Thou dost but fling the seed away !' His rising arm the sower dropt, A moment thoughtfiil, doubtfijl stopt. Then lustily resumed his trade, While to the Sage he answer made : — ' Of land this field is all my share. This have I ploughed and tilled with care ; What after-thought my arm should stop ? From me the seed, from God the crop.' THE FALSE SQUIRE. (From the German.) O'er the sleeping world the silent moon Her bountiful silver strowed. As an errant Knight and his serving-squire To the bridge on the Swartzstrom rode. The False Squire. 223 All heedlessly rode the gallant Knight ; For what had a Knight to fear ? When the traitorous squire stole up behind, And pierced his lord with a spear. He thrust him through with a spear, and sank His corse in the deepest wave, — ' Now I shall be master of master's wealth, And his charger ride,' said the knave. And the false knave donned the true Knight's arms — His hauberk, helmet, and sword, Then swung himself in the true Knight's seat, — And gave his charger the word. The stream was deep, and the bridge was steep, But the middle arch was neared. Did the good steed miss the true Khight's hand, That he backed, and plunged, and reared ? The false squire tried the steed to guide. By spur, by bridle, and blow ; Yet he backed for all, to the low-side wall. And over the bridge they go ! The deep dark wave the charger and knave Engulf with a sullen splash ; And the ripples wide upon either side The pebbles a moment dash. Then over the dead the river sped, On his wonted seaward way ; But master and knave alike shall his wave Give up to the judgment day. 224 The King and the Miller. THE TWO KINGS AT ORKADAL. {From the German of Geibel. ) Two kings were feasting at Orkadal ; The torches gleamed in the pillared hall ; The harpers played, and the wine was poured, But sullenly sat the kings at the board. 'Give me the maiden !' the one king cries, ' With her snowy brow and her bright blue eyes.' Cries the second king with flashing scorn, ' She is mine, and shall remain — I've sworn !' Between them passed no angrier word, But each arose and unsheathed his sword. Together they strode from the glittering hall. The snow lay deep by the castle wall. On the landscape round the torches flashed, Through the silent night the good swords clashed, And sadness fell upon Orkadal, Two kings lay dead in the pillared hall. THE KING AND THE MILLER. Frederick the great, it may be stated, built the Palace of Sans Souci— or Careless Content — in the years 1745-47, and the windmill which the ' intractable' miller refused to give up to the Emperor still belongs to the miller's descendants. There hved a miller free from care Within his little mill ; ' Click clack,' in weather foul or fair The mill kept grinding still. The King and the Milltr. 225^ It pleased his Lord the King to rear A castle by its side ; But for the mill the view were clear O'er town and country wide. The Monarch bade the miller gold — ' Sell me thy little cot— And build a better than the old ; Thyself shalt choose the spot.' ' My mill suffices my desire, I '11 leave it to mine heir, It bears the blessing of my sire, I '11 die no other where.' The King said yea, the miller nay, The prince his patience lost : 'The land is mine, thou shalt give way, A king must not be crost.' ' I '11 not give way.' ' Then force must needs Thy stubborn spirit bend.' ' You err, my sire ; from forceful deeds The judges will defend.' ' The judges ?' Ah ! the judges he. The King, had placed in power — ' Thou'rt right, I yield ; thy mill shall be As sacred from this hour.' Since then -o'er high and low the sam^ Time plies his peaceful wings ; Sans Souci is the castle's name. And Frederick the King's, p 2 26 ■ Evening. EVENING. {From the German of Riickert.) On yonder mountain steep I stood, And saw the sun descend, The evening o'er the summer wood Its golden net extend. The clouds of heaven their dews let fall Like balm on earthly woes, The evening bell rang out to call All nature to repose. ' Behold,' said I within my breast, ' How still creation now ! Earth's children all prepare for rest, So, wearied heart, shouldst thou. ' The flow'rets slowly close their eyes With day's expiring beam, And softly every wavelet hies To join its chosen stream. ' The sylph fatigued hath left the sky, And rests beneath a blade ; Amongst the weeds the dragon-fly In dewy sleep is laid. ' The golden beetle, slumber-bound. Is couched within a rose, The herdsman and the flock have found Their places of repose. Das Kind der Sorge. 227 ' The lark descending from the air Hath sought its lowly nest, And quiet in their forest lair Are stag and roe at rest. ' Whoever calls a hut his own Rests 'neath its rustic beams, And wanderers in a foreign zone Revisit home in dreams.' DAS KIND DER SORGE. THE CHILD OF SORRO W. (^Translated from the German of Herder.') One day on the banks of a murmuring stream Pale Sorrow sat deep in thought ; And fingered the earth in her pensive dream, Till an image of clay was wrought. ' Now what hast thou there?' cried Jove, drawing nigh, ' Pale Goddess of Sorrow, say.' ' An image of clay, great Lord of the Sky, — Give life to the creature, I pray.' ' Then live !' cried Jove, and it lived at his word, ' Now mine shall the creature be!' ' Not so,' cried Sorrow, ' but leave it, my lord; I beg of thee leave it to me ! 228 Das Kind der Sorge. ' My finger hath formed it out of the clay ;' ' But I endowed it with life.' While thus they argued came Tellus that way, And added her voice to the strife. ' The creature,' said she, ' to me must belong, 'Twas taken out of my breast.' Cried Jove, ' Why further discussion prolong ? Great Saturn shall set it at rest.' Said Saturn, chosen to settle the strife, ' This child belongs to you all ; Let Jove, because he endowed it with life. When it dies inherit its soul. ' To you, O Tellus, its body we give. For nothing more is your due ; And, Sorrow, while it continues to live. It shall find a mother in you ; ' So long as it breathes you shall not depart From the child your finger hath made; Like you, it shall vex and torture its heart Till dust to dust it is laid.' The creature is Man, and Destiny's urn Moved truly to Saturn's nod ; Man lives to Sorrow, and dies to return To the bosom of earth and to God. A Winter Song. 229 A WINTER SONG. [From the German of Krummacher.) Ah ! wherefore liest thou so still Beneath thy covering white and chill, Thou dear Maternal Land ? Where are thy vernal melodies, Thy plumage under summer skies, Thy blooming festive robe so grand ? Undecked thou liest in thy sleep : No gamesome lambs, no grazing sheep, Thy fields and mountains bear ; Thy little birds are sad and dumb, No bees above thy flow'rets hum : Yet thou art ev'n in winter fair. Thy frozen boughs and glittering sprays,—) Emit a thousand twinkling rays Bedazzling to the eyes ; Who, who has thus prepared thy bed, This snowy covering o'er thee spread, And tricked thee thus in winter-guise ? The friendly Father ; who but He, This snowy covering wove for thee ? He sleeps and slumbers not. Do thou thy peaceful slumber take. The Father bids the weary wake In fresher strength to brighter lot. 230 The Play of the Strings. To thee the painful throes of spring A new and vivid youth shall bring, Life wonderful and fair ; His Breath already hovers near, And soon, O Earth, shalt thou appear With blooming garlands in thy hair. THE PLAY OF THE STRINGS. (From the German of Herder.^ In the following poem the minstrel is represented as being struck by the play of his own strings, and indulging in various questionings as to the real cause of their harmonious utterances. At last the Spirit of Harmony stands out and answei's him. And the minstrel hushes his song in rapt admiration. Minstrel. What sings in you, ye chorded lyre ? What animates your tone? Dost thou, O plaintive nightingale, An absent mate bemoan ? Dost breathe in music to my heart Thy melancholy tale ? Perchance its latest notes die out In this soft silver wail. What speaks in you, ye chorded lyre ? What sings within your shell ? Are these thine echoes, sportive love, Which rise in dulcet swell ? The Play of the Strings. 231 Thou dear delusion of the heart, Sweet lip-alluring toy, Hast seized the strings to sigh farewell, Thou fickle, fleeting joy ? It speaks in stronger, clearer notes. It penetrates my heart ; Its magic touches wake anew The long-forgotten smart ! Thou tremblest in my frame, O soul ! Art thou thyself a lyre Within some spirit's cunning hands. Which thrill the quivering wire ? It hovers on the sounding string. It murmurs in mine ears ! The Soul of harmony stands forth The Spirit of the spheres ! Spirit. Lo ! here am I, the essence pent Within the hollow shell ; In every tone which strikes your ear. Or thrills your heart, I dwell. I am the echo of the rocks. The low, sweet plaintive wail, Which warbles from the slender throat Of yonder nightingale. In notes of woe I stir your heart. To pity or to love, I vibrate in your songs of praise, And waft your prayers above. 232 Hope. I tune the world, and tone with tone The diapason rolls ; In one unceasing choral stream, Souls mingling blend with souls. Your heart within your bosom thrills Responsive to the strain, And feels of grief the subtile joy ; Of joy the subtile pain. Minstrel. Cease, song of mine ! I hear the song Of all creation peal ; The power which linketh soul to soul Leads heart with heart to feel. In mystic feeling we are one, The same in every zone. Wide echoes from the Godhead blent In one harmonious tone. HOPE. [From the German of Geibel. ) Let blust'ring Winter hurl his blast 'Neath suns that light us dimly. His snow and ice around us cast While frowning on us grimly ; We know that Spring will come again, To banish Winter's tyrant reign. Hope. 233 Let mist before the morning sun, A dense, impervious curtain, O'er plains extend and momitains dun. But yet we know for ceKtain That bright the solar ray shall glow, Diffusing warmth and joy below. Blow on, ye tempests, blow with might I Your rage shall not alarm me, There 's one approaching overnight, Whose milder sway shall charm me ; The Spring draws near on velvet feet. To scatter round me odours sweet. Then shall the slumb'ring earth awake. To verdant life up-springing. And, while from every bush and brake Harmonious mirth is ringing. Shall greet the sunny skies above In ecstasies of joy and love. Her hair with garlands she shall twine. Bedeck herself with roses. And ears of corn therewith combine. Whose husk the grain uncloses ; While all her streams shall flow as clear As if their fount were pleasure's tear. Heart, let it freeze, as freeze it may^ Be thou content, unshaken. For man shall break a brighter day. New joys within him waken. 234 The Moss Rose. A day of flowered and gemmed attire, A great May-day for earth entire ! Thougli fears and terrors stalk abroad, Though earth like hell should darken, Undaunted place thy trust in God, To no misgivings' hearken, For after Winter's gloomy reign Shall vernal glories deck the plain. THE MOSS ROSE. {Fivni the German.) The Angel who watches the birth of the flowers. Who shields them in tempests and feeds them with dew, O'ercome by the heat of the sun's hottest hours, Reclined in the shade which a grateful rose threw. Refreshed by repose, by the perfume enchanted Which the Queen of the Flowers so lavishly shed ; ' If aught to complete thy attractions is wanted. Just name it, and have it, my Fairest,' he said. ' Then grant me, my guardian,' the rose-tree en- treated, ' Yet another attraction to heighten my grace.' The moss was the gift, and her beauty completed, She stood forth the Queen of her beautiful race. The Brooklet. 235 THE BROOKLET. (From the German of Goethe. ) Little silvery, sparkling river, Flowing on and on for ever, On your brink I stand and think, Stand and think, and fain would know Whence you come and whither go. ' Out from rocky caverns deep Gush I down the sombre steep. Glide I on through moss and flowers. Grassy meads, and elfin bowers. While friendly skies within me glass Their azure image as I pass. ' On with childlike joy I go, Caring little where I flow. He who called me from the stone Leaves me not to flow alone ; He who did my stream provide. He, I think, will be my guide.' 236 The Partition of the Earth. THE PARTITION OF THE EARTH ; OR, THE POET'S PORTION. (From the German of Schiller.) ' Receive the earth !' cried Zeus to Man, From off his airy hill ; ' Receive it in eternal fief, Divide it as ye will ; And live in peace and friendship true, As brother mortals ought to do.' Then ran whoever hands possessed, Alert to seize a share, Till all was clutched, and held, and owned Beneath the vital air. The farmer seized the golden grain. The squire the chase on hill and plain. The merchant grasped what stores could hold. The abbot claimed the wine ; ' Ha !' cried the king with pride elate, ' The tithe of all is mine !' He barred the bridge where rivers roll : On all the highways levied toll. The last of men, and long behind, The pensive bard drew nigh ; And, lo ! the universal world. Where'er he turned his eye, The Partition of the Earth. 237 Was all apportioned, bounded, named, No single portion left unclaimed. ' Woe ! woe to me ! shall I of all — Thy well-belovfed son — While others freely share thy gifts, Shall I of all have none?' Thus rose the poet's cry, while prone He flung himself at Zeus's throne. ' If thou hast lingered, son,' said Zeus, ' Within the Land of Dreams, Am I to blame, if others seized The forests, fields, and streams ? Where wert thou when the world was given ?' ' O Zeus 1 beside thyself in heaven. — ' Mine eyes upon thy visage hung. And eagerly mine ears Within thy radiant presence drank The music of the spheres. Great Father, chide the spirit not Which earth for heaven and thee forgot !' Cried Zeus, perplexed, 'Alas! my son. The earth is mine no more ; Bequeathed alike the fruits, the chase, The mart, and trader's store ; But here with me and gods divine. Come when thou wilt — a place is thine.' 238 Mother-Tongue. MOTHER-TONGUE. (From the German of Schenkendorf.) O Mother-tongue ! O sounds of cheer ! For ever welcome, deeply dear, First language to my ear addressed, Sweet words of love and sterling worth. The first my infant tongue expressed. Thou ringest in me ever forth ! Ah ! how my lonely heart is pained, When I 'midst strangers am constrained To use a language not mine own ; A tongue my tongue can ill repeat ! Strange words to early love unknown, For friendly greeting all unmeet. O wonderful and beauteous speech. How clear my subtlest thoughts to teach ! For ever deep'ning in my soul In vocal riches, vocal might ! 'Tis as my father's voice did call From out the grave's sepulchral night. Ring, ring, harmonious forth and forth, O hero language, tongue of worth ! Rise ! rise from out the grave's profound, Forgotten song of long ago ! In Holy Writ anew be found. That every heart in thee may glow. God's breezes blow on every clime We range; we change with place and t;me ; Longing. 239 But I will pray, my thanks will speak ; Or, if my heart with love be fraught. Will vent for blissful feelings seek In that dear tongue my mother taught. *0 Scotia ! land of Burns and Scott, Land in my wanderings ne'er forgot ; Dear land whose language first was mine, Whose songs were o'er my cradle sung, Cold, cold in death must I recline Ere I shall cease to love thy tongue. LONGING. (From the German of Schiller.) From this valley chill and cheerless, By the grey mist densely prest. Could I find an issue, peerless. Raptured joy would fill my breast. "Beauteous hills are in the distance, Blooming in eternal light ; O for wings from this existence There to soar in pinioned flight ! Harmonies I hear outringing. Tones that woo to calm retreats ; And the breezes thence are bringing Odours fraught with soothing sweets. Golden fruits behold I glowing. Nodding on the dusky spray ; And the flowers which there are blowing Ne'er become the winter's prey. * The last stanza imitated. 240 Prayer during Battle. O to sit beside the fountains In the ceaseless sunshine there ! O to hnger on the mountains 'Neath the ever-balmy air ! But a dark and turbid river 'Twixt those hills and me doth roll, And I pause and shrink and shiver, For its terrors thrill my soul. Lo ! a tossing skiff behold I ; Ah, no ferryman is near ! Forward, soul ! and venture boldly ; Set and filled the sails appear. Since the gods no pledge will spare thee. Trust and dare, nor trembling stand ; Save a wonder, nought can bear thee To the beauteous Wonderland. PRAYER DURING BATTLE. {From the German of Korner.) The German poet Korner was born in 1778, and fell fighting the French, near Leipzig, in 1812. His patriotic pieces did much to fire the courage of the Germans, and won for him the title of ' The Ger- man Tyrtseus.' The ' Prayer during battle' was found on Korner's person immediately after his death. Father, I cry to Thee ! Roaring, the cannons with vapours surround me. Rushing, their lightnings and missives astound me ; Leader of Battles, I cry to thee ! Father, O lead thou me ! Prayer during Battle. 241 Father, O lead thou me ! Lead me to victory, to death if Thou wiliest ; Thine if Thou sparest me, thine if Thou killest ; O Lord, as Thou wilt, so lead Thou me ! God, I acknowledge Thee ! God, I acknowledge thee ! As in the rustle of autumn leaves falling. So in the tempest of battle appalling ; Fountain of Grace, I acknowledge Thee ! Father, O bless Thou me ! Father, O bless Thou me ! Life into Thy hands I freely deliver ; Thou canst resume it, for Thou wert the Giver ; For life or for death, O bless thou me ! Father, still praise I Thee ! Father, still praise I Thee ! We, in no strife for earth's goods are contending ; Rights, the most sacred our swords are defending ; But, vanquished or victor, praise I Thee ! Great God, receive Thou me ! Great God, receive Thou me ! 'When thunders of death mine ears are assailing \ Veins flowing open, and life's current failing ; God shall my trust, shall my safety be ! Father, I cry to Thee ! 242 The Bird and the Fowler. THE BIRD AND THE FOWLER. (An Allegory from the German paraphrased and explained for Youthful Readers. ) A BIRD at early morning Amid the forest sang, And full, and free, and fearless Its joyful ditty rang ; But lo ! a crafty fowler Crept stealthily along, Bird-limed a twig, and captured That feathered child of song. Now wherefore silent, songster. That trilled as sweet a lay As ever voice uplifted To greet the rising day ? Made answer thus the songster. With drooping tail and wing — ' I sang, for I was joyful Amid the woods of spring. I sang, for all around me And all within was fair, The skies were bright above me, All fragrant earth and air. I drank the crystal fountains, I feasted 'mid the flowers, And flitted as I listed From lawns to forest bowers. Now I am sad and silent, In prisonment severe, The Bird and the Fowler. 243 Where sights and sounds of horror Inspire unceasing fear. No more the forest odours, No more the charms of spring, Nor love, nor joy, nor freedom Incite me now to sing. These iron bars confine me, Abroad I cannot fly ; Within this air I languish, I pine, I droop, I die !' ' Now, name to me this songster,' So spake the listening child, ' And name to me the fowler Who lured it from the wild.' Sin is the crafty fowler. And many snares has he ; The free and joyous songster, My child, I find in thee. While thou remainest guileless. Around thee all is fair. The skies all bright above thee. All balmy earth and air ; But Sin, the fell destroyer, Can darken all the life. And cage the soul, in prison. With every evil rife. From Sin and Sin's allurements Keep thou thy spirit free ; Then shall thy life be joyous As bird's in forest tree. 244 Flower Angels. FLOWER ANGELS. [INSCRIBED TO ETHEL MAY.) Thus — or more delightfully — does the German poet Riickert inculcate the love of flowers : — • Tiny maiden, dainty maiden, Angels are like thee, Beautiful, but oh, so airy, That thou canst not see. Nay, not with thy glance so clear, Angel forms that hover near. Tiny maiden, dainty maiden, Wouldst thou like to know Where the angels love to shelter When with us below ? Poets' eyes through mysteries see, Therefore I can tell it thee. Every beauteous, blooming flow'ret Is an angel's tent, Here he comes when he is weary. Here he rests content. Till, by spirit-longings driven. He must re-ascend to heaven. Flower Angels. 245 Yet he loves his earthly dwelling Quite as much as man, Beautifies it for his pleasure More than mortal can, Tricks it out in every part With seraphic taste and art. In the day's meridian splendour, On the roof he lies, Catching from the golden sunbeams All their fairest dyes. Then he rests within at ease. Painting walls and roof with these. Bread he bakes him from the pollen. Sparkling liquor brews. Sweeter than Olympic nectar, From the honey dews. Never human host could be Skilled in housely arts as he. Dearly, too, each tiny flow'ret Loves its angel guest. Mourns him, nor behind can linger When he quits her breast, But as petals droop and die. Mounts in perfume to the sky. Tiny maiden, dainty maiden Always cherish flowers, So shalt thou have friendly angels Watching all thine hours, 246 Flower Angels. Always tending thee with love Wheresoe'er thy feet may rove. Underneath thy chamber window Plant a pretty flower, Carefully the evil passions Then will shun thy bower. For where an angel hath his home Evil thoughts can never come. Cull a nosegay from the meadow, Or the gay parterre ; Place it on thy gentle bosom Ere thou forthward fare. Then shalt thou again come in With thy soul tinsoiled with sin. Water thou the tender lily When Aurora shines, Thou shalt be as lily spotless When the day declines. Roses near thy couch will keep Angels nigh to watch thy sleep. Wouldst thou still have angels chasing Every form of dread — Angels weaving blissful fancies Round thy sleeping head ? Wouldst thou still desire to see Evil from thy presence flee. Sinless pleasures fill thine hours ? Dainty maiden, cherish flowers. The Angel Brothers Sleep and Death. 247 THE ANGEL BROTHERS SLEEP AND DEATH. {From the German. ) When man, expelled from Eden's bowers, Exchanged his bliss for toilsome hours. To mitigate His sad estate, To soothe his toils, his care, and pain, Benignant Heaven sent angels twain. The first was Sleep, sent down to close Our languid eyes in sweet repose, Our limbs bestrew With balmy dew, And raise each sleeper up at length With hopes revived and freshened strength. The second angel's name was Death — A name pronounced with bated breath And whitened face By Adam's race ; And yet to Death did Heaven assign A task than Sleep's not less benign. Arrived on earth the brothers laid Them down beneath a yew-tree's shade. Till darkness fell On mount and dell, When Sleep arose and went his way, Nor came again till dawn of day. 248 The Angel Brothers Sleep and Death. But Death, beneath the yew the while, Gave Sleep returned no greeting smile, No welcome word ; He never stirred, But sat the sheltering boughs below Like one oppressed with heavy woe. Cried Sleep, ' O brother, why so sad ? Receive my tidings and be glad ; The livelong night I 've spread delight From highest hall to lowest den Midst all the tribes of living men. ' My soul is filled with sweet content, Men blessed me when I came and went ; Such blessings too Await for you Whene'er you on your mission fare — Dismiss at once that face of care.' Said Death, in solemn tones and slow, ' No, brother Sleep, I tell you no ! Me men shall hate And execrate. My visit every mortal man Shall shun, avert while'er he can. ' As much as men shall welcome thee So much shall they my presence flee. No, brother, no ! My task below Is not to strengthen, soothe, and cheer, I bring to mortals pain and fear.' The Old Countryman to his Son. 249 Cried Sleep, ' O brother ! you mistake, There be whom mind or body's ache Must still endure Beyond my cure ; Those suffering ones will wait for you And give your coming greeting true. ' I own, indeed, when you draw near, The wicked shall be seized with fear, And strive in vain Respite to gain ; But to the truly good and wise You shall reopen Paradise.' Then Death, consoled, no more repined. But plied the task by Heaven assigned ; And hand in hand Through every land The angel brothers, Death and Sleep, Bring grateful rest To weary breast And hearts that aching vigils keep. THE OLD COUNTRYMAN TO HIS SON. I^From the German.) Walk thou the paths of rectitude Unto thy dying day. And never swerve a finger-breadth From God's appointed way. 250 The Old Countryman to his Son. Then thou as on a meadow green Through mortal life shalt tread, And gaze into the eye of Death Without a thrill of dread. Then shall the sickle and the plough Light toil to thee afford, Then shalt thou by the water-jug Sing as if wine were poured. The wicked man — ah, how unlike ! He loathes the good and true, And yet from all his selfish aims What trivial joys ensue ! Him evil passions ever drive. By disappointments torn. His hand outstretched to pluck the rose. But grasps the stinging thorn. There smiles no beauteous spring for him, No fields of golden grain : His paths are o'er no verdant meads, No daisy-studded plain. The whispering zephyrs startle him. The quivering leaf affrights j A guilty conscience intervenes To dash his best delights. He starts at morn from troubled dreams, By languor yet opprest ; He looks toward the grave for peace, The grave is not his rest. Fairy Riddles. 251 Then practise truth and rectitude Unto thy dying day, And never swerve a finger-breadth From God's appointed way. That thou mayst for thyself be glad, For others only weep, And sink into thy final rest As to an infant sleep. And tears from angel eyes shall fall Above thine honoured tomb, And summer blossoms, breathing sweets, From out those tears shall bloom. FAIRY RIDDLES. (From the German^ Down in a rocky hollow The fairy folks sat by night. Making, and guessing gay riddles To speed the hours in their flight — Wisdom of pleasant jingle If it was not golden quite. And zephyrs creeping through crannies Uplifted the fairy locks, And, sporting hither and thither, Wafted through rifts in the rocks To me, a mortal outsider. The wit of the fairy folks. 252 Fairy Riddles. And I made ardent endeavour To catch the quibbles that flew, And out of many succeeded In seizing and fixing a few ; And here with scribbler's presumption I offer my samples to you" : — Q. What gold for mortals the richest Ne'er sparkled in earthly mine ? A. The golden gleams of Aurora Which free for earth's millions shine. Q. Who borrows gold and bestows it As silver silently shed ? A. The moon, the gold of Aurora In silver pours on our head. Q. What breast of breasts is the hardest Whence tears upwelling can flow ? A. The rocky breast of the mountain That weeps to the streams below. Q. What stream fills channels uncounted Yet never had one of its own ? A. The rain fills many a stream-bed But falls from the skies in none. Q. What bridge is the broadest and swiftest On river or streamlet cast ? A. The bridge of ice, which the winter In a single night makes fast. Q. What fount with steadiest motion Urges its echoless flood ? A. The heart in the human bosom Urging its currents of blood. Fairy Riddles. 253 Q. Who dresses in colours the gayest When sorest perchance he grieves ? A. The tree lamenting the Summer In Autumn's many-hued leaves. Q. Who musters spears by the thousand Yet never a war shall see ? A. The barbfed brier in the garden Or hedging fallow or lea. Q. Who dwells in a single chamber And sees but little of that ? A. The snail that carries his mansion In order to enter pat. Q. What king is a king so puny That his rule were a jest and scorn ? A. King Wren^ that flits on the hedges Scarce bending the twigs of the thorn. Q. When is the strong by the feeble O'ermastered and holden down ? A. When earth on the limbs of heroes Her dust sepulchral hath strown. Q. By whom is the earth o'ermastered Who thus o'ermasters the best ? A. By the iron in sock and colter Which rends and furrows her breast. Q. Have steel and iron a master, Or lord it resistless these ? A. Not so : by fire they are smelted And moulded as mortals please. Q,. And is there a force so potent That fire must yield to the same ? A. Yes, water is able to conquer The rage of the fiercest flame. ' German, Zaunkonig. 254 Fairy Kiddles, Q. Hath mighty ocean I a master, Or equals his strength his size ? A. The storm-wind lashes the billows Till their howlings reach the skies. Q. Than wind and sky what is stronger And louder than ocean waves ? A. The thunder speaks, and they listen And tremble like beaten slaves. Q. Is there a courage yet braver Than that of the victor Death ? , A. Yes, his who guileless and trustful- Can smile as he yields his breath. Q. Why doth not the oak bear pumpkins ? Such fruitage his boughs would grace. A. For fear that when you looked upward A pumpkin should fall in your face. Q. Why do the fishes keep silence, And dumbly glide in their pools ? A, Because with language like mortals They also might chatter like fools. Q. Who listens to all our riddles, And comes with an answer fit ? A. The poet whose rhyme or reason Can equal the querist's wit. Q. And why do I finish my riddles ? A. Aurora whitens the hill, Down at the farm in the valley, The bird of the morning crows shrill ; The fairy voices are silenced, And mine like theirs shall be still. The Monks of the Abbey of Grabaw. 255 THE MONKS OF THE ABBEY OF GRABAW, IN THE LAND OF USURIE. (Expanded from the German.') The monks in the Abbey o' Grabaw, In the land o' Usurie, Were stouter, sleeker, an' jollier. Than it weel seemed monks to be. For the Abbey stood on the margin O' a bonnie wide windin' bay, Where fine fat fish were plentier Than flowers in a genial May. An' mair, an' very much stranger, To the bay cam' ilka year A pair o' the largest sturgeons That ocean was kent to rear. An' ane o' them aye got captured, An' the ither ane aye got free, But cam' again at his season Wi' a brither as big as he. An' somehoo the captured sturgeon. Without either pickle or saut. Cam' fresh to the table at Grabaw, Till anither sturgeon was caught 256 The Monks of the Abbey of Grabaw. An' whether in June or December The monks were jolly an' stout, For fine fat sturgeon at Grabaw Was never kent to run out. Till it fell on a day in August — The year 1 canna declare — There cam' to the waters o' Grabaw O' sturgeons a wonderfu' pair. 'Twas said that their backs were braider Than the floor o' the Abbey ha', An' the flesh on their ribs was thicker Than its thickest outer wa'. ' We '11 capture them baith,' cried the Abbot, ' To miss sic spoil were a shame !' An' ilka monk in the cloister Expressed opinions the same. An' the Abbot forgot his vespers, Nor heeded the matin bell. An' wi' whom he held secret counsel Was kent to nane save himsel'. But the Abbot gaed out at sunset. An' 'twixt the dark an' the dawn The couple o' wonderfu' sturgeons Were somehow netted an' drawn. ' Ho ! ho !' laughed the Abbot 0' Grabaw, ' We 've captured the wonderfu' pair ; We never liked fastin' at Grabaw, An' better than ever we '11 fare ! ' The Monks of the Abbey of Grabaw. 257 The sturgeon was brought to the table, But it neither wad cut nor chew, Nae leather was harder or tougher That souter e'er sewed upon shoe. An' a terrible odour o' brunstane Exhaled frae the flesh o' the fish. Till the hungriest cat in the kitchen Wad turn up its nose at the dish. An' waur, frae the Bay an' its waters The whole o' the finny tribe fled. An' the Abbot an' monks o' Grabaw Were reduced to butterless bread. An' the legs o' the Abbot dwindled. An' shrivelled to windle-straes, An' his shoulders, aforetime so sturdy, Wad hardly carry his claes. An' the monks turned maist microscopic, Their persons becam' so sma' ; When they sat in the sunshine thegither They had but ae shadow 'twixt twa. An' never a nieper to Grabaw Extended his sympathie, But mony rejoiced in the doonfa' O' the monks o' Usurie. 2S8 Satan Outwitted. SATAN OUTWITTED. (From, the German of Riickert.) The Fiend that reigns in nether gloom Can rarely be outwitted, Yet him, 'tis said, with this defeat His subject fiends have twitted. The Arabs once had ploughed their fields, And stood, prepared to sow them, ' Ha !' laughed the Fiend, who chanced to pass, ' A cunning trick I '11 show them. ' The clowns shall plough, the clowns shall sow, And reap their wheat and barley, But I shall bear the grain away Without dispute or parley.' Then to the peasants : ' Half the world. Thus half your crops, belongs me. And he shall weep in nether gloom Through endless time that wrongs me. ' The upper half I '11 come to claim, And you shall keep the under.' ' So be it, sire,' replied the clowns, In gaping fear and wonder. ' Your highness shall receive your due Without regret or wrangle.' But lo ! when Satan turned his back, They sowed their fields with mangel. The Last Poet. 259 And thus when Satan came again, He recognised his blunder ; The fading leaves became his share, The precious roots were under. ' Next year I claim the under half.' The peasants smiled, contented ; Again when he put in his claim, His choice the Fiend repented. The Arabs, sowed their fields with wheat, And, rich reward of trouble, They bore away the golden grain And left the Fiend the stubble. ' I ne'er was baffled thus !' cried Nick, ' Since e'er my feet were cloven, But still I '11 bear the stubble down To heat the Stygian oven.' THE LAST POET. (From the German of Count Auersperg, nom de plume A. Griin. ) Q. O WHEN will ye tire of singing ? Ye poets, tell us how long The time till ye shall have ended Your old and incessant song ? 26o The Last Poet. Has your teeming horn of plenty Not been emptied long ago ? Have not all your flowers been gathered, And your fountains ceased to flow? A. While the golden car of Phoebus Glides on in its azure way, And a human face uplifted Remains to bask in his ray ; While the skies by storms are mantled. And the forked lightnings dart. And before their fury trembling There throbs but a single heart ; While after the raging tempest There follows the radiant bow. And, glad in the peace it heralds, A bosom remains to glow ; While night in the fields of ether Shall scatter her starry seed. And yet one man in the scripture Of the golden scroll shall read ; While the moon shall walk in silver. Or a heart desire and feel ; While the balmy forest odours On a wearied one shall steal ; While the rose puts forth its blossom ; While the spring revives the earth ; While an eye shall beam with kindness Or sparkle in roguish mirth ; The Battle. 261 While graves with their doleful cypress Shall mourn for the griefs they make ; While an eye is left for weeping, Or a suffering heart can break, The radiant goddess of Poesy Shall wander the world so long, With him as her gay attendant Whom she consecrates to song. And singing and ever jubilant, Through the old abodes of earth. The last of the poets shall die out With the last of human birth. THE BATTLE. (From the French of Lamartine.) The trumpet hath sounded the summons for war, 'To arms !' and the echo repeats it afar, ' To arms !' O'er the plain on a sudden rush forth The squadrons more prompt than the winds of the north, At once from all quarters their galloping rings. They fold the dense flanks like a pair of dark wings j The courser, held back by an impotent rein, Rears high on his haunches while quivers each vein ; The thunder yet slumbers, but ominous dread Above the vast masses is silently spread : 262 The Battle. Not only the tramp of the myriads we hear, Who march as a man to the death which is near, But the rattling of cars, the neighing of steeds, The word of command which from rank to rank speeds, Or the flapping of banners which wave to and fro Above the encampment of either proud foe. Now flaunting aloft as in victory's breath, Advancing to glory o'er carnage and death. Now hanging at length as if drooping their pride. And forming the pall of the legions they guide. But, lo ! in the forefront, with voices of bronze, The cannons belch forth till the smitten earth moans. The thunder meets thunder, the bolts of death fly. Tube answers to tube in fast-flaming reply. The bullets are tearing through front and through flanks. Each leaving its blood-spattered gap in the ranks ; Like a tiller who goes and comes without fail. With ploughshare incessant upturning the vale, The furrows above the fresh furrows are laid Till the green of the valley is changed into red. Or like the strong mower who heaps upon heaps Lays level the harvest with ne'er-ceasing sweeps ; Thus, thus the bolts fatefuUy traverse the plain, And cover its soil with a harvest of slain. Here falleth a hero cut down in his flower, Superb with an eye flashing pride in his power. The crest of his helmet, which sparkles in light, Is the mane of a steed as black as the night ; The sheen of that helmet hath guided the shot Which robs him of life, but he feeleth it not, The Battle. 263 Like a fagot of steel he rolls on the plain, His steed, bounding forward, perceives the loose rein, Returns to the spot where his master is lying. Bends, sniffs him, hangs o'er him, and weeps on him dying. There falls an old warrior who, born in alarms. Had camps for his country, for love had his arms ; His colours are all that are dear to his eyes, Expiring he follows them with his last sighs. Death's shafts through each army at random are sped. The thick air is burdened with horror and dread ; One perishes wholly, one stretched in the dust, A trunk without branches, a poor bleeding bust. Beholds the dear limbs where his life-blood hath quivered. Fly round him in fragments all mangled and shivered ; Yet somehow he trails himself on through the mud. Still leaving his traces bedabbled with blood ; And one who hath scarcely a fragment of life In the arms of a friend would flee from the strife ; But vainly — they 're struck by the same fatal ball, Receiving this favour at least in, their fall, That, clasping each other, they heave their last breath, And enter together the valley of death. Yet vainly the thunderbolts furrow the masses, Each leaving its terrible gap where it passes ; As swiftly as billows together could flow. And fill up the furrow behind the swift prow. As swiftly the braves fill the gaps, and again Make redder the fight on the heaps of the slain. 264 The Battle. Till, wearied of death and a vengeance of chance, Both camps with a similar valour advance ; They clash, and then phalanxes, torn by the shock. Are mingled, and reel in the bloody siroc. Now squadrons oppressed by the squadrons are rent, And arms over head like an archway are blent, Shots cross one another, and swords with swords clash, The ranks intermingled emit a sole flash. Through the torrent of smoke the powder-gleam shines, Runs blazing a moment along the hot lines ; Then wrapping the whole in its sulphurous breath. Conceals from our eyes alike victory and death. So rushing, two torrents, in gorges scooped deep, Down opposite mountains precipitant leap At once, and in volume of similar force. To meet in a channel too strait for their course ; Surge dashes on surge, wave strikes aside wave. Enraged, seeking vantage, they struggle and rave. The atmosphere moist with the dash of their froth. The desert resounding the voice of their wrath ; Within their strait channel, loud, wrathful, and strong, Still striving for mast'ry, they combat along. The thunder is hushed — hark ! hark ! to the skies. From the grief-smitten plain what concerts arise ! The harp and the clarion, the cymbal's gay voice. Commingling, ascending together, rejoice ; On the wings of the wind their harmonies flying. Are blent with the shrieks and the wails of the dying. But lo ! as they echo from valley and hill. Our senses all shiver, our heart-blood runs chill ; The Battle. 265 For round us the thick air is moved at their blast, And we feel as the souls of the dead glided past. The clouds are dissolving, the sun is revealed, And shows the sad carnage which burdens the field ; His pale ray is lighting the scene with its beams, Disclosing before us the blood-flowing streams, The car and the charger, crushed shapeless, and rolled 'M-idst members in fragments, strewn over the mould ; The arms and the corpses confusedly spread, And banners flung down upon masses of dead. Now hasten ye hither, friends, spouses, and mothers ; Come, reckon your children, your husbands, your brothers ; Come, fight with the vultures which revel above For the hopes of your age, the fruits of your love, What rivers of tears for your lost ones shall flow ! What wailings shall rise from your cities in woe ! Unfortunate mortals, ere earth shall again Give birth to as many as cumber the plain. By one day of battle stretched mangled and slain ! *And this is red war, O my sisters, my brothers ! A scourge more dreadful, more cruel than all others ; Selecting our bravest, the flowers of our lands. And goading them onwards to Death's bloody hands : And leaving our weakest, the weeds of our race, To flourish and ripen, and fill the flowers' place ; A monster which tramples the weak in the clay. And widens the circuit of tyrannous sway. * Not in the original. 266 The Guardian Angel. Go think of it, hoar-headed searchers for truth ! Go ponder it, hope-circled beauty and youth ! nations, if ye would but reason aright, 1 know ye would rise in your grandest of might. And thunder to war, ' Cursed heart-breaker, cease ! Henceforth we are vowed to blest joy-bringing peace.' THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. A CALABRIAN SONG. The French poet Lamartine says that the women of Amalfi, in Calabria, sing, in soft melancholy cadence, the following song as they return with their pitchers of water from the fountain : — At twelve years of age in the garden I mused, While citrons and almonds their fragrance dififused, And spring, breathing life into winter's dead wreck. Just ruffled the ringlets that fell on my neck ; When a voice in my soul so thrilling was heard. That my being entire by its accents was stirred. It was not the voice of the wind nor the bell. Nor pipe of the shepherd from mountain or dell ; Nor prattle of infant, nor milkmaiden's song ; Nor voice of the forester joyous and strong. It was you, O my angel ! my guardian divine. It was you whose heart whispered thus early to mine. Again, in my youth, when our evening was o'er — Our evening of love 'neath the old sycamore — The Guardian Angel. 267 When my manly betrothed, compelled to depart, Left his kiss on my lips and deep love in my' heart. Again came that whisper, so clear and so sweet. It was not his voice, nor his steps in retreat, Nor was it the music of lovers who played And sang 'neath the lattice their gay serenade. It was you, O my angel ! my guardian divine. It was you whose heart joyed in the joyance of mine. When yet a young mother, beside my own hearth, I sat 'midst our treasures, our dearest on earth. While outside the fig-tree that grew by the wall To the hands of my children its fruitage let fall, A voice vague but tender arose in my breast. It was not the bird's to its mate in the nest. Nor the babe in the cradle that murmured in sleep. Nor the song of the fisher abroad on the deep. It was you, O my angel ! my guardian divine. It was you whose heart mingled its accords with mine. Now grey are my tresses, I 'm widowed, I 'm old, 'Midst bushes I shelter myself from the cold. Or kindling such fire of the twigs as I may, I watch lest the goats or the children should stray ; Yet that voice in my bosom, in weal or in ill, Communes with me, cheers me, and sings to me still. It is not his voice whom I loved, whom I weep — Ah, no ! he is hushed in the grave's icy sleep — 'Tis the voice that I heard in the garden of yore. That sang to my heart 'neath the old sycamore. 2 68 King Renaud. The voice that rejoiced with me later in life, When I smiled a young mother, a loved happy wife. It is you, O my angel ! my guardian divine, Whose heart now is weeping, is weeping with mine. It is you, O my angel ! through weal or through ill. Who speak to me, cheer me, or weep with me still. KING RENAUD. There are numerous versions of the ballad of King Renaud to be met with in France. The version from which the following transla- tion was made is popular in the Department of Pas de Calais. Home from the wars comes King Renaud, Pierced with a wound whence life's streams flow ; His mother looks from her window high, And greets her son with a joyous cry. ' Renaud, Renaud, rejoice !' cried she, ' Thy wife hath borne a son to thee.' ' Ah ! neither my wife nor infant boy Can bring to my heart one throb of joy. ' Go make for me a bed, I pray. With coverings white and cushions grey : Make it in secret, and make it well, But none the news to my wife must tell.' King Renaud. 269 Renaud was couched, but ere midnight His soul from earth had ta'en its flight. The pages weep, and the maidens wail, For ne'er had a kinder stepped in mail. ' Oh ! tell me, mother, mother dear, Why are the people weeping here ? ' ' 'Tis all for a gallant steed they grieve That died in the stable yester eve.' ' Then tell them, mother, mother dear. They need not weep so loudly here. For when Renaud from the wars shall come He '11 bring as gallant a charger home. ' Oh 1 tell me, mother, mother dear. What tolling, tolling 'tis I hear?' ' The funeral peal of a neighbour king. Now three days dead, that the people ring.' ' Oh ! tell me, mother, mother dear. What means this knocking, knocking here ?' ' 'Tis one of our castles in decay They're building anew for us to-day.' ' Oh ! tell me, mother, mother dear. What chanting 'tis that meets mine ear?' ' 'Tis but a procession, nothing more. That's passing near to our palace door.' ' O mother, dearest mother, pray, What dress shall I put on to-day?' ' A woman that 's churching should appear In weeds of the deepest black, my dear.' 270 King Renaud. Three workmen in the meadow green Cast their eyes on the widowed queen. ' Is not that lady the wife,' said they, ' Of the great king buried yesterday ?' ' Oh ! tell me, dearest mother, pray. What is it those good people say ?' ' Go, daughter mine, on your journey go, 'Tis nothing that you have need to know.' When to the blessed church they went. Their heads in prayer were humbly bent ; And when the daughter lifted her eyes, ' Oh, what a beautiful tomb !' she cries. ' Yes, daughter mine, that tomb to thee The first of all the group should be : For that which I 've hid you now must know- Beneath it is laid our own Renaud.' ' Hold, mother dear ! take thou my keys. My new-born's childish griefs appease : Dress him in robes befitting his woe ; For me, I must rest with my own Renaud.' Then a voice from heaven was heard to say, ' Go ! go to thy new-born child — away ! Your own Renaud has risen to Me, And I am keeping him safe for thee !' Black Eyes and Blue Eyes. 271 BLACK EYES AND BLUE EYES. ( Translated from the Italian. ) A GRAVE dispute did once arise Betwixt the dark and azure eyes ; Blue said that Black were proud, austere, And Black, that Blue were insiiicere ; Alternate each the other slighted. In terms like those herein indited : — ' Fie, gloomy Black, sepulchral hue ! ' ' Fie, fickle, ever-changing Blue !' ' We image in our glance of love The azure hue of heaven above.' ' But we in mercy veil the might That flashes in our stronger light.' ' Fair Pallas, Juno, both had eyes Blue, blue like us, whom you despise !' ' And what care we for these or you ? Cytherea's eyes were black, not blue !' Still fiercer had the contest been. But youthful Love stepped in between. With smiles upon his chubby face, And ofiiered to decide the case. Then with a grave and learned look. The rosy boy his tablets took, And noting all the con's and pro's Betwixt the two bewitching foes, — ' I give,' cried he, ' the foremost prize, Nor yet to dark nor azure eyes ; Most beauteous those which swiftest dart Their loving glances to the heart.' 272 Horace — Ode I. HORACE— ODE I. BOOK I. TO M^CENAS. MAECENAS, offspring of ancestral kings, Thou grace and glory of my lyric strings, There be whom it enraptures to behold Olympic dust around the chariot rolled, Whom it uplifts from earth to gods on high To round the goal yet graze it as they fly. Or snatch from rival wheels the inner space, And win the palm, victorious in the race. That man, if but the fickle Roman crowd To triple honours raise his head, is proud ; And this if he have garnered in his store Whate'er is swept from Libyan threshing-floor. You could not move the rustic, whose desire Is but to till the acres of his sire. With all the wealth of Attains to sail, A mariner, the sport of every gale. And, borne upon a bark of Cyprian tree. To cut the waves of the Myrtoan Sea. The merchant, fearing winds and waves at strife, Extols his urban ease and rural life. But soon impatient of a narrow lot, Refits his shattered fleet, his fears forgot. Ungrudging some the busy day give up. To drain at ease the mellowed Massic cup. Beneath the arbute's verdant screen outspread. Or stretched beside the sacred fountain's head. The Shades of the Unburied. 273 The camp and wars, which trembling mothers fear, With mingled pipe and trump, to some are dear. Unmindful of his tender spouse at home, The hunter under frigid skies will roam. If to his faithful dogs the stag is seen, Or Massic boar within his toils have been. The ivy wreath, for learned foreheads fit, Gives me amidst supernal gods to sit. The grove, secure from Phoebus' fervent glance, The nymphs and satyrs joined in sportive dance, Hold me secluded from the vulgar throng ; If fair Euterpe modulate my song, Or Polyhymnia come at my desire Evoking music from the Lesbian lyre ; But if Maecenas would insert my name. Amidst the poets known to lyric fame. Then I, triumphant over space and time, Should strike the lofty stars with crest sublime. THE SHADES OF THE UNBURIED AND THE FERRYMAN CHARON. (Mneid, Book vi. 298-330.) The ferryman wha plied his trade Across th' Infernal peel Was far frae comely to the e'e ; In fact, a gruesome chiel. s 2 74 The Shades of the Unburied His fiery een stood in his pow, His hoary beard wasiang; An' frae his shouthers in a rape His fu'some mantle hang. He pushed his coble wi' a pole When canvas wadna draw ; An' lifeless corpses were the freight His craft was used to ca'. Though auld, I wat he wasna frail ; He was a sturdy carle, — As fu' o' sap as ony god That rules the upper warl'. But here the crowds o' scattered ghaists Cam' thrangin' to the bank ; The mithers, men, and doughty chiels Wha 'd lost the vital spank ; The loons an' lasses never wed, An' youths wha erst had been Consumed upo' the funeral pyre Afore their parents' een. As mony they as forest leaves That, earthward flutterin', drap When Autumn's cauld sets in to chill An' check the fosterin' sap ; Or birds that quit the troubled deep. An' flock towards the strand. When Winter drives them o'er the sea To seek the lyther land. and the Ferryman Charon,. 275 Each Stan's an' pleads to be the first To mak' the passage o'er, An' raxes out his hands in love Toward the further shore. The surly boatman now tak's ane, Now.ithers o' the band, But drives their eager neibours back Frae afF the dreepin' strand, ^neas (wha was sair perplexed An' fairlied at the steer) Says, ' Tell me, Lucky, gif ye please, What means this gatherin' here ? ' What seek thae sauls ? An' how are some Left pleadin' here in vain, While ithers, borne across at ance, The sair-sought haven gain ? ' The ancient spaewife briefly thus Mak's answer in her turn, ' ^neas, affspring o' the gods. To great Anchises bore, ' These are Cocytus stagnant deeps. An' that's the Bog o' Styx, By whilk when gods hae sworn, they dread Their purpose to unfix. Unburied folks compose the thrang O' whilk ye mak' remark ; The boatman 's Charon, boatin' ghaists O' those interred his wark. 276 From the Greek of Anacreon. ' For nane may cross these eerie banks Nor hoarsely-roarin' waves, Till friendly hands hae laid their banes To rest in peacefu' graves ; But roam an' hover roun' thae shores A hunner weary years, Afore they sail the welcome loch To join their old compeers.' FROM THE GREEK OF ANACREON. QeXia A.eyetv 'Ar/aei'Sas. The twain Atrides, brave in war, Wise Cadmus I would sing ; But lo ! whene'er I strike the lyre, 'Tis Love that tones the string. I late renewed those wanton strings, I wholly changed my lyre, And thought perchance Alcides' feats Might stronger strains inspire. Again the strings responded Love ; Then heroes, fare ye well. Let other bards your deeds extol, My lyre of Love must tell. From the Greek of Anaci-eon. 277 $VO-is Kepara raiipoii. To every creature under heaven, Hath Nature means of safety given : The bull hath horns to push at need ; His horny hoofs defend the steed ; A foot of speed is given to bear From chasing foes the timid hare ; Fierce teeth defend the forest king ; The bird escapes on soaring wing ; The fish that swim the waters wide, Within their secret depths can hide ; And man to guard himself from harm Hath thoughtful front and potent arm ; Have others all from woman reft ? Hath Nature her defenceless left ? No ! !Beauty is her spear and shield ; To Beauty fire and arms must yield. Et's "EjOlOTO. 'TwAS when the gloom of middle night Had fallen upon the land, When Ursa wheels in starry light Beside Bootes' Hand, When all the tribes of men were now By weary toil subdued, That Cupid, doubling blow on blow. Before my portals stood. 278 From the Greek of Anacreoii. ' Who comes to break my rest,' I cried, ' With unprovoked alarm?' ' 'Tis I, a child,' the god replied, ' Who cannot do you harm. ' Unbolt your door, for sad 's my plight ; Across the wintry wold I 've wandered in the moonless night ; I 'm weary, wet, and cold.' With hasty hand I lit my lamp, Undid the door, and lo ! A wingfed infant, cold and damp, With quiver and with bow. Beside the fire with anxious care I placed the youth divine, I wrung the water from his hair And chafed his hands in mine. But when his dripping wings were dried. His shivering body warmed ; ' Come let us try this bow !' he cried, ' How far the string is harmed.' Then like a gadfly up he flew. And, hovering on the wing, He fixed his fatal dart, and drew The shaft-impelling string. From the Greek of Anacreon. 2 79 He aimed the shaft, and twanged the string, The shaft unerring flew ; My blood bedews its feathered wing, It pierced my bosom through. ' Rejoice !' he cried, ' my bow is sound. Resistless still my dart ; My host, you '11 know it by the wound That rankles in your heart.' AU REVOIR. ' Cease, cease your song !' advisers cry ; ' Perchance the critics may decry ; Perchance the Public may refuse To buy the products of your Muse, And all unread your volumes lie.' ' Perchance,' I answer, with a sigh. ' Perchance ' — and so conclude my lays In dull December's drearest days. Yet Hope, sweet Hope, with me remains, And smiles upon my latest strains, Whilst in my ear she whispers, ' Bard, Your verse shall rise in men's regard ; Bid readers but a brief good-bye ; The clouds are clearing from your sky.' — Thus under Hope's all-potent spell I say Good-bye, and not Farewell.