The Scarlet Gown Being Verses by a St. Andrews Man (R. F. Murray): Second Edition with Additional Poems, and an Introduction by Andrew Lang |
POEMS |
The Scarlet Gown | ||
POEMS
The Voice that Sings
Of long forgotten days and things,
Is there an ear to hear aright
The voice that sings?
Melodious in the dying light,
A sound that flies on pulsing wings.
Brim over, as to life it brings
The echo of a dead delight,
The voice that sings.
The Best Pipe
In vain you puff, your cutty clay.
A twelvemonth smoked and black as coal,
'Tis redolent of rank decay
And bones of monks long passed away—
A fragrance I do not admire;
And so I hold my nose and say,
Give me a finely seasoned briar.
Is faultless, has been led astray
To nurse a high-born meerschaum bowl,
For which he sweetly had to pay.
Ah, let him nurse it as he may,
Before the colour mounts much higher,
The grate shall be its fate one day.
Give me a finely seasoned briar.
In oriental turban gay,
Delights his unbelieving soul
With hookahs, bubbling in a way
To fill a Christian with dismay
And wake the old Crusading fire.
May no such pipe be mine, I pray;
Give me a finely seasoned briar.
That I should view them with desire?
Both now, and when my hair is grey,
Give me a finely seasoned briar.
Hymn of Hippolytus to Artemis
Artemis! thou fairestOf the maids that be
In divine Olympus,
Hail! Hail to thee!
To thee I bring this woven weed
Culled for thee from a virgin mead,
Where neither shepherd claims his flocks to feed
Nor ever yet the mower's scythe hath come.
There in the Spring the wild bee hath his home,
Lightly passing to and fro
Where the virgin flowers grow;
And there the watchful Purity doth go
Moistening with dew-drops all the ground below,
Drawn from a river untaintedly flowing.
They who have gained by a kind fate's bestowing
Pure hearts, untaught by philosophy's care,
May gather the flowers in the mead that are blowing,
But the tainted in spirit may never be there.
Take thou this garland to gather thy hair,
Brought by a hand that is pure as the air.
For I alone of all the sons of men
Hear thy pure accents, answering thee again.
And may I reach the goal of life as I began the race,
Blest by the music of thy voice, though darkness ever veil thy face!
On a Crushed Hat
He came to see me in the twilight dim;
I rose politely and invited him
To take a seat—how heavily he sat!
My wanton Zephyr, rested on its rim;
Its build, unlike my friend's, was rather slim,
And when he rose, I saw it, crushed and flat.
Thy brim is bent, six cracks are in thy crown,
And I shall never wear thee any more;
Upon a shelf thy loved remains shall lie,
And with the years the dust will settle down
On thee, the neatest hat I ever wore!
A Swinburnian Interlude
Ere April brings the hour
Of weeping and of laughter,
Of sunshine and of shower,
Of groaning and of gladness,
Of singing and of sadness,
Of melody and madness,
Of all sweet things and sour.
Who knows nor cribs nor crams,
Who sees the frisky frolic
Of lanky little lambs;
But sour beyond expression
To one in deep depression
Who sees the closing session
And imminent exams.
Of birds upon the bents,
Nor smell the April scents.
He gathers grief with grinding,
Foul food of sorrow finding
In books of dreary binding
And drearier contents.
And no more hopes beside,
One trust alone restrains him
From shocking suicide;
He will not play nor palter
With hemlock or with halter,
He will not fear nor falter,
Whatever chance betide.
Like all things else have ends,
And then come vast vacations
And visits to his friends,
And youth with pleasure yoking,
And joyfulness and joking,
And smilingness and smoking,
For grief to make amends.
Sweetheart
More fair to me
Than flowers that make the loveliest show
To tempt the bee.
Beside thy face,
As rushlights to the evening star,
Deny thy grace,
As men of strength
Allow the impotent and weak
To rail at length.
And so doth miss
The faults which they are quick to find,
I'd answer this:
Are purged and clear
Through gazing on the perfect skies
Of thine, my dear.
Music for the Dying
Speak not a word: let all your voices cease.
Let me but hear some soft harmonious strain,
And I shall die at peace.
From all below by which we are opprest;
I pray you, speak no word unto my grief,
But lull it into rest.
That may some falsehood from the ear conceal,
Desiring rather sounds which ask no thought,
Which I need only feel:
The soul may sink, and pass without a breath
From fevered fancies into quiet dreams,
From dreaming into death.
Farewell to a Singer
On Her Marriage
And love each song it sings the best,
Grieve when they see it taking wing
And flying to another nest:
And loved it more than we can tell,
Our hearts grow sad, our voices soft,
Our eyes grow dim, to say farewell.
Yet we forgive you and combine,
Although you now bring grief to us,
To wish you joy, for auld lang syne.
The City of Golf
Soul and body, to a tyrannising game?
If you would, there's little need to be a rover,
For St. Andrews is the abject city's name.
To a person who has been here half an hour,
That Golf is what engrosses the attention
Of the people, with an all-absorbing power.
Their business and religion is to play;
And a man is scarcely deemed a true believer,
Unless he goes at least a round a day.
Where you'd think the leading industry was Greek;
Even there the favoured instruments of knowledge
Are a driver and a putter and a cleek.
Of this royal, ancient, irritating sport;
The universal populace, in short.
You may see the players going out in shoals;
And when night forbids their playing any longer,
They tell you how they did the different holes.
In despair my overburdened spirit sinks,
Till I wish that every golfer was in glory,
And I pray the sea may overflow the links.
Sustains me, very feeble though it be:
There are two who still escape infatuation,
My friend M‘Foozle’s one, the other's me.
With a brassy and an iron in his hand . . . .
This blow, so unexpected and so crushing,
Is more than I am able to withstand.
Stay! There is another course I may pursue—
And perhaps upon the whole it would be wiser—
I will yield to fate and be a golfer too!
The Swallows
From Jean Pierre Claris Florian
At my window twittering,
Bringing from their southern home
News of the approaching spring.
‘Last year's nest,’ they softly say,
‘Last year's love again shall see;
Only faithful lovers may
Tell you of the coming glee.’
Strips the wood of faded leaves,
Calling all their wingèd host,
The swallows meet above the eaves.
‘Come away, away,’ they cry,
‘Winter's snow is hastening;
True hearts winter comes not nigh,
They are ever in the spring.’
Victim of a cruel mind,
One is parted from her mate
And within a cage confined,
Swiftly will the swallow die,
Pining for her lover's bower,
And her lover watching nigh
Dies beside her in an hour.
After Many Days
The ghostly street
Is silent at this midnight hour,
Save for my feet.
Downward I go
To where, beside the rugged pier,
The sea sings low.
In days gone by,
When often here, and not alone,
I watched the sky.
Its fruits were few;
But fruits and flowers had keener zest
And fresher hue.
And now I bear
Of wisdom plucked from joy and pain
Some slender share.
I'd lay it down,
To feel upon my back once more
The old red gown.
Horace's Philosophy
What the end the gods have destined unto thee and unto me,Ask not: 'tis forbidden knowledge. Be content, Leuconoe.
Let alone the fortune-tellers. How much better to endure
Whatsoever shall betide us—even though we be not sure
Whether Jove grants other winters, whether this our last shall be
That upon the rocks opposing dashes now the Tuscan sea.
Be thou wise, and strain thy wines, and mindful of life's brevity
Stint thy hopes. The envious moments, even while we speak, have flown;
Trusting nothing to the morrow, pluck the day that is our own.
Adventure of a Poet
A week ago,
Near Henderson's I chanced to meet
A man I know.
His home, Dundee;
I do not know him quite so well
As he knows me.
Discussed the weather,
And then proposed that we should take
A stroll together.
And there we met
The beautiful Miss Mary Gray,
That arch coquette,
Who stole last spring my heart away
And has it yet.
Would it were fonder!
Or else less fond—since she its sweets
On all must squander.
Thus, when I meet her in the streets,
I sadly ponder,
And after her, as she retreats,
My thoughts will wander.
Of inattention,
While Bell described a folding-chair
Of his invention.
‘It looks like rain,’
Said I, ‘and we had better turn.’
'Twas all in vain,
The signs aerial;
He bade me note the strip of blue
Above the Imperial,
South-west by south,
Which meant that we might journey dry
To Eden's mouth.
On many topics:
He talked about the exploration
Of Poles and Tropics,
Sir William's letter;
‘And do you like the electric light,
Or gas-lamps better?’
He said was over;
And had I read about the liquors
Just seized at Dover?
At Rothesay drowned?
Or the Italian ironclad
That ran aground?
Of town society,
Some slightly tinged with truth, and some
With impropriety.
Then lightly glanced at
Mrs. Mackenzie's monster dance,
Which he had danced at.
A silence came,
For which I greatly fear that I
Was most to blame.
For quite a minute,
When presently a thought occurred
With promise in it.
The students read?’
By this, the Eden like a bay
Before us spread.
Of sand there be;
Our feet, like Pharaoh's chariots,
Drave heavily.
He said that Irving
Of his extraordinary fame
Was undeserving,
Of Ellen Terry;
Although he knew a girl named Riley
At Broughty Ferry,
As great a star.
She had a part in the tableaux
At the bazaar.
I now said less,
And smoked a home-made cigarette
In mute distress.
By the wind's action,
And this afforded me, I own,
Some satisfaction;
Till, coming home,
We stood beside the ancient wreck
And watched the foam
Sunk deep in sand,
Though I can well remember how
I used to stand
And idly turn
To read ‘Lovise, Frederikstad’
Upon her stern.
And soon no trace
The absorbing sand will leave in sight
To mark her place.
To last too long.
Bell's mind had left the stage, and flitted
To fields of song.
And Lewis Morris;
The former he at school had done,
Along with Horace.
But learned ladies,
Had lately sent him Songs Unsung,
Epic of Hades,
Not like that Browning,
Of whom he would not read a line,
He told me, frowning.
Beyond a doubt,
But what the Satires meant, he never
Yet could make out.
Of the First Book;
But he had skipped to the divine
Eliza Cook.
In tones devoted,
How much he loved her old Arm-chair,
Which now he quoted.
Some two or three,
Till, having touched on Thomas Hood,
He turned to me.
Of late?’ he said.
I could not lie, but several times
I shook my head.
The o'erloaded camel,
And surely I resembled now
That ill-used mammal.
The gifted choir
Of minstrels, singers, poets, bards,
Who sweep the lyre.
In our vocation.
We bear the burden and the heat
Of inspiration;
In glowing numbers,
And to the ‘reading public’ bring
Post-prandial slumbers;
These sordid times . . . .
And all this, in the world's opinion,
Is ‘stringing rhymes.’
In accents mild,
‘Have you been stringing beads to-day,
My gentle child?’
Will pay off scores,
And I to-day at least am stringing
Not beads but bores.)
The Club-house past.
I wondered, Can I hope to find
Escape at last,
And bear his chatter
Until the last train to Dundee
Shall solve the matter?
And planned resistance,
My conquering Alexander caught
Sight in the distance
Is his ambition;
And so, with somewhat heightened bloom,
He asked permission
I freely gave it,
And wished him all success. Apollo
Sic me servavit.
A Bunch of Triolets
Well, here are three or four.
Unless your likings I forget,
You like the trifling triolet.
Against my conscience I abet
A taste which I deplore;
You like the trifling triolet:
Well, here are three or four.
Walking along the street,
With a nice new dress and her hair in curl?
Have you ever met with a pretty girl,
When her hat blew off and the wind with a whirl
Wafted it right to your feet?
Have you ever met with a pretty girl
Walking along the street?
Turning a corner yesterday.
To my confusion, her alarms,
I ran into a lady's arms.
So close a vision of her charms
Left me without a word to say
I ran into a lady's arms,
Turning a corner yesterday.
How many maids love you!
Your conscious blushes prove
How many maids you love.
Each trusts you like a dove,
But would she, if she knew
How many maids you love,
How many maids love you?
A Ballad of Refreshment
(Three currants in a bun)
And oh she was proud, as ladies are.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
(Three currants in a bun)
With a prominent bust and light gold hair.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
(Three currants in a bun)
And there lighted a man in the navy blue.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
(Three currants in a bun)
Much travel had made him very keen.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
(Three currants in a bun)
He called not for brandy, but called for tea.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
(Three currants in a bun)
She brought him a bun on a greasy plate.
(And the bun was baked a week ago.)
(Three currants in a bun)
She charged him a shilling and let him be,
And the train went on at a quarter to three.
(And the bun is old and weary.)
A December Day
Warmly the light
Sleeps on St. Andrews Bay—
Blue, fringed with white.
Surely 'tis June
Holds now her state on high,
Queen of the noon.
Crowning the hill,
Clear-cut in perfect air,
Warn us that still
Mighty in power,
Exiles the tender leaf,
Exiles the flower.
A heart that grieves
For fallen leaves?
Endures the charm
That clothes those naked towers
With love-light warm.
Winter or Spring
Gives not nor takes away
Memories that cling
That walk thy shore,
Memories of joys and griefs
Ours evermore.
A College Career
I
A bejant and a boy,
Though his moustache be meagre,
That cannot mar his joy
When at the Competition
He takes a fair position,
And feels he has a mission,
A talent to employ.
Clad in a scarlet gown,
A cap his head adorning
(Both bought of Mr. Brown);
He hears the harsh bell jangle,
And enters the quadrangle,
The classic tongues to mangle
And make the ancients frown.
He burns the midnight oil,
He feels that all his heaven
Depends on ceaseless toil;
Across his exercises
A dream of many prizes
Before his spirit rises,
And makes his raw blood boil.
II
And fresh as new-mown hay,
Before the first year passes
His verdure fades away.
His hopes now faintly glimmer,
Grow dim and ever dimmer,
And with a parting shimmer
Melt into ‘common day.’
Or Scott; and Smith, and White,
And Lewis, Short, and Riddle
Are ‘emptied of delight.’
Todhunter and Colenso
(Alas, that friendships end so!)
He curses in extenso
Through morning, noon, and night.
The midnight oil he burns,
But unto some near neighbour
His fair young face he turns,
To share the harmless tattle
Which bejants love to prattle,
As wise as infant's rattle
Or talk of coots and herns.
He carols wild and free
Some sweet unmeaning ditty
In many a changing key;
And each succeeding verse is
Commingled with the curses
Of those whose sleep disperses
Like sal volatile.
Like any fourth year man,
And clothes his growing body
After another plan
Than that which once delighted
When, in the days benighted,
Like some wild thing excited
About the fields he ran.
III
He lives from year to year,
Unknowing bit or bridle
(There are no proctors here),
Free as the flying swallow
Which Ida's Prince would follow
If but his bones were hollow,
Until the end draws near.
When full of misery
And torments worse than fiery
He crams for his degree;
And hitherto unvexed books,
Dry lectures, abstracts, text-books,
Perplexing and perplexed books,
Make life seem vanity.
IV
And mother, see, he stands,
Made Artium Magister
With laying on of hands.
He gives his books to others
(Perchance his younger brothers),
And free from all such bothers
Goes out into all lands.
The Waster's Presentiment
Which tells me plainly I am all undone;
For though I toil not, neither do I spin,
I shall be spun.
Schwegler or Mackintosh, nor will begin
Those lucid works till April 21.
For not by ways like mine degrees are won;
And though, to please my uncle, I go in,
I shall be spun.
The Close of the Session
To these east winds and to this eastern sea,
For summer comes, with swallow and with bee,
With many a flower and many a golfing swell.
Shall startle slumber; and all men agree
That whatsoever other things may be
A cause of sorrow, this at least is well.
Or if it does, such opening will be vain;
The gown shall hang unused upon a nail;
South Street shall know us not; we'll wipe the Scores
From our remembrance; as for Mutto's Lane,
Yea, even the memory of this shall fail.
A Ballad of the Town Water
All on a winter's day;
And they to prove the town water
Have set themselves away.
And into the west went they,
Till they found a civil, civil engineer,
And unto him did say:
If this be fit to drink.’
And they showed him a cup of the town water,
Which was as black as ink.
And black in the face was he;
And they turned them back and fled away,
Amazed that this should be.
And sealed it with a ring,
And the letter saith that the town water
Is not a goodly thing.
And eke the Councillors,
And they have ta'en the broad letter
And read it within the doors.
And a striving within the doors,
And quarrelsome words have the Bailies said,
And eke the Councillors.
And another saith, ‘But nay;’
And none may tell what the end shall be,
Alack and well-a-day!
Βρεκεκεκεξ Κοαξ Κοαξ
‘A little child, a limber elf,’
With health and spirits all agog,
He does the long jump in a bog
Or teaches men to swim and dive.
If he should be cut up alive,
Should I not be cut up myself?
An Anti-Vivisectionist;
I'll read Miss Cobbe five hours a day
And watch the little frogs at play,
With no desire to see their hearts
At work, or other inward parts,
If other inward parts exist.
To Number 27x.
And guard of many a midnight reeler,
None worthier, though the world is wide,
Beloved Peeler.
Didst pluck me, and didst thrust aside
A strongly built provision-dealer
‘Come on! Come on!’ O Paian, Healer,
Then but for thee I must have died,
Beloved Peeler!
A Street Corner
Of ninety degrees (this angle is right),
You may hear the loafers that jest and wrangle
Through the sun-lit day and the lamp-lit night;
Though day be dreary and night be wet,
You will find a ceaseless concourse met;
Their laughter resounds and their Fife tongues jangle,
And now and again their Fife fists fight.
Heralds a sale in the City Hall,
And slowly but surely drawing nigher
Is heard the baker's bugle call.
The baker halts where the two ways meet,
And the blast, though loud, is far from sweet
That with breath of bellows and heart of fire
He blows, till the echoes leap from the wall.
When the taverns have closed a moment ago,
The vocal efforts of six or seven
Make the corner a place of woe.
For the time is fitful, the notes are queer,
And it sounds to him who dwelleth near
Like the wailing for cats in a feline heaven
By orphan cats who are left below.
Fresh as a daisy dipt in the dew,
Hearken to me and receive my warning:
Though rents be heavy, and bunks be few
And most of them troubled with rat or mouse,
Never take rooms in a corner house;
Or sackcloth and ashes and sad self-scorning
Shall be for a portion unto you.
The Poet's Hat
He passed through the doorway into the street,
A strong wind lifted his hat from his head,
And he uttered some words that were far from sweet.
And then he started to follow the chase,
And put on a spurt that was wild and fleet,
It made the people pause in a crowd,
And lay odds as to which would beat.
The errand-boy shouted hooray!
The scavenger stood with his broom in his hand,
And smiled in a very rude way;
And the clergyman thought, ‘I have heard many words,
But never, until to-day,
Did I hear any words that were quite so bad
As I heard that young man say.’
A Song of Greek Prose
Who ne'er heard of Greek Prose—
Or Greek Poetry either, as far as that goes;
For Liddell and Scott
Shall cumber them not,
Nor Sargent nor Sidgwick shall break their repose.
By the very bad light
Of very bad gas, must painfully write
Some stuff that a Greek
With his delicate cheek
Would smile at as ‘barbarous’—faith, he well might.
I doubt if, for one,
I myself could explain how the meaning might run;
And as for the style—
Well, it's hardly worth while
To talk about style, where style there is none.
For a poet divine
Like Byron, to rave of Greek women and wine;
But the Prose that I sing
Is a different thing,
And I frankly acknowledge it's not in my line.
The source of my woes!
(This metre's too tough, I must draw to a close.)
May Sargent be drowned
In the ocean profound,
And Sidgwick be food for the carrion crows!
An Orator's Complaint
On mortals!—especially those
Who endeavour in eloquent prose
To expound their views, and orate.
When you hadn't a word to say?
Did you find that it wouldn't pay,
And subside, feeling dreadfully weak?
In a fervid defence of the Stage,
Get checked in your noble rage
By somehow losing your thread?
To a toast (say ‘The Volunteers’),
And evoke loud laughter and cheers,
When you didn't exactly know why?
You had smashed an opponent quite small,
Did he seem not to mind it at all,
But get up and smash you again?
Have happened to you (as to me),
I think you'll be found to agree
With yours truly, when sadly he sings:
On mortals!—especially those
Who endeavour in eloquent prose
To expound their views, and orate.’
Milton
O swallow-tailed purveyor of college sprees,O skilled to please the student fraternity,
Most honoured publican of Scotland,
Milton, a name to adorn the Cross Keys,
Whose chosen waiters, Samuel, Archibald,
Helped by the boots and marker at billiards,
Wait, as the smoke-filled, crowded chamber
Rings to the roar of a Gaelic chorus—
Me rather all those temperance hostelries,
The soda siphon fizzily murmuring,
And lime fruit juice and seltzer water
Charm, as a wanderer out in South Street
Where some recruiting, eager Blue-Ribbonites
Spied me afar and caught by the Post Office,
And crimson-nosed the latest convert
Fastened the odious badge upon me.
Magni Nominis Umbra
Merely the shadow of a mighty name,
The remnant only of an ancient fame
Which time has crumbled, as thy rocks the sea.
Of knowledge in this land (and all men came
To learn of thee), shalt once more rise and claim
The glory that of right belongs to thee.
The force of youth, to make thyself anew
A name of honour and a place of power.
Arise, then! shake the dust from off thy sides;
Thou shalt have many where thou now hast few;
Again thou shalt be great. Quick come the hour!
Song from ‘The Princess’
As through the street at eve we went(It might be half-past ten),
We fell out, my friend and I,
About the cube of x+y,
And made it up again.
And blessings on the falling out
Between two learned men,
Who fight on points which neither knows,
And make it up again!
For when we came where stands an inn
We visit now and then,
There above a pint of beer,
Oh there above a pint of beer,
We made it up again.
Andrew M`Crie
In a city by the sea,
That a man there lived whom I happened to know
By the name of Andrew M`Crie;
And this man he slept in another room,
But ground and had meals with me.
In this city by the sea;
But we ground in a way which was more than a grind,
I and Andrew M`Crie;
In a way that the idle semis next door
Declared was shameful to see.
In this city by the sea,
A stone flew in at the window, hitting
The milk-jug and Andrew M`Crie.
And bore him away from me,
And shoved him into a private house
Where the people were having tea.
Went envying him and me—
Yes!—that was the reason, I always thought
(And Andrew agreed with me),
Why they ploughed us both at the end of the year,
Chilling and killing poor Andrew M`Crie.
Of many more famous than he—
Of many more gory than he—
And neither visits to foreign coasts,
Nor tonics, can ever set free
Two well-known Profs from the haunting wraith
Of the injured Andrew M`Crie.
‘Have mercy, Mr. M`Crie!’
And at morn they will rise with bloodshot eyes,
And the very first thing they will see,
When they dare to descend to their coffee and rolls,
Sitting down by the scuttle, the scuttle of coals,
With a volume of notes on its knee,
Is the spectre of Andrew M`Crie.
An Interview
His eyes were wild and sad,
And something in them made me fear
That he was going mad.
I stood some distance off,
And before speaking gave a short
Conciliatory cough.
So singularly glum?’
No notice of my words he took.
I said, ‘Pray, are you dumb?’
My power of speech is lost,
But when one's hopes are black as ink,
Why, talking is a frost.
And certain to be ploughed.
Please tell me where I could obtain
An inexpensive shroud.’
Well made, and not too dear;
And, feeling really very sad,
I left him on the pier.
The M. A. Degree
When first it gleamed upon my sight,
A scholarly distinction, sent
To be a student's ornament.
The hood was rich beyond compare,
The gown was a unique affair.
By this, by that my mind was drawn
Then, in my academic dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay
Before me then was my M.A.
A glory, yet a bother too!
For I perceived that I should be
Involved in much Philosophy
(A branch in which I could but meet
Works that were neither light nor sweet);
In Mathematics, not too good
For human nature's daily food;
And Classics, rendered in the styles
Of Kelly, Bohn, and Dr. Giles.
A most confounded ass I've been;
The glory seems an empty breath,
And I am nearly bored to death
With Reason, Consciousness, and Will,
And other things beyond my skill,
Discussed in books all darkly planned
And more in number than the sand.
Yet that M.A. still haunts my sight,
With something of its former light.
Triolet
After the melting of the snowDivines depart and April comes;
Examinations nearer grow
After the melting of the snow;
The grinder wears a face of woe,
The waster smokes and twirls his thumbs;
After the melting of the snow
Divines depart and April comes.
Vivien's Song
At the L.L.A. Examination
x and x2 can ne'er be equal powers,
Unless x=I, or none at all.
That by and by will make the answer come
To something queer, or else not come at all.
The little slit across the kettle-drum,
That makes the instrument not play at all.
But shall I? Answer, Prudence, answer, no.
And bid me do it right or not at all.
The Waster Singing at Midnight
For his personal diversion,
Sang the chorus Up-i-dee,
Sang about the Barley Bree.
Sang he songs of noise and riot,
In a voice so loud and queer
That I wakened up to hear.
Those one hears from men assembled
In the old Cross Keys Hotel,
Only sung not half so well.
Amateur was most erratic,
And he only hit the key
Once in every melody.
Ven he's cotched is sent to prison,’
He who murders sleep might well
Adorn a solitary cell.
Will arrest this midnight squealer,
My own peculiar arm of might
Must undertake the job to-night.
Thirty Years After
Two old St. Andrews men, after a separation of nearly thirty years, meet by chance at a wayside inn. They interchange experiences; and at length one of them, who is an admirer of Mr. Swinburne's Poems and Ballads, speaks as follows:
And I a first year man,
We'd grind and grub together
In every kind of weather,
When Winter's snows were regent,
Or when the Spring began;
If you were now a bejant,
And I a first year man.
And I the same man still,
You'd be the gainer by it,
For you—you can't deny it—
A most uncommon dunce were;
My profit would be nil,
If you were what you once were,
And I the same man still.
And I were first in Greek,
I'd write your Latin proses,
While you indulged in dozes,
Or carved the bench you sat in,
So innocent and meek;
If you were last in Latin,
And I were first in Greek.
And your certif. was bad,
And you were filled with sorrow
And brooding on the morrow,
I'd gently sympathise, Jim,
And bid you not be sad,
If I had got a prize, Jim,
And your certif. was bad.
And you were spun in Math.,
I'd break it to your parent,
When you confessed you daren't,
And so avert a quarrel
And smooth away his wrath;
If I were through in Moral,
And you were spun in Math.
And yours were rather dark,
And those who knew us both then
Would often take their oath then,
That you would not get on, Jim,
While I should make my mark;
My prospects rather shone, Jim,
And yours were rather dark.
And I am still obscure;
Your face is round and red, Jim,
While I look underfed, Jim;
The thing's extremely funny,
And beats me, I am sure,
Yet somehow you've made money,
And I am still obscure.
The Golf-Ball and the Loan
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
They spent it all, I know not when,
For who is quick enough to know
The time in which a crown may go?
I found the golf-ball, black as sin;
But the five shillings are missing still!
They haven't turned up, and I doubt if they will.
To the Reader of ‘University Notes’
As your eyes glance over these Notes:
‘What asses are these that are braying
With flat and unmusical throats?
Who writes such unspeakable patter?
Is it lunatics, idiots—or who?’
And you think there is ‘something the matter.’
Well, we think so too.
As the hours dragged heavily on,
Till the midnight has merged into morrow,
And the darkness is going or gone.
We are Editors. Give us the credit
Of meaning to do what we could;
But, since there is nothing to edit,
It isn't much good.
That to edit was racy and rare,
But we suffered a sad disillusion,
And we found that our castles were air;
We had decked them with carvings and gildings,
We had filled them with laughter and fun,
But all of a sudden the buildings
Came down with a run.
And the gilding had vanished from sight;
But the ‘column’ for matter was starving,
And we had not to edit—but write.
So we set to and wrote. Can you wonder,
If the writing was feeble or dead?
We had started as editors—Thunder!
We were authors instead.
Vocation, department, and use;
We had thought that our task was selection,
And we found that we had to produce.
So we sigh for release from our labours,
We pray for a happy despatch,
We will take our last leave of our neighbours,
And then—Colney Hatch.
As we part at the foot of the stairs;
We cannot but think it's a pity,
But what matter? there's nobody cares.
Our candle burns low in its socket,
There is nothing left but the wick;
And these Notes, that went up like a rocket,
Come down like the stick.
Αιεν Αριστευειν
In whatsoever things are true;
Not stand among the halting crew,
The faint of heart, the feeble-kneed,
Who tarry for a certain sign
To make them follow with the rest—
Oh, let not their reproach be thine!
But ever be the best.
Great deeds on earth remain undone,
But, sharpened by the sight of one,
Many shall press toward the goal.
Thou running foremost of the throng,
The fire of striving in thy breast,
Shalt win, although the race be long,
And ever be the best.
'Tis not of silver or of gold,
Nor in applauses manifold,
But hidden in the heart it lies:
Had run the race or sought the quest,
To know that thou hast ever done
And ever been the best.
Catullus at His Brother's Grave
Through many lands and over many seasI come, my Brother, to thine obsequies,
To pay thee the last honours that remain,
And call upon thy voiceless dust, in vain.
Since cruel fate has robbed me even of thee,
Unhappy Brother, snatched away from me,
Now none the less the gifts our fathers gave,
The melancholy honours of the grave,
Wet with my tears I bring to thee, and say
Good-bye! farewell! for ever and a day.
Lost at Sea
No one saw their sinking sail,
No one heard their dying wail,
Heard them calling on the Lord—
Lost at sea, with all on board.
There they lie in quiet sleep,
And the voices of the deep
Sound unheeded overhead
Till the sea gives up its dead.
Pleasant Prophecies
Though when I cannot say;
Perhaps it may be Thursday week,
Perhaps some other day,—
And needing no more food,
Shall never pull his neighbour's nose,
But be extremely good.
Next door to Truth and Right,
While Reverence shall rent a room,
Upon the second flight.
And beggars shall be kings;
And all the people shall admire
This pleasant state of things.
And you're inclined to doubt it,
Just ask your local poet. He
Will tell you all about it.
The Delights of Mathematics
Since I, with note-book, ink and pen,
In cap and gown, first trod the floor
Which I have often trod since then;
Yet well do I remember when,
With fifty other fond fanatics,
I sought delights beyond my ken,
The deep delights of Mathematics.
I felt that five times two were ten,
But, as for all profounder lore,
The robin redbreast or the wren,
The sparrow, whether cock or hen,
Knew quite as much about Quadratics,
Was less confused by x and n,
The deep delights of Mathematics.
I floundered in the noisome fen
I wandered in the gloomy glen
Where Surds and Factors have their den.
But when I saw the pit of Statics,
I said Good-bye, Farewell, Amen!
The deep delights of Mathematics.
Who strive with Euclid in your attics,
For worlds I would not taste again
The deep delights of Mathematics.
Stanzas for Music
In the golden years gone by;
She lived in a mill, as they all do
(There is doubtless a reason why).
But she faded in the autumn
When the leaves began to fade,
And the night before she faded,
These words to me she said:
‘Do not forget me, Henry,
Be noble and brave and true;
But I must not bide, for the world is wide,
And the sky above is blue.’
And sailed away and came back;
And the good ship Jane was in port again,
And I found that they all loved Jack.
But Polly and I were sweethearts,
As all the neighbours know,
Before I met with the mill-girl
Twenty years ago.
But alas, she had faded too!
She could not bide, for the world was wide,
And the sky above was blue.
The maid—the maid of the mill,
And Polly, and one or two others
In the churchyard over the hill.
And I sadly ask the question,
As I weep in the yew-tree's shade
With my elbow on one of their tombstones,
‘Ah, why did they all of them fade?’
And the answer I half expected
Comes from the solemn yew,
‘They could none of them bide, for the world was wide,
And the sky above was blue.’
The End of April
And higher still ascending and more high,
This is the time when many a fleecy cloud
Runs lamb-like on the pastures of the sky,
This is the time when most I love to lie
Stretched on the links, now listening to the sea,
Now looking at the train that dawdles by;
But James is going in for his degree.
Yet he intends to have another shy,
Hoping to pass (as he says) in a crowd.
Sanguine is James, but not so sanguine I.
If you demand my reason, I reply:
Because he reads no Greek without a key
And spells Thucydides c-i-d-y;
Yet James is going in for his degree.
The taking in of Bohns, he might defy
A timid candidate and made him fly.
Without such aids, he all as well may try
To cultivate the people of Dundee,
Or lead the camel through the needle's eye;
Yet James is going in for his degree.
To climb of knowledge the forbidden tree;
Yet still about its roots they strive and cry,
And James is going in for his degree.
The Science Club
Join it, ye fourth year men;
Join it, thou smooth-cheeked scrub,
Whose years scarce number ten.
Science, as all men know,
As a friend the Church may save,
But may damage her as a foe.
If attacking insidious doubt,
Or devoting H——to H——,
To know what you're talking about.)
Hurrah for the erudite phrase,
That in Dura Den shall be heard,
That shall echo on Kinkell Braes!
(The golf-ball as well as the daisy)!
Hurrah for explosions and stinks
To set half the landladies crazy!
Surpassing in size and in weight,
To be carried home on the shoulders
And laid on the table in state!
Long buried from sight in a cupboard,
With bones that would never have been
Desired of old Mother Hubbard!
For the crabs (of all kinds) to be caught,
For the eggs on the surface that float,
And the lump-sucker curiously wrought!
In the shanty down by the shore,
For the Royal Society's thanks,
With Fellowships flying galore!
Where one listens and comes away
With a stock of bewildering terms,
And nothing whatever to pay!
Of a Saturday afternoon,
In the light of research setting out,
Coming home in the light of the moon!
Where one learns how paper is made!
Hurrah for the samples that fill
One's drawer with the finest cream-laid!
And beer in liberal doses!
In the cause of Science, what is it
But inspecting a technical process?
To study the spinning of jute!
Hurrah for a restaurant tea,
And a sight of the Tay Bridge to boot!
To feel one's improving one's mind,
With the smallest amount of exertion,
And that of the pleasantest kind!
Imitated from Wordsworth
To play our Third Fifteen,
A man whom none of us had played
And very few had seen.
And to a practised eye
He seemed as little fit to run
As he was fit to fly.
And made so little fuss;
But he got in behind—and oh,
The difference to us!
Reflections of a Magistrand
On Returning to St. Andrews
Creeping back to old St. Andrews comes the slow North British train,
Which the porter, hot and tipless, eyes with unforgiving looks),
Who am now a fourth year magnate with two parts of my degree.
Back to times when this sensation was entirely fresh and new.
Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's manse
With the elements of Latin, with the rudiments of Greek.
Underneath the towers he looks at, in among the throngs of men,
Ten or twelve from other counties, and from England two or three.
When I saw my name omitted from the schedule in the cage!
For I felt that there were few things in the world I did not know.
I declaimed with sound and fury, to an audience of eleven
Does the Stage upon the whole demoralise or elevate?
Murmuring Dulce et decorum in the Battery-Sergeant's ear;
Vainly searching in the whins, or foozling on the putting-green;
At the Musical rehearsals, till the class-room rafters rang;
And, if I remember rightly, was thrown out by twenty-three;
Far removed from bejanthood as is St. Andrews from Siam.
Even pleasure on the keenest appetite at last will pall.
To enjoy the loud solatium as I did three years ago,
And I did not mind receiving orange-peel between the eyes.
There are some things in the world that I am hardly sure about,
Hangs about the grey old town to make it a delightful place.
With its atmosphere unwholesome to expand my spirit's sails,
And I do not care to carry dripping torches any more,
Though the north-east winds are bitter—I am willing to return.
Many a whin bush full of prickles, many a bunker full of sand.
Old, obese, and scarlet-coated, playing golf with all their might;
As they will be three years hence, if I should come this way again.
But we draw too near the station to indulge in the sublime.
Waiting till they take my trunk out, with my hat-box in my hand.
I behold Professor — in a brand new suit of tweeds.
To C. C. C.
In the firelight's glow or flicker,
With the gas turned low and our pipes all lit,
And the air fast growing thicker;
Would spin for us yarns unending,
Your voice and accent and pensive air
With the narrative subtly blending!
When we set our blood in motion,
Leaping the rocks below the braes
And wetting our feet in the ocean,
(A penny a hit, you remember),
With aching fingers and purple thumbs,
In the merry month of December!
And our sports, like the stakes, were trifling;
While the air of the room where we talked and laughed
Was often unpleasantly stifling.
And wrinkles our brows embellish,
And I fear we shall never relish again
The pleasures we used to relish.
The cold and weariness scorning,
For a ten mile walk through the frozen snow
At one o'clock in the morning:
And to bed as the moon descended . . . .
To you and to me there has come a change,
And the days of our youth are ended.
On an Edinburgh Advocate
In youth with diligence he toiledA Roman nose to gain,
But though a decent pug was spoiled,
A pug it did remain.
The Banished Bejant
By good bejants tenanted,
Once a man whose name was Wallace—
William Wallace—reared his head.
Rowdy Bejant in the college
He was styled:
Never had these halls of knowledge
Welcomed waster half so wild!
From his cap did float and flow
(This was cast into the Swilcan
Two months ago);
And every gentle air that sported
With his red gown,
Displayed a suit of clothes, reported
The most alarming in the town.
Through his luminous window saw
Spirits come continually
From a case well packed with straw,
Just behind the chair where, sitting
(Forfarogene),
In whites and blazer loosely fitting,
The owner of the bunk was seen.
Was the place littered o'er,
With which sat playing, playing, playing,
And wrangling evermore,
A group of fellows, whose chief function
Was to proclaim,
In voices of surpassing unction,
Their luck and losses in the game.
Discussed one day the bejant's fate:
Ah, let us mourn him unreturning,
For they resolved to rusticate!
And now the glory he inherits,
Thus dished and doomed,
Is largely founded on the merits
Of the Old Tom consumed.
Through the half-open shutters see,
Old crones, that talk continually
In a discordant minor key:
While, with a kind of nervous shiver,
Past the front door,
His former set go by for ever,
But knock—or ring—no more.
A Tennysonian Fragment
His Honey-dew was gone; only the pouch,
His cousin's work, her empty labour, left.
But still he sniffed it, still a fragrance clung
And lingered all about the broidered flowers.
Then came his landlord, saying in broad Scotch
‘Smoke plug, mon,’ whom he looked at doubtfully.
Then came the grocer, saying, ‘Hae some twist
At tippence,’ whom he answered with a qualm.
Twist, like a fiend's breath from a distant room
Diffusing through the passage, crept; the smell
Deepening had power upon him, and he mixt
His fancies with the billow-lifted bay
Of Biscay, and the rollings of a ship.
And called his song ‘The Song of Twist and Plug,’
And sang it; scarcely could he make or sing.
And rank is twist, which gives no end of pain;
I know not which is ranker, no, not I.
Plug, thou art milder: rank is twist to me.
O twist, if plug be milder, let me buy.
Rank plug, that navvies smoke in loveless clay,
I know not which is ranker, no, not I.
I needs must purchase plug, ah, woe is me!
Plug and a cutty, a cutty, let me buy.’
The Country Cousin in Town
And see the cattle show,
And see the cattle show,
A sight you ought to see.’
There was a drizzling rain in Rotten Row,
And all alone went he.
And o'er and o'er the Strand,
And round and round the Strand,
Until you could not see
In front of you the distance of your hand,
And quickly lost was he.
The great Trafalgar Square,
The famed Trafalgar Square?
Can these the fountains be?’
Was ever country cousin anywhere
So utterly at sea?
A cruel crawling tram,
A cruel crowded tram,
To his inn, in time for tea.
And now he says he would not give a d—n
The cattle show to see.
Counsel to Clerks
The luncheon hour is flying,
And this same cod, that's boiled to-day,
To-morrow will be frying.
A quarter past is showing,
And soon 'twill be a quarter to,
When you must think of going.
When fish and plates are warmer,
But being cold, the worse and worst
Fare still succeeds the former.
And while ye may, cry ‘Waiter’!
For having held just now your tongues,
You may repent it later.
One Way of Friendship
It would have a sweeter savour
If he did it in the way that you desired.
He would make you more his debtor,
If he did not know, far better
Than the person who requires it, what's required.
Plans more safe and expeditious
Than the method you would like to see employed;
And you find, when all is ended,
He has missed what you intended,
And has done what you were anxious to avoid.
He will turn and tell you boldly
That ingratitude becomes you very ill.
Should you wish again to use him,
Will it please you to excuse him?
And you answer with conviction that it will.
To a Little Warbler
To reckon as a minor bard,
No doubt it is a painful thing
Men will not listen when you sing,
No doubt it is a dreary thought
Your books are neither sold nor bought,
No doubt you sigh, because your name
Will not go down to deathless fame.
Some small advantages combined
With these indubitable woes.
You have not earned the hate of those
Who pass their time in biting backs,
You do not pay the income-tax,
You will not be the theme of fools,
Nor yet be edited for schools.
The Admiral's Death
Tripoli in Syria,
When the sun was on the sea,
There manœuvring were we,
Seven miles off Tripoli,
Tripoli in Syria.
Flew on the Victoria.
England's navy never knew
Better leader, staunch and true,
Than the chief whose pennon flew,
Flew on the Victoria.
Set in double column.
Prouder sight was never yet,
England's strength and glory met
Where the battleships were set,
Set in double column.
New-named the Victoria,
Markham with the Camperdown;
Change of name ill luck will crown,
Tryon led with the Renown,
New-named the Victoria.
Form in line was given,
Those vast warriors of the brine
Slowly swung with action fine,
When the word to form in line,
Form in line was given.
Knew that Death was coming,
While we watched the leading two
Markham's ram went crashing through
The Victoria, ere we knew,
Knew that Death was coming.
Sped and doomed to founder.
‘Run the ship ashore,’ he said,
To the shore they turned her head.
All in vain. The ship was sped,
Sped and doomed to founder.
Stood until he perished,
Bade them save themselves who could.
There were life-belts, if he would.
On the bridge the Admiral stood,
Stood until he perished.
Died and did his duty;
Mourn the mighty vessel's pride,
Half her gallant crew beside,
Most of all the chief who died,
Died and did his duty.
Like an English hero!
Hold our own? Please God, we can,
While his spirit leads our van,
Like a sailor, like a man,
Like an English hero.
For the information of those who have not the happiness to be members of the University of St. Andrews, it may be well to explain a few terms. A bejant is an undergraduate student of the first year. In his second year he becomes a semi, in his third a tertian, and in his fourth a magistrand. The last would seem to be a gerundive form, implying that a man at the end of his fourth year ought to be made a Master of Arts; but unfortunately this does not always happen. A divine is a student in Divinity. A waster is a man of idle and (it may be) profligate habits. A grinder, on the contrary, is one who ‘grinds’ or reads with an unusual degree of application. A bunk is the lodging or abode in St. Andrews of any student. A spree is not necessarily an entertainment of rowdy character; the most decorous Professorial dinner-party would be called a spree. A solatium is a Debating Society spree, held in December or January; a gaudeamus is a festival of the same kind, only rather more ambitious, celebrated towards the close of the session. Session would be rendered in England by ‘term.’ The Competition (for Bursaries), or the ‘Comp.,’ is the examination for entrance scholarships. The cage is a curious structure of glass,,ir on, and wood, in which notices and exaination lists areposted. The letters. S.R.C. denote the Students' Representativeudents' Representative Council. An L.L.A. is a Lady Literate in Arts. Math. (as the discerning reader will not be slow to perceive) is an abbreviation, endearing or otherwise of the word Mathematics. Moral stands for Moral Philosophy. Prof. is a shortened form of Professor, and certif. of certificate. Plough, pluck, and spin
The Scarlet Gown | ||