 | Ochil Idylls and Other Poems |  |
7
TO
D. Bruce Peebles. Esq.,
THESE POEMS
ARE INSCRIBED IN TOKEN OF
SINCERE FRIENDSHIP
BY
THE AUTHOR.
13
THE STOOKIE SABBATH.
Noo every stalk o' corn's cut doun,
The Sabbath o' the Ferm's come roun',
Wi' Sabbath silence owre the toun—
A crawin' cock the only soun'.
The Sabbath o' the Ferm's come roun',
Wi' Sabbath silence owre the toun—
A crawin' cock the only soun'.
Noo braes abune and haughs below
Present in many a stookit row
Such offering as the priests did show
On the Lord's table long ago.
Present in many a stookit row
Such offering as the priests did show
On the Lord's table long ago.
But wider here the table spread,—
Nae sample, but the stock instead;
And ampler is the show of bread,
With scarce a tasting melder led.
Nae sample, but the stock instead;
And ampler is the show of bread,
With scarce a tasting melder led.
Lord! look upon the bandit wheat,
The aits an' barley at Thy feet;
Haud aff the daddin' wind an' weet,
An' bless the bread, an' mak' it sweet!
The aits an' barley at Thy feet;
Haud aff the daddin' wind an' weet,
An' bless the bread, an' mak' it sweet!
29
Wi' Dives' craps to ca' oor ain,
A' hoosed an' happit fra the rain,
We still should miss the higher gain,
Wanting Thy blessing on the grain.
A' hoosed an' happit fra the rain,
We still should miss the higher gain,
Wanting Thy blessing on the grain.
And with it, tho' oor portion be
But little mair than Laz'rus' fee,
There's this to cheer oor hearts awee—
The crumbs were looten doun by Thee!
But little mair than Laz'rus' fee,
There's this to cheer oor hearts awee—
The crumbs were looten doun by Thee!
30
SUMMER GLOAMING IN GLENEAGLES.
Now what is this charm that's a-weaving,
That stirs in my pulse and my hair?
Is it an angel that's cleaving
The deeps of the darkening air?
That stirs in my pulse and my hair?
Is it an angel that's cleaving
The deeps of the darkening air?
There's a spell on the hour!—Ah, the new moon—
How did she get into the sky?—
So shyly her splendour assuming!
That was a bat that flew by.
How did she get into the sky?—
So shyly her splendour assuming!
That was a bat that flew by.
There's peace in the dome of heaven's temple,
The pulse of the air is at rest;
The pool shows no longer a dimple,
The blue dove dreams on her nest.
The pulse of the air is at rest;
The pool shows no longer a dimple,
The blue dove dreams on her nest.
Whence—caught in the calm of the gloaming—
Whence came the enchantment I see?
Is it a maid that was roaming,
Took fright, and was changed to a tree?
Whence came the enchantment I see?
Is it a maid that was roaming,
Took fright, and was changed to a tree?
35
In leaf and in twig she is hearkening,
She is holding her breath lest I hear!
Still deepens between us the darkening,
And now—she escapes with her fear!
She is holding her breath lest I hear!
Still deepens between us the darkening,
And now—she escapes with her fear!
36
STRUIE BRAES.
What future mornings shall restore
The mornings that were mine,
The fairy hopes that were of yore,
The dreams that were divine?
The mornings that were mine,
The fairy hopes that were of yore,
The dreams that were divine?
The gowans whiten Struie brae,
The Chapel haughs are green,
Bonnie the birks that shade the May;
They're not as they have been.
The Chapel haughs are green,
Bonnie the birks that shade the May;
They're not as they have been.
Comes never morning now so clear
Over the dewy hills;
Falls not so softly on the ear
The babble of the rills.
Over the dewy hills;
Falls not so softly on the ear
The babble of the rills.
O cease, thou lark, that mirthful strain,
Thy notes are forced and thin;
The world will ne'er be young again;
But ah! the change within.
Thy notes are forced and thin;
The world will ne'er be young again;
But ah! the change within.
39
Immortal were the hopes of youth,
And stedfast to abide,
And love was true, and lovely truth,
And fair the world and wide.
And stedfast to abide,
And love was true, and lovely truth,
And fair the world and wide.
They've taken wing, the fairy hopes;
They were so humble too,
And pure—as upon Struie slopes
The drops of summer dew.
They were so humble too,
And pure—as upon Struie slopes
The drops of summer dew.
Such pure and humble wishes live
Not in the world of men;
What would not I all frankly give
To have them back again!
Not in the world of men;
What would not I all frankly give
To have them back again!
There's nothing in the after time
Makes up for what we lose
In boyhood's fresh and fragrant prime,
Radiant with morning hues.
Makes up for what we lose
In boyhood's fresh and fragrant prime,
Radiant with morning hues.
40
A WINTER VIEW.
I.
The rime lies cauld on ferm an' fauld,The lift's a drumlie grey;
The hill-taps a' are white wi' snaw,
An' dull an' dour's the day.
The canny sheep thegither creep,
The govin' cattle glower;
The plooman staunds to chap his haunds
An' wuss the storm were ower.
II.
But ance the snaw's begoud to fa'The cauld's no' near sae sair:
'Neth stingin' drift oor herts we lift
The winter's warst to dare.
Wi' frost an' cauld we battle bauld,
Nor fear a passin' fa',
But warstle up wi' warmer grup
O' life, an' hope, an' a'.
44
III.
An' sae, my frien', when to oor eenOor warldly ills appear
In prospect mair than we can bear,
An outlook cauld an' drear;
Let's bear in mind—an' this, ye'll find,
Has heartened not a few—
When ance we're in the battle's din
We'll find we're half gate thro'.
45
AULD FERMER'S ADDRESS TO THE “PRODIGAL” SUN,
WHA CAM' HAME IN SEPTEMBER AFTER WEEL NEAR SAX MONTHS' ABSENCE.
Scene—The middle of a half-cut field—Auld Fermer in a sleeved waistcoat, liftin' the fa'en sheaves, an' biggin' the blawn stooks.
Hoo daur ye blink upon the stooks
That wadna shine upon the grain,
But left us to oorsel's for ooks,
Or the waur company o' the rain?
That wadna shine upon the grain,
But left us to oorsel's for ooks,
Or the waur company o' the rain?
We did oor pairt; we teel'd the laund,
An' cuist oor corn into the yird;
We micht wi' profit held oor haund
Wi' you, an' wi' your broken wird.
An' cuist oor corn into the yird;
We micht wi' profit held oor haund
Wi' you, an' wi' your broken wird.
Noo that the sizzen's owre ye haste,
Wi' fogs an' cranreuch i' your train,
Thinkin' to share the shearer's feast—
Gae to the launds ye ca' your ain!
Wi' fogs an' cranreuch i' your train,
Thinkin' to share the shearer's feast—
Gae to the launds ye ca' your ain!
46
Swith to the launds that had your lauch,
An' sorn on them for horn an' spune;
It's no' for you the fatted calf,
It's a' for you the pair o' shoon!
An' sorn on them for horn an' spune;
It's no' for you the fatted calf,
It's a' for you the pair o' shoon!
Nae robe—as you may weel suppose;
Nor ring—'faith, that wad be a sham!
Unless I had it i' your nose
To lead ye back the gate ye cam'!
Nor ring—'faith, that wad be a sham!
Unless I had it i' your nose
To lead ye back the gate ye cam'!
We've managed in a kind o' wey
Withoot the favour o' your face;
We've raw'd oor neeps, an' made oor hey,
An' towl'd amang the weet like beass!
Withoot the favour o' your face;
We've raw'd oor neeps, an' made oor hey,
An' towl'd amang the weet like beass!
Look whaur your wark negleckit lay,
An' meditate what micht hae been;
But dinna think to mend the day
By blinkin' for an hoor at een!
An' meditate what micht hae been;
But dinna think to mend the day
By blinkin' for an hoor at een!
Look on the weary-waitin' craps
That ne'er will come to hervest-hame—
On stookit strae wi' scowther'd taps,
An' skeps that canna turn the beam.
That ne'er will come to hervest-hame—
On stookit strae wi' scowther'd taps,
An' skeps that canna turn the beam.
47
We've dune withoot ye in a kind,
We'll dae withoot ye better yet;
Whaur promises are no' to mind,
There disappointment's no' to get!
We'll dae withoot ye better yet;
Whaur promises are no' to mind,
There disappointment's no' to get!
We'll gang for girse an' craps o' green,
An' get oor laids o' corn abroad;
We'll dae withoot ye, morn an' e'en,
Sae—ye may turn an' tak' the road!
An' get oor laids o' corn abroad;
We'll dae withoot ye, morn an' e'en,
Sae—ye may turn an' tak' the road!
48
YOUNG FERMER'S REPLY THE WEEK EFTER.
Awa', auld man! ye're oot o' date,
Ye've lived some score o' years owre late,
Your ways are auld an' antiquate,
Your watch is slow;
The proper place for you's a seat
In Joseph's show!
Ye've lived some score o' years owre late,
Your ways are auld an' antiquate,
Your watch is slow;
The proper place for you's a seat
In Joseph's show!
Last week, when ye begoud to crack,
Ye brocht my auld gran'faither back—
Douce man he was, but unco slack,
I think I see 'im!
It was as if some mummy spak'
In some museum.
Ye brocht my auld gran'faither back—
Douce man he was, but unco slack,
I think I see 'im!
It was as if some mummy spak'
In some museum.
Whaur in the Ochils do ye thole
To keep a carcass on your soul?
At Clochrat-Slap? or Rouchle-Bole?
Or Whussle-Ben?
In whatna hill, or whatna hole,
At what sheyre-en'?
To keep a carcass on your soul?
At Clochrat-Slap? or Rouchle-Bole?
Or Whussle-Ben?
In whatna hill, or whatna hole,
At what sheyre-en'?
49
Ye speak o' shearers—hae ye seen
The bonnie reapin' horse-machine?
And steam—is a' ye ken o't, frien',
The toddy kettle?
Or plooin'—hae ye ever been
Beyont the pettle?
The bonnie reapin' horse-machine?
And steam—is a' ye ken o't, frien',
The toddy kettle?
Or plooin'—hae ye ever been
Beyont the pettle?
Ye smack o' fanners an' o' flails;
An' for climatic ills an' ails,
When floods pour doun an' sunshine fails,
Ye've nae remeid—
Excep' to curse the sun that sails
Abune your heid!
An' for climatic ills an' ails,
When floods pour doun an' sunshine fails,
Ye've nae remeid—
Excep' to curse the sun that sails
Abune your heid!
What better wad ye be in gress?
Ye need the sun for that nae less.
Tak' my advice, an' join the cless
At the new college;
An' learn that strength an' stupidness
Are less than knowledge.
Ye need the sun for that nae less.
Tak' my advice, an' join the cless
At the new college;
An' learn that strength an' stupidness
Are less than knowledge.
Ye little ken the gate we're strivin',
Ye little ken the rate we're drivin';
This warld ye're by mistak' alive in,
It's no' for drones,
Nor donnart bees like you to hive in
Wi' feckless groans?
Ye little ken the rate we're drivin';
This warld ye're by mistak' alive in,
It's no' for drones,
Nor donnart bees like you to hive in
Wi' feckless groans?
50
A wee whyle, an' ye'll see a sicht!
We'll gie ye heat, we'll gie ye licht,
We'll mak' it simmer day or nicht
Just as we please!
We'll put baith soils an' seasons richt
Wi' equal ease!
We'll gie ye heat, we'll gie ye licht,
We'll mak' it simmer day or nicht
Just as we please!
We'll put baith soils an' seasons richt
Wi' equal ease!
When Elec—but I'll haud my haund;
The word ye wadna understaund;
Ye think, nae doot, it's short for Saund—
Some great man's name;
Man, it's a pooer at oor commaund,
Lately come hame.
The word ye wadna understaund;
Ye think, nae doot, it's short for Saund—
Some great man's name;
Man, it's a pooer at oor commaund,
Lately come hame.
When that electric pooer shines oot,
As shine it will, there's no' a doot,
Dispensin' free to flooer an' fruit
The best o' weather,
You an' the Sun can wheel aboot
An' aff thegither!
As shine it will, there's no' a doot,
Dispensin' free to flooer an' fruit
The best o' weather,
You an' the Sun can wheel aboot
An' aff thegither!
51
ELDER FERMER'S ADDRESS TO BAITH.
Auld brither, tho' your thrawart soul
Needna cast laith at offer'd mercies,
The Peth's the richer for your towl,
An' nane the puirer for your verses.
Ye still should study Holy Writ,
But in a godlier spirit raither—
Wi' mair o' wisdom, less o' wit,
Ye sune wad mak' a better faither.
Needna cast laith at offer'd mercies,
The Peth's the richer for your towl,
An' nane the puirer for your verses.
Ye still should study Holy Writ,
But in a godlier spirit raither—
Wi' mair o' wisdom, less o' wit,
Ye sune wad mak' a better faither.
But you, young sir, wha, fra the hicht
O' college ways an' college learnin',
Look doun wi' telescopic sicht,
Oor age an' ignorance discernin'—
Wha wad your ain forbears disdain,
That sleep wi' a' their thochts aboot them;
Their thochts were wiser than your ain,
An whaur wad ye hae been withoot them?
O' college ways an' college learnin',
Look doun wi' telescopic sicht,
Oor age an' ignorance discernin'—
Wha wad your ain forbears disdain,
That sleep wi' a' their thochts aboot them;
Their thochts were wiser than your ain,
An whaur wad ye hae been withoot them?
Na, na, my lad! ye're far ower bauld;
Your scheme's at fau't in ilka featur':
I hae been young, an' noo am auld,
An' never quarrell'd yet wi' Natur'.
Tho' whyles a simmer cauld an' green
Has left a hunger'd hairst ahint it,
Tho' whyles a thowless year I've seen,
My hauld on hope I've never tint it.
Your scheme's at fau't in ilka featur':
I hae been young, an' noo am auld,
An' never quarrell'd yet wi' Natur'.
52
Has left a hunger'd hairst ahint it,
Tho' whyles a thowless year I've seen,
My hauld on hope I've never tint it.
It's no' for mortal to command
The miracles o' ony season;
Their workin' needs a higher hand,
Their plannin' needs a wiser reason.
An' hae we earn'd the gude we get
In daily gifts o' ordinar' weather?
Hae years been a' sae contrar' yet
That we maun grum'le a' thegither?
The miracles o' ony season;
Their workin' needs a higher hand,
Their plannin' needs a wiser reason.
An' hae we earn'd the gude we get
In daily gifts o' ordinar' weather?
Hae years been a' sae contrar' yet
That we maun grum'le a' thegither?
We've mair to cultivate than corn;
We hae oorsel's to raise an' better.
We tarry here a glorious morn
Shall free us fra the bonds o' maitter.
In faith there's comfort ane can feel,
Tho' i' the rain his stooks lie rottin':
The body's wants are mindit weel,
The speerit's are owre aft forgotten.
We hae oorsel's to raise an' better.
We tarry here a glorious morn
Shall free us fra the bonds o' maitter.
In faith there's comfort ane can feel,
Tho' i' the rain his stooks lie rottin':
The body's wants are mindit weel,
The speerit's are owre aft forgotten.
53
A WEET HAIRST.
Aquosus Eurus arva radat imbribus.
Hor., Epod. 16.
Hor., Epod. 16.
Saunders, my frien'! I ken it's sair,
I ken fu' weel your basket's bare,
Your store o' savin's toom;
I'm wae to see your waefu' looks
Oot-ower the fields o' draiglit stooks,
An' fodder, fit to soom!
Wi' markets cheap and wages dear,
Ye've been at mickle cost;
An' here's the hervest o' the year,
An' a' your labour lost!
Perplexin' an' vexin'
The ways o' Nature seem;
The haste o't, the waste o't,
It's like an evil dream!
I ken fu' weel your basket's bare,
Your store o' savin's toom;
I'm wae to see your waefu' looks
Oot-ower the fields o' draiglit stooks,
An' fodder, fit to soom!
Wi' markets cheap and wages dear,
Ye've been at mickle cost;
An' here's the hervest o' the year,
An' a' your labour lost!
Perplexin' an' vexin'
The ways o' Nature seem;
The haste o't, the waste o't,
It's like an evil dream!
What touch o' comfort can ye feel?
It's sad, it's angersome atweel,
To think that folk like you,
Wha saw'd gude seed in gude dry laund,
An' spared nae sweat o' head or haund,
In hopes to cairry thro'—
Wha watched it fra the wee green breer
To Autumn's stately show
O' mony a gallant gowden spear
In serried rank an' row—
Maun see 't noo and dree 't noo,
Lie rottin' i' the rain!
The mense o't, the sense o't,
Nae mortal can explain!
It's sad, it's angersome atweel,
To think that folk like you,
Wha saw'd gude seed in gude dry laund,
An' spared nae sweat o' head or haund,
In hopes to cairry thro'—
54
To Autumn's stately show
O' mony a gallant gowden spear
In serried rank an' row—
Maun see 't noo and dree 't noo,
Lie rottin' i' the rain!
The mense o't, the sense o't,
Nae mortal can explain!
But human reason's but a spark,
A can'le's glimmer i' the dark;
An' he's the wiser wicht
Wha doots his wisdom and his sense,
An' puts his trust in Providence
Till dawns the dear daylicht.
Saunders, my frien'! a bairn-like faith
That a'thing's for your gude
Will lead ye safe thro' life an' death,
Thro' fear o' fire an' flude.
Tho' crosses, an' losses,
Mar a' the life o' men,
They're sent till 's; their end till 's
We'll aiblins ae day ken.
A can'le's glimmer i' the dark;
An' he's the wiser wicht
Wha doots his wisdom and his sense,
An' puts his trust in Providence
Till dawns the dear daylicht.
Saunders, my frien'! a bairn-like faith
That a'thing's for your gude
Will lead ye safe thro' life an' death,
Thro' fear o' fire an' flude.
Tho' crosses, an' losses,
Mar a' the life o' men,
They're sent till 's; their end till 's
We'll aiblins ae day ken.
55
A VISION OF THE DAYS.
The first was blawn in to my fireside,
A mitherless baby child;
It lay on the flure in its lang claes,
Opened its een an' smiled.
Ithers, mony, cam' efter,
Blawn in wi' snaw or sleet;
They grat, or sleepit, or sweetly
Lay lauchin' at my feet.
At last a little ane, stacherin',
Cam' wi' a flooer in its haund,
Crawin', an' plungin', an' fa'in'—
It could walk, till it tried to staund.
A mitherless baby child;
It lay on the flure in its lang claes,
Opened its een an' smiled.
Ithers, mony, cam' efter,
Blawn in wi' snaw or sleet;
They grat, or sleepit, or sweetly
Lay lauchin' at my feet.
At last a little ane, stacherin',
Cam' wi' a flooer in its haund,
Crawin', an' plungin', an' fa'in'—
It could walk, till it tried to staund.
Ithers, mony, cam' efter,
Toddlin' or creepin' in,
Till they took to rinnin', an' lauchin' lood,
An' makin' sic a din,
That I stappit ootby to meet them;
An' lo! the fields were green,
And a lang array o' bairn-folk
Thrangin' up was seen.
Their voice was in the woodlands,
Their lauch upon the lea;
But noo they were sae saucy
They would curchie but, an' flee.
Toddlin' or creepin' in,
Till they took to rinnin', an' lauchin' lood,
An' makin' sic a din,
That I stappit ootby to meet them;
An' lo! the fields were green,
And a lang array o' bairn-folk
Thrangin' up was seen.
58
Their lauch upon the lea;
But noo they were sae saucy
They would curchie but, an' flee.
I gazed like ane enchanted,
Till, to my wond'rin' ken,
The girls grew up to womanheid,
The lads shot up to men.
Then cam' a face just dipt in beard,
Wi' blushes cover'd mair;
And then aneth a maiden chin
A bosom buddin' fair.
Then cam' beardit faces,
And matron breasts mature;
Thro' heart and brain, in ilka vein,
Life was pulsing pure.
Their hair upon their shoulders,
Flourishing it lay,
The hazel in its glossy length,
The dark unmix'd with grey.
Till, to my wond'rin' ken,
The girls grew up to womanheid,
The lads shot up to men.
Then cam' a face just dipt in beard,
Wi' blushes cover'd mair;
And then aneth a maiden chin
A bosom buddin' fair.
Then cam' beardit faces,
And matron breasts mature;
Thro' heart and brain, in ilka vein,
Life was pulsing pure.
Their hair upon their shoulders,
Flourishing it lay,
The hazel in its glossy length,
The dark unmix'd with grey.
But now the pace grew sober,
The step was not so free,
Nor quite so square the shoulders,
Nor quite so quick the ee.
It was the measured pace of one
That meditates a vow;
At last a garland falling
Revealed a naked pow—
A naked pow that green-leaves
Had garlanded; and then
I saw the slow procession
Was one of agèd men.
The step was not so free,
Nor quite so square the shoulders,
Nor quite so quick the ee.
59
That meditates a vow;
At last a garland falling
Revealed a naked pow—
A naked pow that green-leaves
Had garlanded; and then
I saw the slow procession
Was one of agèd men.
Ithers, mony, cam' efter,
Bent, and beld, and auld,
Hoastin' on their haund-staffs
And crynin' wi' the cauld.
I see them yet, a back view,
Stoppin' to stoop an' blaw,
Thae auld men wi' snaw beards
Half-gate to the snaw.
The hin'mest i' the darkenin'
Sank upon his knee;
Keen as a swerd the winter strak'
Betwix' that carle an' me.
Bent, and beld, and auld,
Hoastin' on their haund-staffs
And crynin' wi' the cauld.
I see them yet, a back view,
Stoppin' to stoop an' blaw,
Thae auld men wi' snaw beards
Half-gate to the snaw.
The hin'mest i' the darkenin'
Sank upon his knee;
Keen as a swerd the winter strak'
Betwix' that carle an' me.
60
THE QUEEN'S HOLIDAY.
Ye that are lords o' fix'd degree,
Ye that are lords by whylies;
Ye proveses o' rank, an ye
That are but baron-bailies;
Ye members o' the sheyres an' brochs,
Win up, an' haud ye ready
To boo your backs an' crook your hochs
Afore your sovran leddy!
Ye that are lords by whylies;
Ye proveses o' rank, an ye
That are but baron-bailies;
Ye members o' the sheyres an' brochs,
Win up, an' haud ye ready
To boo your backs an' crook your hochs
Afore your sovran leddy!
Ye ministers, an' men o' weir,
Peace sogers, an' laund sailors,
Auld heroes to the service dear,
An' young anes dear to tailors;
Ye new-made knichts an' nobles a'—
She made ye men o' honour—
Weel may ye rise up in a raw
An' shooer your thanks upon her.
Peace sogers, an' laund sailors,
Auld heroes to the service dear,
An' young anes dear to tailors;
Ye new-made knichts an' nobles a'—
She made ye men o' honour—
Weel may ye rise up in a raw
An' shooer your thanks upon her.
Ye waitin' dames, sae dink an' braw,
Wi' laids o' costly claithin';
Ye bonnie lassies best o' a',
Wi' just a flooer, or naething;
Ye office-wands, an' flunkey lords,
An' pages pouther'd meetly—
Noo haud a ticht grip o' the cords
An' guide the course discreetly!
Wi' laids o' costly claithin';
Ye bonnie lassies best o' a',
Wi' just a flooer, or naething;
61
An' pages pouther'd meetly—
Noo haud a ticht grip o' the cords
An' guide the course discreetly!
Ye college dons, fra proctor doun
To him that but professes,
Noo, noo's the time to tuck your goun
An' draw up your addresses:
And let your Latin be as snug
As if she kent the roond o't,
For, by my faith! she'll lend a lug,
An' judge ye by the soond o't!
To him that but professes,
Noo, noo's the time to tuck your goun
An' draw up your addresses:
And let your Latin be as snug
As if she kent the roond o't,
For, by my faith! she'll lend a lug,
An' judge ye by the soond o't!
Ye parsons, groanin' aye wi' griefs,
The warld's maybe mendin'!
Ye lawwers, lay aside your briefs;
Ill-named, they ne'er have endin'!
An' tak' the hills, or tak' the dales,
As wild as e'er ye wander'd,
Like laddies broken fra the schules,
An' free o' stripes an' standard!
The warld's maybe mendin'!
Ye lawwers, lay aside your briefs;
Ill-named, they ne'er have endin'!
An' tak' the hills, or tak' the dales,
As wild as e'er ye wander'd,
Like laddies broken fra the schules,
An' free o' stripes an' standard!
And lastly, ye that flood the street,
A roarin' spate o' people,
Splashed up to wa' an' window-seat,
To chimla-stack an' steeple,—
It sets your mou's to mak' the din
Ye may indulge the morn,
But dinna loup oot o' your skin,
An' be content wi' roarin'!
A roarin' spate o' people,
Splashed up to wa' an' window-seat,
To chimla-stack an' steeple,—
62
Ye may indulge the morn,
But dinna loup oot o' your skin,
An' be content wi' roarin'!
Postscript.
Ye hills, sune to be bleezin' hie,
As if by lichtnin' smitten;
Ye kintras, scatter'd owre the sea,
That mak' the greater Britain,
Shout an' shine oot! tell a' that speer,
Wi' a' the speed ye may, noo,
That, efter towlin' fifty year,
Oor queen tak's holiday, noo!
As if by lichtnin' smitten;
Ye kintras, scatter'd owre the sea,
That mak' the greater Britain,
Shout an' shine oot! tell a' that speer,
Wi' a' the speed ye may, noo,
That, efter towlin' fifty year,
Oor queen tak's holiday, noo!
63
OUR COUNTRY QUARTERS.
We live in a cottage, the Ochils behind us,
A village beneath, and Lochleven below,
With sunshine enough—if we wish'd it—to blind us,
And leisure, and freedom to come and to go.
A village beneath, and Lochleven below,
With sunshine enough—if we wish'd it—to blind us,
And leisure, and freedom to come and to go.
The blackberry braes, and the rasps by the rill-side,
We share them in common with shepherds and bees;
We're friends with the cock-lairds; their homes on the hillside
We enter with welcome, and wait till we please.
We share them in common with shepherds and bees;
We're friends with the cock-lairds; their homes on the hillside
We enter with welcome, and wait till we please.
We know the dim glens where the hazels are ripest,
The plums and the pools where the biggest trout lie;
And thou, merry laverock, that all the day pipest,
Art even inviting us up to the sky.
The plums and the pools where the biggest trout lie;
And thou, merry laverock, that all the day pipest,
Art even inviting us up to the sky.
The whin-cover'd common is ours, and the woodland
Has caught, and has taught the young echo our song;
The good land is fenced, but we look at the good land,
And say, “Well, he's happy to whom it belongs!”
Has caught, and has taught the young echo our song;
The good land is fenced, but we look at the good land,
And say, “Well, he's happy to whom it belongs!”
71
What crops of rare beauty that rise on the lowland
Grow ripe, and can only be reap'd by the eye!
You run to the Rhine, but, my masters, there's no land
That will not at times with the loveliest vie.
Grow ripe, and can only be reap'd by the eye!
You run to the Rhine, but, my masters, there's no land
That will not at times with the loveliest vie.
For myself, I confess, tho' I've been to the Rhine, too,
And own that its banks and belongings are rare,
The scenes I know best are the sort I incline to,
And loving them long, I may fancy them fair.
And own that its banks and belongings are rare,
The scenes I know best are the sort I incline to,
And loving them long, I may fancy them fair.
The grass is as green here, as crystal the water;
The mornings, on some days at least, are as blue;
Our sun is as golden, and night and her daughter,
The moon, are as lavish of silver and dew.
The mornings, on some days at least, are as blue;
Our sun is as golden, and night and her daughter,
The moon, are as lavish of silver and dew.
And then there's expression, a coming and going
Of feeling and fancy, a mood in each day,
A soul in the landscape, now rippling and flowing,
Now wailing and waiting, in pain or in play.
Of feeling and fancy, a mood in each day,
A soul in the landscape, now rippling and flowing,
Now wailing and waiting, in pain or in play.
There's anger and passion, too, storming sublimely
When rushes the thundercloud down on the plain;
The leaves of the forest are shatter'd untimely,
And white is the loch in the scourge of the rain.
When rushes the thundercloud down on the plain;
The leaves of the forest are shatter'd untimely,
And white is the loch in the scourge of the rain.
72
It glooms, and it glows again; dark clouds are sailing,
Are thickening, and quickening, till—see how they flee!
It booms, and it blows again; shadows are trailing
A horror of darkness o'er loch and o'er lea!
Are thickening, and quickening, till—see how they flee!
It booms, and it blows again; shadows are trailing
A horror of darkness o'er loch and o'er lea!
'Tis night before sunset; still rattles the thunder,
And rattles, no doubt, when in slumber we lie;
But morning leaps up, and in wide-awake wonder
We see scarce a cobweb of cloud in the sky.
And rattles, no doubt, when in slumber we lie;
But morning leaps up, and in wide-awake wonder
We see scarce a cobweb of cloud in the sky.
With pleasures like these scarcely felt are the labours
That art, and the garden, and friendship impose;
And then, we've the most unobtrusive of neighbours,
The hills, and some sheep, a red cow, and the crows.
That art, and the garden, and friendship impose;
And then, we've the most unobtrusive of neighbours,
The hills, and some sheep, a red cow, and the crows.
There now are the hills, over which we go roaming,
They visit us once, only once in the year,
And that's on the first winter day, when the Lomond
Puts on a white surplice, and cries “I am here!”
They visit us once, only once in the year,
And that's on the first winter day, when the Lomond
Puts on a white surplice, and cries “I am here!”
O then all the village wives peep from their doorways,
And nod to the Lomond with mutches as clean,
While peasants flock in from the fields to the four-ways,
And say to each other, “The frost will be keen!”
And nod to the Lomond with mutches as clean,
While peasants flock in from the fields to the four-ways,
And say to each other, “The frost will be keen!”
73
The talk of the countryside then is of curling,
They speak of a bonspiel, and settle the sides;
Very soon on the pond the round stanes will go birling,
And long rows of scholars be polishing slides.
They speak of a bonspiel, and settle the sides;
Very soon on the pond the round stanes will go birling,
And long rows of scholars be polishing slides.
But hurrah for the loch, and the skates shrilly sounding,
The freedom of bird, and the fleetness of roe,
The isles, and the bays, and the capes we are rounding,
And Kelpie that runs with us roaring below!
The freedom of bird, and the fleetness of roe,
The isles, and the bays, and the capes we are rounding,
And Kelpie that runs with us roaring below!
Hurrah, Water-Kelpie! we're yours if you take us;
There's only a board of two inches between 's:
You're thinking if only the loch would enlake us,
And we—we are thinking of beef and of greens!
There's only a board of two inches between 's:
You're thinking if only the loch would enlake us,
And we—we are thinking of beef and of greens!
But that was a flight; for as yet it's the summer,
With sunshine enough, if we wish'd it, to blind us;
The cuckoo is gone, and the crake's the new-comer,
And green are the hills both before and behind us!
With sunshine enough, if we wish'd it, to blind us;
The cuckoo is gone, and the crake's the new-comer,
And green are the hills both before and behind us!
74
TO A LAVEROCK.
The mist on the lea's but an awning,
The shadows are only below;
Up, bonnie bird, to the dawning,
Had I your wings, I would go.
The shadows are only below;
Up, bonnie bird, to the dawning,
Had I your wings, I would go.
Up to the gold and the glory,
Spreading and speeding along;
What of the mist that is o'er ye?
O'er it's the region of song!
Spreading and speeding along;
What of the mist that is o'er ye?
O'er it's the region of song!
Think of the bliss and the beauty
Lavish'd aloft in the skies!
Wings, bonnie bird! it's a duty—
Were they not lent you to rise?
Lavish'd aloft in the skies!
Wings, bonnie bird! it's a duty—
Were they not lent you to rise?
Up to the infinite! scorning
Earth and the shadows below;
Up to the fountains of morning
Had I your wings I would go!
Earth and the shadows below;
Up to the fountains of morning
Had I your wings I would go!
75
THOMAS THE PEACEMAKER: AN ALLEGORY.
The wind of May was in the wood,
And all the birds were singing,
And leaves, and blossoms many-hued,
From branch and bough were springing.
And all the birds were singing,
And leaves, and blossoms many-hued,
From branch and bough were springing.
There was the blackbird's perfect note
With lilac odours blending;
The hurry of the shilfa's throat
To reach the same old ending;
With lilac odours blending;
The hurry of the shilfa's throat
To reach the same old ending;
The yellow bunting in the broom;
The linnet, never wanting;
The goldfinch in the apple-bloom;
The pigeon in the planting;—
The linnet, never wanting;
The goldfinch in the apple-bloom;
The pigeon in the planting;—
They piped, and cooed, and whistled sweet;
It was a joy to hear them;
And happy surely he whose feet
Were free to journey near them.
It was a joy to hear them;
And happy surely he whose feet
Were free to journey near them.
76
His name was Thomas, but a scowl
Sat on his scornful features;
To him the lark was but a fowl,
And linnets noisy creatures.
Sat on his scornful features;
To him the lark was but a fowl,
And linnets noisy creatures.
“Curses,” quoth Thomas, “on this din!
This screaming must be put down;
And those of them that won't give in,
By Cromwell! I will shoot down!”
This screaming must be put down;
And those of them that won't give in,
By Cromwell! I will shoot down!”
Wheet-wheet! ting-ting! doo-doo! it went—
The gowdspink and the linnet,
The cushat in her leafy tent—
It never slack'd a minute.
The gowdspink and the linnet,
The cushat in her leafy tent—
It never slack'd a minute.
When bang! and bang! went Thomas' gun,
It was a double barrel;
And here fell one, and there fell one—
And up comes Keeper Yarrell.
It was a double barrel;
And here fell one, and there fell one—
And up comes Keeper Yarrell.
“What's this you're at? And who are you?
These, did they ever harm you?
Poor little finch and croodendoo—
They might have lived to charm you.”
These, did they ever harm you?
Poor little finch and croodendoo—
They might have lived to charm you.”
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Then Thomas grinn'd a cynic grin—
“You've such a sweet belief too!
Take my advice, and hold your din,
Or else you'll come to grief too!
“You've such a sweet belief too!
Take my advice, and hold your din,
Or else you'll come to grief too!
“A wink is just as good's a nod,
There's safety in a margin;”
And Thomas drew, and twirl'd the rod,
And ramm'd a double charge in.
There's safety in a margin;”
And Thomas drew, and twirl'd the rod,
And ramm'd a double charge in.
Then Keeper Yarrell turn'd and fled,
In terror and in anger,
While birds in hundreds overhead
Flew up with sudden clangour.
In terror and in anger,
While birds in hundreds overhead
Flew up with sudden clangour.
The crane, the crow, the daw, the pie,
And fowls of shorter feather,
As if discharged shot up the sky,
And all exclaim'd together.
And fowls of shorter feather,
As if discharged shot up the sky,
And all exclaim'd together.
While all the smaller feather'd race
That practise sylvan music,
Dropt downward to a hiding-place
Among the grass, and grew sick;
That practise sylvan music,
Dropt downward to a hiding-place
Among the grass, and grew sick;
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And could not sit, and could not walk,
But flew about at random;
And here in terror shriek'd a hawk
Before a finch in tandem.
But flew about at random;
And here in terror shriek'd a hawk
Before a finch in tandem.
“Curses,” quoth Thomas, “on this din!
It must be quenched by vi'lence;
The wood's not worth the walking in
Unless there's perfect silence.”
It must be quenched by vi'lence;
The wood's not worth the walking in
Unless there's perfect silence.”
So bang! he went with might and main;
Bang—bang! and never stopping,
Except to load and fire again,
And down the birds came dropping.
Bang—bang! and never stopping,
Except to load and fire again,
And down the birds came dropping.
'Twas now a wren, and now a rook,
And now a speckled starling,
And now a robin brought to book,
The country children's darling.
And now a speckled starling,
And now a robin brought to book,
The country children's darling.
'Twas here a feather, there a wing,
And here a pretty pink toe,
And there a bill that used to sing,
A head that once could think, too.
And here a pretty pink toe,
And there a bill that used to sing,
A head that once could think, too.
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And wider Thomas spread his smoke,
And bang! he went the louder;
Till boughs were stript, and twigs were broke,
And blossoms black'd with powder.
And bang! he went the louder;
Till boughs were stript, and twigs were broke,
And blossoms black'd with powder.
Now what was all this cursing for,
And why was all this vi'lence?
Dear Lord! it was a peaceful war,
And all for sake of silence!
And why was all this vi'lence?
Dear Lord! it was a peaceful war,
And all for sake of silence!
I call him bully, tho' the boys
Think Thomas was a hero;
Big Boanerges for his noise,
And for his nerve a Nero.
Think Thomas was a hero;
Big Boanerges for his noise,
And for his nerve a Nero.
And rather would prefer, for one,
God's natural creation,
Than hear the barking of his gun,
And see its devastation.
God's natural creation,
Than hear the barking of his gun,
And see its devastation.
80
THE TREES BESIDE THE OLD MANSE GATE.
The trees beside the old manse gate,
They twinkled in the sun;
The sky was blue, the air was balm,
The summer was begun.
They twinkled in the sun;
The sky was blue, the air was balm,
The summer was begun.
They twinkled brightly in the sun,
They cast a chequer'd shade
Upon the gravel and the grass
Where little children play'd.
They cast a chequer'd shade
Upon the gravel and the grass
Where little children play'd.
The trees beside the old manse gate
They were so very still;
The funeral of a little child
Pass'd dream-like up the hill.
They were so very still;
The funeral of a little child
Pass'd dream-like up the hill.
Through the long summer afternoon
The summer glanced and gleam'd;
The trees beside the old manse gate
Stood silently and dream'd.
The summer glanced and gleam'd;
The trees beside the old manse gate
Stood silently and dream'd.
81
I stood at midnight on the hill,
The village slept below,—
The trees beside the old manse gate
Were rocking to and fro!
The village slept below,—
The trees beside the old manse gate
Were rocking to and fro!
The trees beside the old manse gate,
They deck themselves in green,
And for their little playmate wait,
Who will no more be seen.
They deck themselves in green,
And for their little playmate wait,
Who will no more be seen.
What will they see, the winter moons
That stare upon their woe?
The trees beside the old manse gate
Writing on the snow!
That stare upon their woe?
The trees beside the old manse gate
Writing on the snow!
It was for that young buried child
They moan'd in every leaf;
They would not have the cheerful day
Look in upon their grief.
They moan'd in every leaf;
They would not have the cheerful day
Look in upon their grief.
It is for that young vanish'd life
They write upon the snow;
They would not have the summer see
Their weakness and their woe!
They write upon the snow;
They would not have the summer see
Their weakness and their woe!
82
BOYHOOD ON THE OCHILS.
The fairy time of life, Tam,
It's noo the time of yore!
And whatna lovely world we lost
When boyhood's hour was o'er!
It's noo the time of yore!
And whatna lovely world we lost
When boyhood's hour was o'er!
We cross'd the burn that rins between
That an' the world o' men;
The lad that tak's the loup, Tam,
He ne'er wins back agen.
That an' the world o' men;
The lad that tak's the loup, Tam,
He ne'er wins back agen.
Awa', awa' that fairy world
Gaed floating haill an' free;
Its sangs grew faint, its groves grew dim,
The brook becam' a sea.
Gaed floating haill an' free;
Its sangs grew faint, its groves grew dim,
The brook becam' a sea.
And then the world of men, Tam,
Called with an yren tone,
An', waukin' from the dreams of youth,
We were no more our own.
Called with an yren tone,
An', waukin' from the dreams of youth,
We were no more our own.
83
Labour's great clanking engine-house
Open'd, and shut us in,
An' sune the memories of our youth
Were lost amid the din.
Open'd, and shut us in,
An' sune the memories of our youth
Were lost amid the din.
Time pass'd, an' we were aulder,
Our elders pass'd away,
An' lads, as we had been, cam' in,
Just lifted from their play.
Our elders pass'd away,
An' lads, as we had been, cam' in,
Just lifted from their play.
Their country looks sae fresh and wild,
They touch'd us into pain;
The joys that we had lost, Tam,
We lost them owre again.
They touch'd us into pain;
The joys that we had lost, Tam,
We lost them owre again.
But ah! in vain we sigh, we seek—
We'll see it nevermore,
The fairy world of boyhood
We rambled in of yore.
We'll see it nevermore,
The fairy world of boyhood
We rambled in of yore.
It's no' upon the green hillside,
Nor yet within the glen;
The gate of boyhood's Eden, Tam,
It's barr'd to bearded men.
Nor yet within the glen;
The gate of boyhood's Eden, Tam,
It's barr'd to bearded men.
84
THE WHITE INVASION.
The sun gaed doun in fire and gloom,
The winds o' winter woke,
An' sent frail autumn to his doom,
An' Scotland to the yoke!
The winds o' winter woke,
An' sent frail autumn to his doom,
An' Scotland to the yoke!
That nicht they storm'd the Grampian posts,
They scoor'd the Rannoch wolds;
Nae fastness could defy their hosts,
They seized the Hieland holds.
They scoor'd the Rannoch wolds;
Nae fastness could defy their hosts,
They seized the Hieland holds.
What slaughter thro' the nicht we heard
On Ochil hill an' lea,
Blent with the moan of driven bird
An' storm-o'ertaken tree!
On Ochil hill an' lea,
Blent with the moan of driven bird
An' storm-o'ertaken tree!
The wark was dune ere mornin' broke
Upon the walterin' Forth;
An' Dalmahoy's twin lions look
Blanch-faced at the north!
Upon the walterin' Forth;
An' Dalmahoy's twin lions look
Blanch-faced at the north!
85
HALF AN HOUR IN MAY.
They're a' whirlin' doun
The leaves that lapp'd my childhood;
The blossoms o' youth,
How sune they pass'd away!
Bare, bare, an' brown
Already is the wildwood—
It's autumn in sooth,
The season of decay!
The leaves that lapp'd my childhood;
The blossoms o' youth,
How sune they pass'd away!
Bare, bare, an' brown
Already is the wildwood—
It's autumn in sooth,
The season of decay!
The sun, shining cauld,
Looks in upon my bareness;
How bleak are the boughs
That shake against the sky!
The wind, blawing bauld,
It mocks me for my spareness,
It sports with the vows
That broken round me lie.
Looks in upon my bareness;
How bleak are the boughs
That shake against the sky!
The wind, blawing bauld,
It mocks me for my spareness,
It sports with the vows
That broken round me lie.
The sweet birds of sang
That I sae fondly finger'd,—
They sang a' the spring,
They nestled in my breast;
They're gane too, tho' lang
The pretty darlings linger'd,
They've a' liftit wing
An' left me—like the rest.
That I sae fondly finger'd,—
They sang a' the spring,
They nestled in my breast;
86
The pretty darlings linger'd,
They've a' liftit wing
An' left me—like the rest.
With song-bowers mute,
A cauld wind that blusters,
An' wan leaves that stey
To trem'le but, an' fa',—
O what boots the fruit
The few an' naked clusters?
Ae half hour in Mey,
It's mair than worth them a'!
A cauld wind that blusters,
An' wan leaves that stey
To trem'le but, an' fa',—
O what boots the fruit
The few an' naked clusters?
Ae half hour in Mey,
It's mair than worth them a'!
87
THE BURNIN' BRUME.
The Hebrew shepherd on the hillside saw
A green buss bleezin', bleezin' aye awa':
Nae reek rase up, nae ashes fell adoun,
There was nae sough o' fire, nae cracklin' soun';
But clear an' constant was the steady flame,
And unconsumed the buss, an' aye the same.
A green buss bleezin', bleezin' aye awa':
Nae reek rase up, nae ashes fell adoun,
There was nae sough o' fire, nae cracklin' soun';
But clear an' constant was the steady flame,
And unconsumed the buss, an' aye the same.
Ye needna doot the shepherd glowr'd wi' awe
At sic a strange suspension o' the law
That dooms to swift destruction barn or byre,
Biggin' or buss that's grippit fast by fire.
In this he saw the presence o' his God,
And felt the ground was holy where he trod.
At sic a strange suspension o' the law
That dooms to swift destruction barn or byre,
Biggin' or buss that's grippit fast by fire.
In this he saw the presence o' his God,
And felt the ground was holy where he trod.
That selfsame miracle does yet appear;
We see it i' the spring o' ilka year,
When whin an' bonnier brume are fairly bloom'd,
And wavin' burn the same, and unconsumed—
But unregardit o' baith man an' woman,
Clean unregardit, for the sicht's sae common.
We see it i' the spring o' ilka year,
When whin an' bonnier brume are fairly bloom'd,
And wavin' burn the same, and unconsumed—
But unregardit o' baith man an' woman,
Clean unregardit, for the sicht's sae common.
94
They see't a' gate, along the public way,
In gowden beauty bleezin', bleezin' aye,
Till ev'ry hill-tap heich an' lawland knowe
Owre Scotland braid like flamin' altars lowe.
Yet wha draws near wi' reverential feet?
Is there a shepherd casts his shoon to see 't?
Is there a thocht that God's within the buss,
Or that the grund is holy brighten'd thus?
In gowden beauty bleezin', bleezin' aye,
Till ev'ry hill-tap heich an' lawland knowe
Owre Scotland braid like flamin' altars lowe.
Yet wha draws near wi' reverential feet?
Is there a shepherd casts his shoon to see 't?
Is there a thocht that God's within the buss,
Or that the grund is holy brighten'd thus?
Lord, blame them not, tho' dull an' undeservin',
Nor me, among the lave, Thy humble servan',
Wha am, wi' reason, aye sae gled to ken
O' a' your gudeness to the sons o' men—
Though whyles it is, an' lang is, undeteckit;
In quarters, though, whaur it was least expeckit.
Nor me, among the lave, Thy humble servan',
Wha am, wi' reason, aye sae gled to ken
O' a' your gudeness to the sons o' men—
Though whyles it is, an' lang is, undeteckit;
In quarters, though, whaur it was least expeckit.
An' then, Thou mauna be owre hard on us;
Moses himsel' gaed snoovlin' roun' the buss,
Glowrin' wi' vulgar wonder, till Thou spak',
An' garr'd him wi' a souple stend loup back.
Moses himsel' gaed snoovlin' roun' the buss,
Glowrin' wi' vulgar wonder, till Thou spak',
An' garr'd him wi' a souple stend loup back.
Lord, if, tho' late, at last we own Thou'rt in
Amang the blossoms o' the brume an' whin,
We own 't oorsel's—Lord, gie us credit for't!
Withoot the need o' Thee to speak the word.
Amang the blossoms o' the brume an' whin,
We own 't oorsel's—Lord, gie us credit for't!
Withoot the need o' Thee to speak the word.
95
TO WILLIAM DUNBAR.
From Scotland's later glory, Burns,
The flower of Nature, fully blown,
My reverence instinctive turns
To kneel at thy neglected throne,
Thou finer spirit, backward driven,
Confined in priestly garments here,—
Who found in Art a nearer heaven
Wherein was neither sin nor fear.
The flower of Nature, fully blown,
My reverence instinctive turns
To kneel at thy neglected throne,
Thou finer spirit, backward driven,
Confined in priestly garments here,—
Who found in Art a nearer heaven
Wherein was neither sin nor fear.
With thee I tread the city ways
To wait at royal James's court,
And watch with thine observant gaze
Its pains, its follies, and its sport.
They welcome thee in bower and hall,
The sprightly wits those chambers hold,
Thou alchemist, that turnest all
In humour's crucible to gold!
To wait at royal James's court,
And watch with thine observant gaze
Its pains, its follies, and its sport.
They welcome thee in bower and hall,
The sprightly wits those chambers hold,
Thou alchemist, that turnest all
In humour's crucible to gold!
Nor fails in thee the kindly heart
That would thy brethren all embrace;
Beneath the friar's hood of Art
Appears the thoughtful human face.
The mysteries of life and death
Oppress'd thee, as they press us now;
Therefore is thine yet living breath—
Our secret care still speakest thou.
That would thy brethren all embrace;
Beneath the friar's hood of Art
Appears the thoughtful human face.
98
Oppress'd thee, as they press us now;
Therefore is thine yet living breath—
Our secret care still speakest thou.
Thy fame, that waits in lingering bud,
Had blossom'd long before our day,
But Flodden's red and raging flood
Swept valour and thy voice away.
Alas! alas! for Flodden yet,
Heroic Scotland's early grave!
Can any after-growth forget
The harvest sunk in Flodden's wave?
Had blossom'd long before our day,
But Flodden's red and raging flood
Swept valour and thy voice away.
Alas! alas! for Flodden yet,
Heroic Scotland's early grave!
Can any after-growth forget
The harvest sunk in Flodden's wave?
99
THE BOAST OF MAN.
I.
His ancient boast was that his power was great;
But even his guarded empires were of sand:
Time round their towers passing a fondling hand,
They sank beneath a fondling that was Fate.
The Macedonian, and the Roman State,
Were but as yesterday, and do they stand?
What later power has ever been so grand?
What modern power, look round! is quite their mate?
But even his guarded empires were of sand:
Time round their towers passing a fondling hand,
They sank beneath a fondling that was Fate.
The Macedonian, and the Roman State,
Were but as yesterday, and do they stand?
What later power has ever been so grand?
What modern power, look round! is quite their mate?
The strength of these, when at their best, was built
On human weakness,—for the mass were slaves,
That throng'd to battle for a tyrant, spilt
Their own and others' lives, and fill'd the graves:
Comes not again such strength to toil for guilt,
And bleed, rewarded with the name of braves!
On human weakness,—for the mass were slaves,
That throng'd to battle for a tyrant, spilt
Their own and others' lives, and fill'd the graves:
Comes not again such strength to toil for guilt,
And bleed, rewarded with the name of braves!
100
II.
His conquests, too, were only o'er his kind:
His sword pierced not the heavens; the spear outsped
Could only fall on his defenceless head;
And what concern'd it Heaven a rebel mind?
Yet where can Heaven an honest rebel find?
The infidel? Of what! Heaven will instead
Be infidel with him! his god was bred
In his own brain, of his own dreams design'd.
His sword pierced not the heavens; the spear outsped
Could only fall on his defenceless head;
And what concern'd it Heaven a rebel mind?
Yet where can Heaven an honest rebel find?
The infidel? Of what! Heaven will instead
Be infidel with him! his god was bred
In his own brain, of his own dreams design'd.
Knowledge remains,—the faculty to know
Nature's arcana, Deity's design;
Something from all this running to and fro
Must soon transpire; we hold the guiding line,
And Heaven is jealous lest to gods we grow,
Developing from human to divine!
Nature's arcana, Deity's design;
Something from all this running to and fro
Must soon transpire; we hold the guiding line,
And Heaven is jealous lest to gods we grow,
Developing from human to divine!
III.
What, then, knows man? And speak not of the crowd,
Who have no thought, but with the thoughtless run
This way and that—presumptuous in the sun,
And abject in the threatening of a cloud;
But him, the lonely thinker, heavy-brow'd,
Puzzling o'er thought from his own feeling spun,
Or o'er the garner'd wisdom, sorely won,
Of old experience uncontented bow'd:
Who have no thought, but with the thoughtless run
This way and that—presumptuous in the sun,
And abject in the threatening of a cloud;
But him, the lonely thinker, heavy-brow'd,
Puzzling o'er thought from his own feeling spun,
Or o'er the garner'd wisdom, sorely won,
Of old experience uncontented bow'd:
101
What knows he? but that o'er him, round him, lie
Marvels and mysteries he can ne'er explain;
The mystery of an ever-silent sky,
The marvel of an ever-restless main;
The knowledge that he lives, that he will die,
And that the little that he knows is vain.
Marvels and mysteries he can ne'er explain;
The mystery of an ever-silent sky,
The marvel of an ever-restless main;
The knowledge that he lives, that he will die,
And that the little that he knows is vain.
102
THE PLOWMAN.
The ley lies bonnie to the sun,
Half-broken, strippit black an' green;
Ahint's the hoosie whaur they won,
Wife, bairnies, an' himsel' at e'en.
He sees them when he turns his head,
They gar him haste to turn his ploo,
The lauchin' wee things! for their bread
He'd furr the face o' Ben Macdhu!
Half-broken, strippit black an' green;
Ahint's the hoosie whaur they won,
Wife, bairnies, an' himsel' at e'en.
He sees them when he turns his head,
They gar him haste to turn his ploo,
The lauchin' wee things! for their bread
He'd furr the face o' Ben Macdhu!
There's little Sandy, climbin' owre—
“Haud aff, ye daurin' loon, ye'll fa';
Ay, bide ahint the fence, an' glow'r—
The headrig's no' for bairns ava!”
The loon 'ill mak' a plowman yet—
Hard honest wark, the best i' land;
He'll seek nae far'er nor his fit,
He'll tak' his faither's tredd in hand.
“Haud aff, ye daurin' loon, ye'll fa';
Ay, bide ahint the fence, an' glow'r—
The headrig's no' for bairns ava!”
The loon 'ill mak' a plowman yet—
Hard honest wark, the best i' land;
He'll seek nae far'er nor his fit,
He'll tak' his faither's tredd in hand.
103
The plowman, tho' he's trauchled sair,
An' canna boast o' warld's wealth,
He gets the gude o' caller air,
Nor wants for happiness wi' health.
The shilpit craturs o' the toun
May shak' their heads, an' think it rouch,
But tak' it a' the towmont roun'
A plowman's life is weel anouch!
An' canna boast o' warld's wealth,
He gets the gude o' caller air,
Nor wants for happiness wi' health.
The shilpit craturs o' the toun
May shak' their heads, an' think it rouch,
But tak' it a' the towmont roun'
A plowman's life is weel anouch!
104
THE DISCOVERY OF AMERICA.
All the mill-horses of Europe
Were plodding round and round;
All the mills were droning
The same old sound.
Were plodding round and round;
All the mills were droning
The same old sound.
The drivers were dozing, the millers
Were deaf—as millers will be;
When, startling them all, without warning
Came a great shout from the sea!
Were deaf—as millers will be;
When, startling them all, without warning
Came a great shout from the sea!
It startled them all. The horses,
Lazily plodding round,
Started and stopp'd; and the mills dropp'd
Like a mantle their sound.
Lazily plodding round,
Started and stopp'd; and the mills dropp'd
Like a mantle their sound.
The millers look'd over their shoulders,
The drivers open'd their eyes:
A silence, deeper than deafness,
Had fallen out of the skies.
The drivers open'd their eyes:
A silence, deeper than deafness,
Had fallen out of the skies.
105
“Halloa there!”—this time distinctly
It rose from the barren sea;
And Europe, turning in wonder,
Whisper'd, “What can it be?”
It rose from the barren sea;
And Europe, turning in wonder,
Whisper'd, “What can it be?”
“Come down, come down to the shore here!'
And Europe was soon on the sand;—
It was the great Columbus
Dragging his prize to land.
And Europe was soon on the sand;—
It was the great Columbus
Dragging his prize to land.
106
THE CORN-YARD FU'.
The dreels are to lift,
An' the neeps are to pu',
But the crap's aff the field,
An' the corn-yard's fu';
The corn-yard's fu',
An' a bonnie sicht to see,—
It'll haud the winter winds
Fra my bairnies an' me.
An' the neeps are to pu',
But the crap's aff the field,
An' the corn-yard's fu';
The corn-yard's fu',
An' a bonnie sicht to see,—
It'll haud the winter winds
Fra my bairnies an' me.
The gudeman's pleased,
He looks aboot him noo,
Wi' a wecht aff his mind
An' the gloom aff his broo;
The gloom aff his broo,
An' he's franker an' free,
An' cracks i' the gloamin'
To the bairnies an' me.
He looks aboot him noo,
Wi' a wecht aff his mind
An' the gloom aff his broo;
The gloom aff his broo,
An' he's franker an' free,
An' cracks i' the gloamin'
To the bairnies an' me.
107
The grieve's no sae canker'd,
The pipe's in his mou';
An' Mysie sings merrier
When milkin' the coo;
Milkin' the coo,
Or maskin' the tea,
She's no' half sae saucy
To the bairnies an' me.
The pipe's in his mou';
An' Mysie sings merrier
When milkin' the coo;
Milkin' the coo,
Or maskin' the tea,
She's no' half sae saucy
To the bairnies an' me.
O couthie looks the toun
When the stack-yard's fu',
An' the gudeman speaks
Wi' a smile on his mou';
A smile on his mou';
An' his leg on his knee.
It mak's a cosie hame
To the bairnies an' me!
When the stack-yard's fu',
An' the gudeman speaks
Wi' a smile on his mou';
A smile on his mou';
An' his leg on his knee.
It mak's a cosie hame
To the bairnies an' me!
108
AT THE GATE.
The temple of eternal song!
Its tops are in the sky,
Its vast foundations, massy, strong,
Deep in Olympus lie.
Its tops are in the sky,
Its vast foundations, massy, strong,
Deep in Olympus lie.
Its gates are open all life long,
Its doors swing to and fro;
And in and out in endless throng
The singers come and go.
Its doors swing to and fro;
And in and out in endless throng
The singers come and go.
They come in solemn ceaseless tide,
They sing their hymns, and go;
And all life long the gates are wide,
The doors swing to and fro.
They sing their hymns, and go;
And all life long the gates are wide,
The doors swing to and fro.
Comes one with voice of volumed power
And strong o'ermastering strain;
The temple to its topmost tower
Rings, and resounds again.
And strong o'ermastering strain;
The temple to its topmost tower
Rings, and resounds again.
109
Comes one with tremulous voice and weak,
Tears in his fading tone;
The silence throbs, and seems to speak,
His pathos made its own.
Tears in his fading tone;
The silence throbs, and seems to speak,
His pathos made its own.
They come with various gift of song,
They leave their gift, and go;
The gates stand open all life long,
The doors swing to and fro.
They leave their gift, and go;
The gates stand open all life long,
The doors swing to and fro.
Comes yet a third of changeful mood,
Now meek, now passioning high;
He pipes thro' pastoral solitude,
He shrills thro' battle-cry.
Now meek, now passioning high;
He pipes thro' pastoral solitude,
He shrills thro' battle-cry.
The temple echoes all day long;
I hear the various din,
Yet, doubtful of my gift of song,
I fear to enter in.
I hear the various din,
Yet, doubtful of my gift of song,
I fear to enter in.
Alas for him that offering brings,
And enters not, tho' near;
Who ne'er himself in service sings,
Nor stands with those that hear!
And enters not, tho' near;
Who ne'er himself in service sings,
Nor stands with those that hear!
110
A SCHULE LADDIE'S LAMENT ON THE LATENESS O' THE SEASON.
The east wind's whistlin' cauld an' shrill,
The snaw lies on the Lomont Hill;
It's simmer i' the almanack,
But when 'ill simmer days be back?
The snaw lies on the Lomont Hill;
It's simmer i' the almanack,
But when 'ill simmer days be back?
There's no' a bud on tree or buss;
The craws are at a sair nonplus,—
Hoo can they big? hoo can they pair?
Wi' them sae cauld, and winds sae bare.
The craws are at a sair nonplus,—
Hoo can they big? hoo can they pair?
Wi' them sae cauld, and winds sae bare.
My faither canna saw his seed,—
The hauf o' th' laund's to ploo, indeed;
The lambs are deein', an' the yowes
Are trauchled wanderin' owre the knowes.
The hauf o' th' laund's to ploo, indeed;
The lambs are deein', an' the yowes
Are trauchled wanderin' owre the knowes.
There's no' a swallow back as yet,
The robin doesna seek to flit;
There's no' a buckie, nor a bud,
On ony brae, in ony wud.
The robin doesna seek to flit;
There's no' a buckie, nor a bud,
On ony brae, in ony wud.
111
It's no' a time for barefit feet
When it may be on-ding o' sleet.
The season's broken a' oor rules,—
It's no' the time o' year o' bools;
When it may be on-ding o' sleet.
The season's broken a' oor rules,—
It's no' the time o' year o' bools;
It's no' the time o' year o' peeries.
I think the year's gane tapsalteeries!
The farmers may be bad, nae doot—
It pits hiz laddies sair aboot.
I think the year's gane tapsalteeries!
The farmers may be bad, nae doot—
It pits hiz laddies sair aboot.
112
THE SEA-GULL.
The land has gone up to the morning
With songs invisibly high,
But where is the voice of the ocean
To sing to the ocean sky?
With songs invisibly high,
But where is the voice of the ocean
To sing to the ocean sky?
It trembles, it smiles, it would dance too,
But how shall it utter its glee?
When lo! from its bosom up-glancing,
The visible song of the sea!
But how shall it utter its glee?
When lo! from its bosom up-glancing,
The visible song of the sea!
It wheels, and it soars, and in silence
Floats with its white wings at rest;
It wheels and descends, and the ocean
Receives the snow-bird to its breast.
Floats with its white wings at rest;
It wheels and descends, and the ocean
Receives the snow-bird to its breast.
O sea-gull, up-flung from the ocean,
Thy beauty was song to the eye,
While the land was saluting the morning
With voices invisibly high!
Thy beauty was song to the eye,
While the land was saluting the morning
With voices invisibly high!
113
“THE RED, GREEN, AND THE YELLOW.”
ACT I.
This is the scene: a red-plough'd field
To the feet of spectator inclining;
He can see in the furrows here and there
The mark of the ploughshare shining.
To the feet of spectator inclining;
He can see in the furrows here and there
The mark of the ploughshare shining.
Enter above, with his arms a-swing,
In the blue sky bending o'er him,
One who walks straight down the field,
Weaving his way before him.
In the blue sky bending o'er him,
One who walks straight down the field,
Weaving his way before him.
No other person is on the stage;
He is the sole attraction;
He comes and goes, and he comes and goes,—
That is the whole of the action.
He is the sole attraction;
He comes and goes, and he comes and goes,—
That is the whole of the action.
ACT II.
Scene for the second act's just the same,
But enter never a person;
There's either a hitch, or behind the scenes
The actors are busy rehearsin'.
But enter never a person;
There's either a hitch, or behind the scenes
The actors are busy rehearsin'.
114
They're all in the village below
Drinking and debating;
Provincial actors are so slow;
And mean while the piece is waiting.
Drinking and debating;
Provincial actors are so slow;
And mean while the piece is waiting.
No! there's an actor up in the sky,
He's the Star of the Globe, moreover;
His part is quiet, but acted well—
It's only crossing over.
He's the Star of the Globe, moreover;
His part is quiet, but acted well—
It's only crossing over.
He crosses, and crosses, and crosses again,
But there enters never a chap in.
What's this?—the stage—it's turning green!
Something's going to happen!
But there enters never a chap in.
What's this?—the stage—it's turning green!
Something's going to happen!
ACT III.
The scene is a golden harvest field,
And indeed there's a splendid yield here;
The village is left to the old folks to-day,
The rest are all in the field here.
And indeed there's a splendid yield here;
The village is left to the old folks to-day,
The rest are all in the field here.
The scythe and the sickle,—how brightly they glance!
There are thirty people, or over—
Cutters, and lifters, and bandsters, and bairns,
The farmer on horseback, and Rover.
There are thirty people, or over—
Cutters, and lifters, and bandsters, and bairns,
The farmer on horseback, and Rover.
115
There's movement and bustle, the swish of the scythe,
Joking, and singing, and laughter,
And flirting and wooing the maidens among,
And possible weddings thereafter!
Joking, and singing, and laughter,
And flirting and wooing the maidens among,
And possible weddings thereafter!
116
PACKIE'S RETURN.
Noo swallow birds begin to big,
An' primrose floo'rs to blaw;
An' Jockie whistles down the rig
A fareweel to the snaw;
An' glints o' sunshine glancin' gleg
Licht up the buddin' shaw;
An' wastlin winds are playing tig
Round ae bewildered craw.
An' primrose floo'rs to blaw;
An' Jockie whistles down the rig
A fareweel to the snaw;
An' glints o' sunshine glancin' gleg
Licht up the buddin' shaw;
An' wastlin winds are playing tig
Round ae bewildered craw.
Auld Tummas to the gavle-wa'
Nails up a cherry twig;
An' Mar'an watters, raw by raw,
Her bleachin' wi' a pig;
An' yonder—he's been lang awa'—
Comes Packie owre the brig;
An' country lads may noo gang braw,
An' country lasses trig.
Nails up a cherry twig;
An' Mar'an watters, raw by raw,
Her bleachin' wi' a pig;
An' yonder—he's been lang awa'—
Comes Packie owre the brig;
An' country lads may noo gang braw,
An' country lasses trig.
117
NEBUCHADNEZZAR THE KING.
“I swore I would conquer the nations—
They truckle to me, they are tame;
The farthest that are bring oblations,
The fiercest acknowledge my name!
They truckle to me, they are tame;
The farthest that are bring oblations,
The fiercest acknowledge my name!
I had strength in my armies to fight with,
And skill in my captains. The skill
And the strength of success I am bright with—
Not theirs; it sprang out of my will.
And skill in my captains. The skill
And the strength of success I am bright with—
Not theirs; it sprang out of my will.
I caught at their strength, and I wielded,
I quicken'd and made it my own;
It lay—till uplifted it yielded
Its might to my grasp—like a stone.
I quicken'd and made it my own;
It lay—till uplifted it yielded
Its might to my grasp—like a stone.
And the skill of my captains was scatter'd
Like beads of bright gold in the sun,
Till my glance like fire-fingers up-gather'd
And fused the lost fragments in one.
Like beads of bright gold in the sun,
Till my glance like fire-fingers up-gather'd
And fused the lost fragments in one.
118
To none of them all do I owe it,
This sceptre I sway with my hands;
His life—I will freely bestow it
On him who would gainsay, that stands!
This sceptre I sway with my hands;
His life—I will freely bestow it
On him who would gainsay, that stands!
There's none that I cannot dispense with
In field, or at council in hall;
Let him stand and deny,—and go hence with
His virtues, and valour, and all.
In field, or at council in hall;
Let him stand and deny,—and go hence with
His virtues, and valour, and all.
Hearken! and I will provoke it,
And guerdon th' insult with a fee
As well as a pardon. I have spoke it—
The mouth that denies shall go free!
And guerdon th' insult with a fee
As well as a pardon. I have spoke it—
The mouth that denies shall go free!
There's none, there is none, can be no one!
The breast does not breathe that can say
Of all my proud triumphs I owe one
To him or his doing to-day.
The breast does not breathe that can say
Of all my proud triumphs I owe one
To him or his doing to-day.
But yet, though it comes not from mortal,
There's energy nerving my hand
That enters my soul by a portal
I neither can close nor command.
There's energy nerving my hand
That enters my soul by a portal
I neither can close nor command.
119
It comes from beyond and above me,
It grasps, it possesses my soul;
It urges, almighty to move me,
It curbs me, all-wise to control.
It grasps, it possesses my soul;
It urges, almighty to move me,
It curbs me, all-wise to control.
Him would I own if I knew Him
Whose fires to a mortal descend;
Him would I worship, and to Him
I and my peoples should bend.”
Whose fires to a mortal descend;
Him would I worship, and to Him
I and my peoples should bend.”
Then, as clouds in the sun that are shifted,
His captains fell back; and a ring
Of priests bowing lowly uplifted
Very boldly their beards to the King.
His captains fell back; and a ring
Of priests bowing lowly uplifted
Very boldly their beards to the King.
“Thou hast spoken, O King! thou hast broken
Our fear,—we no longer are dumb;
To Meródach (thy words be the token!)
Great Nebuchadnezzar is come!”
Our fear,—we no longer are dumb;
To Meródach (thy words be the token!)
Great Nebuchadnezzar is come!”
“Not so. To Meródach I go not:
Your Nebos and Bels I condemn!
I have honour'd the God whom I know not
Except when I bow'd me to them.
Your Nebos and Bels I condemn!
I have honour'd the God whom I know not
Except when I bow'd me to them.
120
And I honour'd Him then, when I gave them,
Base sinking to them on my knees,
The virtues they had not to save them;
I worshipped Him, worshipping these.
Base sinking to them on my knees,
The virtues they had not to save them;
I worshipped Him, worshipping these.
To Him, the Unknown, if I knew Him,
Your incense and song should ascend;
Him find ye quickly, and to Him
I and my peoples shall bend!”
Your incense and song should ascend;
Him find ye quickly, and to Him
I and my peoples shall bend!”
121
TRYING THE YACHT.
A POEM IN SONNETS.
I.—The Country fenced and forbidden.
Now, while the breath of summer up the street
Comes with the freshness of the dewy fern,
And hearts, baked in the town's black oven, yearn
For freedom and the country, it were sweet
In some far grassy wild, or hill retreat,
Where whin and broom in fragrant beauty burn,
And unconsumed, to feel, where'er we turn
The ground all holy to our naked feet!
Comes with the freshness of the dewy fern,
And hearts, baked in the town's black oven, yearn
For freedom and the country, it were sweet
In some far grassy wild, or hill retreat,
Where whin and broom in fragrant beauty burn,
And unconsumed, to feel, where'er we turn
The ground all holy to our naked feet!
Filled with the pious thought I rise and go
Repeating to myself, “This very day
I, I will stand where heaven's own wind shall blow
The town dust from my choking heart away;”
But “No!” shouts o'er the fence the keeper; “no!”
And holds me with a trespass-board at bay.
Repeating to myself, “This very day
I, I will stand where heaven's own wind shall blow
The town dust from my choking heart away;”
But “No!” shouts o'er the fence the keeper; “no!”
And holds me with a trespass-board at bay.
122
II.—The Mountains only a Memory.
Therefore blaze on, ye vernal altar fires
Of crag and knoll, unvisited of me:
From the rough highway only must I see
Your golden beauty burn thro' caging wires
And fencing thorns, smothering my quick desires
To worship at your flame. But there would be
A high priest at your altars, were I free
To set my feet where my whole heart aspires.
Of crag and knoll, unvisited of me:
From the rough highway only must I see
Your golden beauty burn thro' caging wires
And fencing thorns, smothering my quick desires
To worship at your flame. But there would be
A high priest at your altars, were I free
To set my feet where my whole heart aspires.
'Tis sweet at least to know the fields are green,
With waters wandering thro' them far and near;
That in the quiet drawing-rooms serene
Of the far hills the sun is shining clear,
And that the feelings—calm, and free, and clean—
Which they inspire, may reach us even here.
With waters wandering thro' them far and near;
That in the quiet drawing-rooms serene
Of the far hills the sun is shining clear,
And that the feelings—calm, and free, and clean—
Which they inspire, may reach us even here.
III.—Freedom on the Sea.
O Thou that madest Scotland, haugh and hill,
Sharp-cleaving craig and river-channell'd lea,
Moor, marsh, and loch, my heart-warm thanks to Thee
Grateful and glad I pay, and ever will.
But there are gifts of Thine, more valued still,
Which to all men Thou gavest ever free:
Three will I mention—mind, and sun, and sea,
Which force has never fenced, nor fraud, nor skill!
Sharp-cleaving craig and river-channell'd lea,
Moor, marsh, and loch, my heart-warm thanks to Thee
Grateful and glad I pay, and ever will.
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Which to all men Thou gavest ever free:
Three will I mention—mind, and sun, and sea,
Which force has never fenced, nor fraud, nor skill!
No castle holds the Mind; no cage the Sun;
And Ocean frolics in primeval pride,—
Servant of all, he will be slave to none,
Nor own control throughout his empire wide,
But free of foot his little waves shall run,
And unrestrain'd shall roll his giant tide.
And Ocean frolics in primeval pride,—
Servant of all, he will be slave to none,
Nor own control throughout his empire wide,
But free of foot his little waves shall run,
And unrestrain'd shall roll his giant tide.
IV.—Discovery of Leviathan at Play.
Forth, therefore, o'er the blue triumphant bay,
While the sun shines this dewy morning-tide,
Borne on the back of billows! soft they glide
Under our keel, that cuts through wind and spray.
Forth! till we view Leviathan at play
Out on the wilderness of ocean wide,
With all the green waves gambolling by his side
In solitary mirth the long bright day!
Our yacht disturbs him not. We veer and tack
With larger freedom, now the winds arise;
Thrills every board, and rope and cordage crack,
And up we go half-flying to the skies,
Scaling the monster's corrugated back,
Then downward like a driven bolt that flies!
While the sun shines this dewy morning-tide,
Borne on the back of billows! soft they glide
Under our keel, that cuts through wind and spray.
Forth! till we view Leviathan at play
Out on the wilderness of ocean wide,
With all the green waves gambolling by his side
In solitary mirth the long bright day!
124
With larger freedom, now the winds arise;
Thrills every board, and rope and cordage crack,
And up we go half-flying to the skies,
Scaling the monster's corrugated back,
Then downward like a driven bolt that flies!
V.—The Ark in Danger.
As from beneath us slips his living bulk,
Leaving us for a moment poised on air,
Downward as to abysmal depths we fare,
While off the laughing monster seems to skulk.
Haste to the succour of our sinking hulk
The little waves, that buoy us up, and bear
The ark we were surrendering to despair
Onward—to other fears! No place to sulk!
Leaving us for a moment poised on air,
Downward as to abysmal depths we fare,
While off the laughing monster seems to skulk.
Haste to the succour of our sinking hulk
The little waves, that buoy us up, and bear
The ark we were surrendering to despair
Onward—to other fears! No place to sulk!
If Neptune slap you with a sloppy fin,
Fling him your dignity—you were as well;
What matters for a drench'd and dripping skin
If yet you feel, and yet you live to tell
The joyful fear and freedom you were in?
Stand by the sheet, my boy, and take your spell!
Fling him your dignity—you were as well;
What matters for a drench'd and dripping skin
If yet you feel, and yet you live to tell
The joyful fear and freedom you were in?
Stand by the sheet, my boy, and take your spell!
125
VI.—Sea-sick on a Holiday.
Brave must he be that with the storm would toy
In midmost ocean in a nutshell bark;
Brave must he be! And with th' increasing dark
His bravery must increase. A calmer joy
Sits on the sea, as past the rocking buoy
Glides the sea-loving landsman in some Ark
Away on a smooth keel from all the cark
And all the cares that life on land annoy.
In midmost ocean in a nutshell bark;
Brave must he be! And with th' increasing dark
His bravery must increase. A calmer joy
Sits on the sea, as past the rocking buoy
Glides the sea-loving landsman in some Ark
Away on a smooth keel from all the cark
And all the cares that life on land annoy.
But ocean's joys, the gentlest yet that be,
Are not without their tax; and he, poor squirrel!
That from his cage has hasten'd to be free—
Sick, and bewilder'd, with his wits awhirl,
Now groans to windward, and now pukes to lee,
And for his wheel longs like a home-sick girl!
Are not without their tax; and he, poor squirrel!
That from his cage has hasten'd to be free—
Sick, and bewilder'd, with his wits awhirl,
Now groans to windward, and now pukes to lee,
And for his wheel longs like a home-sick girl!
VII.—Earth's one Possessor.
Glorious in all thy phases—black or bright,
In storm or sun, both when thy surges flee,
Like horses of the desert shaking free
The glory of their necks, stately in flight;
And when they pause under the spell of night,
Like the same herd pasturing a level lea
With lower'd heads; thou seem'st, O living sea,
Earth's one possessor in thy strong delight!
In storm or sun, both when thy surges flee,
Like horses of the desert shaking free
The glory of their necks, stately in flight;
And when they pause under the spell of night,
Like the same herd pasturing a level lea
With lower'd heads; thou seem'st, O living sea,
Earth's one possessor in thy strong delight!
126
Thy arms alone enclasp the mighty round,
Straining it to thy bosom; it is thine!
The various vermin of the land are found
In what escapes thy clasp; they grow, they pine,
They sink again into the sordid ground;
But thou art strong, and deathless, and divine!
Straining it to thy bosom; it is thine!
The various vermin of the land are found
In what escapes thy clasp; they grow, they pine,
They sink again into the sordid ground;
But thou art strong, and deathless, and divine!
VIII.—The Foam-Bells of the Land.
O fair is life, as foam-bells on the wave;
Yet frail as fair, as fragile as the bell!
A little while to flourish, and look well,
And a long while to moulder in the grave!
The beauty born of flesh, what, what can save?
The lion's eye, the leopard's glossy fell,
The visionary grace of the gazelle,
Life at its loveliest—graceful, brilliant, brave!
Yet frail as fair, as fragile as the bell!
A little while to flourish, and look well,
And a long while to moulder in the grave!
The beauty born of flesh, what, what can save?
The lion's eye, the leopard's glossy fell,
The visionary grace of the gazelle,
Life at its loveliest—graceful, brilliant, brave!
“The land has bubbles as the water has,
And these are of them!” Comes the natal hour,
They brighten in the sun; comes Fate, they pass,
After a little, little lease of power;—
Heedlessly o'er them runs the feeble grass,
And all their monument's an alien flower.
And these are of them!” Comes the natal hour,
They brighten in the sun; comes Fate, they pass,
After a little, little lease of power;—
Heedlessly o'er them runs the feeble grass,
And all their monument's an alien flower.
127
THE BANKS O' MAY.
Dear Peetie, tho' the snaws o' Time
May hap your forehead high,
Upon your heart nae winter rime
Gat ever leave to lie.
Ye've ever borne a heart aboon
The dulness o' the day,
As when ye roamed, a hardy loon,
Upon the banks o' May.
May hap your forehead high,
Upon your heart nae winter rime
Gat ever leave to lie.
Ye've ever borne a heart aboon
The dulness o' the day,
As when ye roamed, a hardy loon,
Upon the banks o' May.
O fair atweel to strangers' een
The glancin' waters glide
The benty Ochil braes between
Wi' flocks on either side.
But fairer hues than ither men
He sees on burn an' brae,
Wha comes in age to roam again
Alang the banks o' May.
The glancin' waters glide
The benty Ochil braes between
Wi' flocks on either side.
But fairer hues than ither men
He sees on burn an' brae,
Wha comes in age to roam again
Alang the banks o' May.
The bluebells at the dykeside hung
A fairy welcome ring,
An' laverocks to the lift upflung
In careless rapture sing,
An' silent troots wi' sudden dart
Amang the pebbles play,
When you, wi' simmer i' your heart,
Regain the banks o' May.
A fairy welcome ring,
An' laverocks to the lift upflung
In careless rapture sing,
128
Amang the pebbles play,
When you, wi' simmer i' your heart,
Regain the banks o' May.
Come, simmer sweet, in sober sooth,
To warm the waitin' hills,
That forth may wander age an' youth
Beside their quiet rills,—
Where still in simmer hand in hand
The modest Muses stray,
A gentle and a joyous band,
Alang the banks o' May.
To warm the waitin' hills,
That forth may wander age an' youth
Beside their quiet rills,—
Where still in simmer hand in hand
The modest Muses stray,
A gentle and a joyous band,
Alang the banks o' May.
129
THE APOLOGY TO APOLLO.
He bursts upon me in a blaze of gold,
Filling the narrow chamber where I write
With his great genial presence, warm and bright,
And simultaneous laughter, frank and bold,
From the large fountain of his heart outroll'd
In rippling radiancy! A mad delight
Intoxicates my soul for instant flight
To the far hill-tops with him, as of old.
Filling the narrow chamber where I write
With his great genial presence, warm and bright,
And simultaneous laughter, frank and bold,
From the large fountain of his heart outroll'd
In rippling radiancy! A mad delight
Intoxicates my soul for instant flight
To the far hill-tops with him, as of old.
What is there here, in this confining room,
With which to entertain a visitant
Whose glance takes in a hemisphere? for whom
Europe in all her woods is jubilant,
The widths of both Americas a-bloom,
And an Atlantic leaping ministrant?
With which to entertain a visitant
Whose glance takes in a hemisphere? for whom
Europe in all her woods is jubilant,
The widths of both Americas a-bloom,
And an Atlantic leaping ministrant?
Will this small valley, pictured on the wall,
With two-inch mountains, and a six-inch lake,
On which a vein of silver seems to break
Where, in the original, leaps a waterfall—
Will this poor sketch compensate him for all
His valleys?
With two-inch mountains, and a six-inch lake,
On which a vein of silver seems to break
Where, in the original, leaps a waterfall—
Will this poor sketch compensate him for all
His valleys?
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Yes, he cries, it will! I take
A pleasure in your picture for your sake,
And gladly look upon it,—poor and small,
Scentless and silent, tho' the copy be,
And dead! for much I miss the rustling bend
Of grass, the grace of moving bird and tree,
And little bee, bearing from end to end
Of the live lake the sound of summer.
A pleasure in your picture for your sake,
And gladly look upon it,—poor and small,
Scentless and silent, tho' the copy be,
And dead! for much I miss the rustling bend
Of grass, the grace of moving bird and tree,
And little bee, bearing from end to end
Of the live lake the sound of summer.
See!
I cried; they live when loving lips commend.
I cried; they live when loving lips commend.
Whereat Apollo laugh'd, and all the air
Rippled with radiant gold. Then, stooping down
Upon my lines the splendour of his crown
Familiarly, he cried, What have you there?
And I blush'd forth, Forgive me that I dare
Here to record in rime, not for renown,
But wholly for the dwellers in the town,
Our summer jaunts and joys, and how we fare.
Rippled with radiant gold. Then, stooping down
Upon my lines the splendour of his crown
Familiarly, he cried, What have you there?
And I blush'd forth, Forgive me that I dare
Here to record in rime, not for renown,
But wholly for the dwellers in the town,
Our summer jaunts and joys, and how we fare.
And this is then what you call poetry?
Cried Phœbus, frowning with a grand disdain;
And I, that fling o'er hill and valley free
The bright creations of my golden brain,
Am to be hoarded, harvested by thee,
Who know'st to give the chaff and keep the grain.
Cried Phœbus, frowning with a grand disdain;
And I, that fling o'er hill and valley free
The bright creations of my golden brain,
Am to be hoarded, harvested by thee,
Who know'st to give the chaff and keep the grain.
131
O mighty Phœbus! (on my knees I fell)
There is no poet in the world like thee:
Thou spread'st thy light—Night and her phantoms flee,
And that is paradise that was a hell!
Thou mak'st each morn the mountains—high they swell
And stedfast; but the stately clouds are free,
Thy royal argosies. Thou smil'st, and see!
Uplaughs the rill, and dances down the dell.
Thou art the poet of the poets: they
Are but thy poor interpreters.
There is no poet in the world like thee:
Thou spread'st thy light—Night and her phantoms flee,
And that is paradise that was a hell!
Thou mak'st each morn the mountains—high they swell
And stedfast; but the stately clouds are free,
Thy royal argosies. Thou smil'st, and see!
Uplaughs the rill, and dances down the dell.
Thou art the poet of the poets: they
Are but thy poor interpreters.
But why,
Cried Phœbus, darkening, do ye stop the way?
Stand from between the people and the sky!
Cried Phœbus, darkening, do ye stop the way?
Stand from between the people and the sky!
Alas! said I, they will not look; they say
They cannot see but with a shaded eye.
They cannot see but with a shaded eye.
132
THE WICKS O' BAIGLIE.
Here in the dinsome city pent,
I think upon the days I spent,
The peacefu' days o' deep content,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
I think upon the days I spent,
The peacefu' days o' deep content,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
It wasna that the sun shone thro'
Sky-deeps o' saft, divinest blue,
It wasna for the famous view
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
Sky-deeps o' saft, divinest blue,
It wasna for the famous view
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
It wasna that the hills were green,
The winds an' watters clear an' clean—
Baith bath an' balm to lungs an' een,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
The winds an' watters clear an' clean—
Baith bath an' balm to lungs an' een,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
It wasna that the fare was gude,
A hamely, healthfu' change o' fude,
A benefit to brain an' blude,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
A hamely, healthfu' change o' fude,
A benefit to brain an' blude,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
133
For there was brose, an' milk, an' kail,
Bannocks o' bere, an' hervest ale,
An' curly cakes o' roastit meal,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
Bannocks o' bere, an' hervest ale,
An' curly cakes o' roastit meal,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
An' eggs, an' fools baith wild an' tame,
Haggis, an' crowdie made wi' cream,
An' honey dreepin' fra the kame,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
Haggis, an' crowdie made wi' cream,
An' honey dreepin' fra the kame,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
An' links o' puddin's, black to see,
An' yowe-milk kebbuck, sweet to pree,
An' cogiefu's o' barley-bree,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
An' yowe-milk kebbuck, sweet to pree,
An' cogiefu's o' barley-bree,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
It wasna that the folk were kind,
Baith laird an' tenant, herd an' hind,
An' no' a cratur' ill-design'd
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
Baith laird an' tenant, herd an' hind,
An' no' a cratur' ill-design'd
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
The lasses bonnie, blithe, an' clean,
Douce i' the mornin', daft at e'en,
An' saxty souple as saxteen,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
Douce i' the mornin', daft at e'en,
An' saxty souple as saxteen,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
134
The grannie's een as gleg as fowre,
The haflin wi' his stirk-like glowre,
The fermer lauchin' oot a' owre,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
The haflin wi' his stirk-like glowre,
The fermer lauchin' oot a' owre,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
It wasna for the social noise
O' stack-yaird jinks, an' fireside joys,
An' rantin' wanton plays an' ploys,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
O' stack-yaird jinks, an' fireside joys,
An' rantin' wanton plays an' ploys,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
It wasna for the hervest wark,
The music o' the mornin' lark,
An' gloamin' late but never dark
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
The music o' the mornin' lark,
An' gloamin' late but never dark
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
It wasna jist the want o' care,
The change o' jacket, change o' air,
An' westlan' winds amang your hair,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
The change o' jacket, change o' air,
An' westlan' winds amang your hair,
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
It wasna ane—it was them a',
Up-gaither'd in a kind o' ba',
That gars me aye the days reca'
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
Up-gaither'd in a kind o' ba',
That gars me aye the days reca'
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
135
Toon's bairns an' bodies! I could greet
To think ye sin an' never see't,
A very paradise complete
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
To think ye sin an' never see't,
A very paradise complete
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
O gie the student his degree,
The advocat' his hansel fee,
But keep the joys that are for me
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
The advocat' his hansel fee,
But keep the joys that are for me
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
Come round again, ye simmer suns,
An' burn wi' fragrant flame the whuns
That nod sae sweetly to the wun's
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
An' burn wi' fragrant flame the whuns
That nod sae sweetly to the wun's
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
An' set me on the hilly road
That leads to Uncle Rab's abode,
An' I will flourish like a tod
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
That leads to Uncle Rab's abode,
An' I will flourish like a tod
Up on the Wicks o' Baiglie.
136
THE YOUNG NEW YEAR.
There's a cold north wind, and a baby moon
Upcurl'd in the Ochil sky;
A cottage stands on the brae rime-strewn,
And in front of that cottage I.
Upcurl'd in the Ochil sky;
A cottage stands on the brae rime-strewn,
And in front of that cottage I.
Is this the help I came out to seek,
This child that comes running here?
“I'm come!” and he offers his pinky cheek—
“Yes! I am the young New Year.
This child that comes running here?
“I'm come!” and he offers his pinky cheek—
“Yes! I am the young New Year.
“Carry me, old 'un! carry me in,
To a seat on your knees, you know;
You ought to have heard the welcoming din
They made for me down below.”
To a seat on your knees, you know;
You ought to have heard the welcoming din
They made for me down below.”
With overweight of care on my mind,
The drudge of present and past,
Is all the help that I hoped to find
But a saucy boy at last?
The drudge of present and past,
Is all the help that I hoped to find
But a saucy boy at last?
137
I will look again; but over the moor
There comes no giant to bear
The pack that I must myself endure,
My individual care.
There comes no giant to bear
The pack that I must myself endure,
My individual care.
Far and low in the frozen south
The sun gleams icy clear;
It is he—and I kiss his baby mouth,
And stoop to the young New Year!
The sun gleams icy clear;
It is he—and I kiss his baby mouth,
And stoop to the young New Year!
138
THE ANCIENT CASTLE OF BA'VAIRD.
Who is to-day its real laird,
Who was, in ages long ago,
This ancient castle's, 'clept Ba'vaird,
I neither know, nor care to know.
But lately—Fortune will'd it so—
A pair of lovers, newly pair'd,
As up Glenfarg they chanced to go,
By chance to that old castle fared.
Who was, in ages long ago,
This ancient castle's, 'clept Ba'vaird,
I neither know, nor care to know.
But lately—Fortune will'd it so—
A pair of lovers, newly pair'd,
As up Glenfarg they chanced to go,
By chance to that old castle fared.
How sweet the summer eve was air'd
With pink wild-roses, all a-blow,
And larches, long and waving-hair'd,
In many a ridgy terraced row!
The Farg sang humbly far below;
A lark the heav'n of heav'ns dared,—
It drew them, and they chanced to go
To that old castle of Ba'vaird.
With pink wild-roses, all a-blow,
And larches, long and waving-hair'd,
In many a ridgy terraced row!
The Farg sang humbly far below;
A lark the heav'n of heav'ns dared,—
It drew them, and they chanced to go
To that old castle of Ba'vaird.
They rose to where the hills are bared
To breezes from the north that blow;
By then the soaring lark was lair'd,
The golden sun was set, and lo!
As in a balance rising slow,
The pallid moon came up, and stared,
As if two lovers were a show
Near that old castle of Ba'vaird.
To breezes from the north that blow;
By then the soaring lark was lair'd,
The golden sun was set, and lo!
139
The pallid moon came up, and stared,
As if two lovers were a show
Near that old castle of Ba'vaird.
Its frown the castle might have spared,
The moon her wonder; they would go,
This pair of lovers, newly pair'd,
And find or force a welcome! So—
“Down draw bridge, grooms! What, warder, ho!
Raise the portcullis! By my beard
The slumbering sentinels shall know
He comes, the master of Ba'vaird!”
The moon her wonder; they would go,
This pair of lovers, newly pair'd,
And find or force a welcome! So—
“Down draw bridge, grooms! What, warder, ho!
Raise the portcullis! By my beard
The slumbering sentinels shall know
He comes, the master of Ba'vaird!”
The lady, nestling closer, shared
The cloak that round them twain did go,
And thus the castle's frown they dared
And scaled the battlements—when lo!
Outflash'd the moon with magic glow,
And on the instant they were laird
And lady, living long ago,
In their strong castle of Ba'vaird!
The cloak that round them twain did go,
And thus the castle's frown they dared
And scaled the battlements—when lo!
Outflash'd the moon with magic glow,
And on the instant they were laird
And lady, living long ago,
In their strong castle of Ba'vaird!
140
AN OCHIL FARMER.
Abune the braes I see him stand,
The tapmost corner o' his land,
An' scan wi' care, owre hill an' plain,
A prospect he may ca' his ain.
The tapmost corner o' his land,
An' scan wi' care, owre hill an' plain,
A prospect he may ca' his ain.
His yowes ayont the hillocks feed,
Weel herdit in by wakefu' Tweed;
An' canny thro' the bent his kye
Gang creepin' to the byre doun-by.
Weel herdit in by wakefu' Tweed;
An' canny thro' the bent his kye
Gang creepin' to the byre doun-by.
His hayfields lie fu' smoothly shorn,
An' ripenin' rise his rigs o' corn;
A simmer's evenin' glory fa's
Upon his hamestead's sober wa's.
An' ripenin' rise his rigs o' corn;
A simmer's evenin' glory fa's
Upon his hamestead's sober wa's.
A stately figure there he stands
An' rests upon his staff his hands:
Maist like some patriarch of eld,
In sic an evenin's calm beheld.
An' rests upon his staff his hands:
Maist like some patriarch of eld,
In sic an evenin's calm beheld.
141
A farmer he of Ochilside,
For worth respectit far an' wide;
A friend of justice and of truth,
A favourite wi' age an' youth.
For worth respectit far an' wide;
A friend of justice and of truth,
A favourite wi' age an' youth.
There's no' a bairn but kens him weel,
And ilka collie's at his heel;
Nor beast nor body e'er had ocht
To wyte him wi', in deed or thocht.
And ilka collie's at his heel;
Nor beast nor body e'er had ocht
To wyte him wi', in deed or thocht.
Fu' mony a gloamin' may he stand
Abune the brae to bless the land!
Fu' mony a simmer rise an' fa'
In beauty owre his couthie ha'!
Abune the brae to bless the land!
Fu' mony a simmer rise an' fa'
In beauty owre his couthie ha'!
For peacefu' aye, as simmer's air,
The kindly hearts that kindle there;
Whase friendship, sure an' aye the same,
For me mak's Ochilside a hame.
The kindly hearts that kindle there;
Whase friendship, sure an' aye the same,
For me mak's Ochilside a hame.
142
A SISTER'S REQUIEM.
Thou sleepest where the Annan winds
Among the dark pine trees;
Not mine, alas! the envied ease
Thy gentle body finds.
Among the dark pine trees;
Not mine, alas! the envied ease
Thy gentle body finds.
O sister, by thy side to lie,
Thy passive hand in mine!
While o'er our common couch the pine
Waves in the eternal sky.
Thy passive hand in mine!
While o'er our common couch the pine
Waves in the eternal sky.
O to forget with thee in sleep
That never breathes nor breaks,
The thousand heart and body aches
That make the living weep!
That never breathes nor breaks,
The thousand heart and body aches
That make the living weep!
To slip from out this weary life,
And to lie down by thee,
And find beneath the same lone tree
Escape from earthly strife.
And to lie down by thee,
And find beneath the same lone tree
Escape from earthly strife.
143
O what to thee the gains of earth,
Its prizes, or its praise,
Its poor unfinish'd works and ways,
Its mockeries of mirth,
Its prizes, or its praise,
Its poor unfinish'd works and ways,
Its mockeries of mirth,
Its promises that ne'er come true,
Its fears that never fail,
Pleasures that only pain entail,
Resolves that only rue!
Its fears that never fail,
Pleasures that only pain entail,
Resolves that only rue!
My gentle sister, from the scene
That faded and was free,
I now would lay me down by thee,
Under the churchyard green.
That faded and was free,
I now would lay me down by thee,
Under the churchyard green.
I, that did weep, and wish, till tears
Fell hot upon thy hand,
That He my grief might understand,
That could fulfil thy years,—
Fell hot upon thy hand,
That He my grief might understand,
That could fulfil thy years,—
Now think the happier lot is thine,
In passive rest to lie,
Where only o'er thee in the sky
Moans the insensate pine.
In passive rest to lie,
Where only o'er thee in the sky
Moans the insensate pine.
144
TIME AND THE HOURS.
There was one in the garden of Eden,
One only to all its green bowers;
He lay by the Gihon unheeding
The entrance of Time and the Hours.
One only to all its green bowers;
He lay by the Gihon unheeding
The entrance of Time and the Hours.
There were two in that garden of Eden,
And softly o'er fragrance and flowers
Ran Time, in a silken leash leading
In practice the young-footed Hours.
And softly o'er fragrance and flowers
Ran Time, in a silken leash leading
In practice the young-footed Hours.
There were three in that garden of Eden,
And out from its covert went two,
Like deer to the wilderness speeding
When hounds and the huntsman pursue.
And out from its covert went two,
Like deer to the wilderness speeding
When hounds and the huntsman pursue.
There is none in that garden of Eden,
But loud is the huntsman's halloo,
And many the hearts that are bleeding,
Where Time and his bloodhounds pursue.
But loud is the huntsman's halloo,
And many the hearts that are bleeding,
Where Time and his bloodhounds pursue.
145
DAVE (sc. Daphnis).
Ton Mosais philon andra, ton ou Numphaisin apechthe.
With the smell of the meads in his plaiden dress,
He comes from the broomy wilderness.
He comes from the broomy wilderness.
The dewdrop burns in his bushy hair,
His forehead shines, and is free from care.
His forehead shines, and is free from care.
He looks round-orb'd thro' the blue of his eyes,
With the fearless fulness of summer skies.
With the fearless fulness of summer skies.
The red that breaks on the brown of his cheek,
Is the russet apple's ripen'd streak.
Is the russet apple's ripen'd streak.
White as the milk of nuts are his teeth,
And crisp and black is his beard beneath.
And crisp and black is his beard beneath.
What can he show to the strife of towns?
A vision of peace on the distant downs.
A vision of peace on the distant downs.
146
Green hollows and hillocks, and skies of blue,
And white sheep feeding the long day thro'.
And white sheep feeding the long day thro'.
The apples are ruddy, the nuts are ripe,
By every pool there grows a pipe.
By every pool there grows a pipe.
How can he touch the world's dull'd ear?
What can he play that the world will hear?
What can he play that the world will hear?
His pipe is slender, and softly blown,
The music sinks ever in undertone.
The music sinks ever in undertone.
Yet sweet to hear of an autumn night,
When the sheaves on the shorn rigs glimmer white,
When the sheaves on the shorn rigs glimmer white,
It sounds in the dusk like the joy of a star,
When the lattice of heaven is left ajar,
When the lattice of heaven is left ajar,
To clasping lovers that thread the threaves
Like a shadow moving among the sheaves.
Like a shadow moving among the sheaves.
147
STUDY OF A BANK.
Let me limn the scene before me.
I am lounging by the Farg, an'
There's a blue sky bending o'er me,
And a bright sun to the bargain.
I am lounging by the Farg, an'
There's a blue sky bending o'er me,
And a bright sun to the bargain.
I ve been fishing, rather toiling,
All the morning, like St. Peter,
But the temp'rature is broiling,
And reclining here is sweeter.
All the morning, like St. Peter,
But the temp'rature is broiling,
And reclining here is sweeter.
O, I don't deny it's pleasant
By the wimpling burn to ramble,
Startling in the wood the pheasant,
Or the bunting in the bramble;
By the wimpling burn to ramble,
Startling in the wood the pheasant,
Or the bunting in the bramble;
While the woodcock-wing-and-hare-lug
Down the stream goes gaily swirling,
Till the troutie with a sair lug
Sets the ready reel a-birling.
Down the stream goes gaily swirling,
Till the troutie with a sair lug
Sets the ready reel a-birling.
151
But unless it's all the cooler,
And you're having sport in plenty,
And your basket's getting fuller,
Why, it's dolce far niente.
And you're having sport in plenty,
And your basket's getting fuller,
Why, it's dolce far niente.
And I mean to lie in clover,
With a broom-cowe nodding o'er me,
Till the noonday heat is over,
And attempt the bank before me.
With a broom-cowe nodding o'er me,
Till the noonday heat is over,
And attempt the bank before me.
August! let the truth be spoken,
Though the season's liker Maytime;
For we're latish—more by token
It is hardly yet the haytime.
Though the season's liker Maytime;
For we're latish—more by token
It is hardly yet the haytime.
So the bank is green and waving
With the flora bursting from it,
From the foot the Farg is laving
To the piny-scented summit.
With the flora bursting from it,
From the foot the Farg is laving
To the piny-scented summit.
All the plants are in the dresses
That the April breezes brought 'em;
Not a spot or speck confesses
That it's getting on for autumn.
That the April breezes brought 'em;
Not a spot or speck confesses
That it's getting on for autumn.
152
Yellow stain on stalk or blade is
Nowhere that I can discover;
Green, of course in many a shade, is
All the vast escarpment over.
Nowhere that I can discover;
Green, of course in many a shade, is
All the vast escarpment over.
There must blow yet many a raw gust
Ere this bank is sere and sober,
For a bank that's green in August
Promises a late October.
Ere this bank is sere and sober,
For a bank that's green in August
Promises a late October.
But from this you must not fancy
That it's all a mass of greenery;
O, there's more than modest pansy
To give colour to the scenery.
That it's all a mass of greenery;
O, there's more than modest pansy
To give colour to the scenery.
But before I lift the palette,
I had better use the crayon,
I had better—what d'ye call it?
Sketch, before I mix and lay on.
I had better use the crayon,
I had better—what d'ye call it?
Sketch, before I mix and lay on.
Well then, fancy—let me see—a
Common gable, backward stretching,
And you'll have a fair idea
Of the contour I am sketching.
Common gable, backward stretching,
And you'll have a fair idea
Of the contour I am sketching.
153
From the apex to the basis—
(Which along the water level
Shows a scaur with sandstone traces,
Till the bank begins to bevel,
(Which along the water level
Shows a scaur with sandstone traces,
Till the bank begins to bevel,
When, of course, the green commences,
And continues all the way up
To the pinewood, where a fence is
Down! yet half-inclined to stay up)—
And continues all the way up
To the pinewood, where a fence is
Down! yet half-inclined to stay up)—
There's a slope of thirty feet, or
Thirty-five, say, of a totum;
And the breadth is from a metre
At the top to six at bottom.
Thirty-five, say, of a totum;
And the breadth is from a metre
At the top to six at bottom.
You can count the superficies:
I will to another duty—
More congenial and delicious—
To describe its floral beauty.
I will to another duty—
More congenial and delicious—
To describe its floral beauty.
First of all, a blossom-laden
Rose-bush occupies the centre,
Looking like a rustic maiden
With her mother's finery lent her.
Rose-bush occupies the centre,
Looking like a rustic maiden
With her mother's finery lent her.
154
She is feeling the first honour
Of a wedding invitation,
And the pink rosettes upon her
Flutter with anticipation.
Of a wedding invitation,
And the pink rosettes upon her
Flutter with anticipation.
But these boisterous boys, the breezes,
Disarrange her frills and flounces,
And a side one—how he teases!
How at him she pecks and pounces!
Disarrange her frills and flounces,
And a side one—how he teases!
How at him she pecks and pounces!
There's a little pin sub rosa,
And right well she knows its duty,
For, of course, you know there goes a
Temper always with a beauty.
And right well she knows its duty,
For, of course, you know there goes a
Temper always with a beauty.
But the winds no longer flout her,
And she soon regains her patience;
See! she's smiling round about her
With an air of self-complacence.
And she soon regains her patience;
See! she's smiling round about her
With an air of self-complacence.
Then there's round her quite a ring of
Broom, reminding one of Cowden,
And the knowes the poets sing of,
Rich in hues of green and gowden.
Broom, reminding one of Cowden,
And the knowes the poets sing of,
Rich in hues of green and gowden.
155
Blending with the soft genista's
Bloom of bright translucent yellow,
There's the whin, her prickly sister's—
Deeper, yet not quite so mellow.
Bloom of bright translucent yellow,
There's the whin, her prickly sister's—
Deeper, yet not quite so mellow.
On the most exalted half-inch
Of the whin, in sunshine swinging,
There is neatly poised a chaffinch,
And with all his heart he's singing.
Of the whin, in sunshine swinging,
There is neatly poised a chaffinch,
And with all his heart he's singing.
This is what he's saying: “O, please
For a bit of bread, a crumble;
Just a little bit, and no cheese!”
There—he's down! I thought he'd tumble.
For a bit of bread, a crumble;
Just a little bit, and no cheese!”
There—he's down! I thought he'd tumble.
Sitting like a small opossum,
On his hind-legs raised, a rabbit
Sees a tossing clover blossom,
And essays in vain to grab it;
On his hind-legs raised, a rabbit
Sees a tossing clover blossom,
And essays in vain to grab it;
While an old one on his haunches,
Seeming not at all to mind him,
Peers straight at me through the branches,
With his ears erect behind him.
Seeming not at all to mind him,
Peers straight at me through the branches,
With his ears erect behind him.
156
All the while along the gradient
Flutter butterflies unnumber'd,
And a bindweed's white and radiant
Bells with bumble-bees are cumber'd.
Flutter butterflies unnumber'd,
And a bindweed's white and radiant
Bells with bumble-bees are cumber'd.
Every where from wood to water
Grow and flourish ferns and grasses;
They are much alike, the latter,
But the former are in classes.
Grow and flourish ferns and grasses;
They are much alike, the latter,
But the former are in classes.
For, while lady-ferns in dozens
Group and pose, look prim and proper,
The rough brackens, their male cousins,
Rake about, nor care a copper!
Group and pose, look prim and proper,
The rough brackens, their male cousins,
Rake about, nor care a copper!
Just without the fence, and looking
Like a nun run off and lonely,
While the abbess frowns rebuking
On—a wayward humour only,
Like a nun run off and lonely,
While the abbess frowns rebuking
On—a wayward humour only,
Stands a four-foot larch; while o'er it,
But fence-separated wholly,
Towers the parent wood that bore it,
And disowns it for its folly.
But fence-separated wholly,
Towers the parent wood that bore it,
And disowns it for its folly.
157
There's a strip of rich brown mosses,
Soft as satin velvet, round it,
And beyond, the dusk-red bosses
Of a bed of clover bound it.
Soft as satin velvet, round it,
And beyond, the dusk-red bosses
Of a bed of clover bound it.
Here the branches of a bramble
Shoot their long red spiky arches;
Up and o'er the fence they scramble,
And are lost among the larches.
Shoot their long red spiky arches;
Up and o'er the fence they scramble,
And are lost among the larches.
There its horn the woodbine raises;
Violets are lurking yonder;
Everywhere the little daisies
Ope their bright round eyes in wonder;
Violets are lurking yonder;
Everywhere the little daisies
Ope their bright round eyes in wonder;
Ox-eyes, never tired of staring;
Foxgloves, with their purple fingers;
Wild thyme of its sweets unsparing,
Where the bee alights and lingers.
Foxgloves, with their purple fingers;
Wild thyme of its sweets unsparing,
Where the bee alights and lingers.
Here are pinks that ask no tendance;
And a colony of thistles
There assert their independence,
And project aggressive bristles.
And a colony of thistles
There assert their independence,
And project aggressive bristles.
158
Here a fairy band of bluebells
Jingo-ring an aged boulder;
There a sweet pea, that would droop else,
Hangs upon her bean-beau's shoulder.
Jingo-ring an aged boulder;
There a sweet pea, that would droop else,
Hangs upon her bean-beau's shoulder.
Poppies here and there are prancing,
Like hussars with hats vermillion;
Eight wild oats are yonder dancing
To the breeze a brisk cotillon.
Like hussars with hats vermillion;
Eight wild oats are yonder dancing
To the breeze a brisk cotillon.
To the dissipated wretches,
Destined to a stormy reaping,
Gaudily bedizen'd vetches
Through the undergrowth are creeping.
Destined to a stormy reaping,
Gaudily bedizen'd vetches
Through the undergrowth are creeping.
Here a bunchy meadow-queen is
Trying through a marsh to flounder,
While the king-cup pours its guineas
In a lavish largess round her.
Trying through a marsh to flounder,
While the king-cup pours its guineas
In a lavish largess round her.
Pale forget-me-nots are doubting
In her shade they're clean forgotten;
While a fungus growth is sprouting
From a stump decayed and rotten.
In her shade they're clean forgotten;
While a fungus growth is sprouting
From a stump decayed and rotten.
159
Grasshoppers, both green and grey ones,
In the spiry grass are leaping;
And a swarm of midges, May ones,
Here and there by fits are sweeping.
In the spiry grass are leaping;
And a swarm of midges, May ones,
Here and there by fits are sweeping.
That's my bank. A few more touches
And I'll leave it altogether.—
Ah, but Fancy goes on crutches,
With a crayon and crow-feather.
And I'll leave it altogether.—
Ah, but Fancy goes on crutches,
With a crayon and crow-feather.
She would make the picture better,
Make a finish far more splendid,
Working without e'er a fetter,
Free, and strong, and unattended.
Make a finish far more splendid,
Working without e'er a fetter,
Free, and strong, and unattended.
Then to thee, thou tricksy spirit,
I entrust the ending wholly;
If there's in the picture merit,
Thine it shall be, Fancy, solely!
I entrust the ending wholly;
If there's in the picture merit,
Thine it shall be, Fancy, solely!
One thing just—be sure you do it—
Then the bank's your own, you vagrant!
Send the living Summer through it,
Give it voice, and make it fragrant.
Then the bank's your own, you vagrant!
Send the living Summer through it,
Give it voice, and make it fragrant.
160
TO CARNBO.
A bright August morningThe braes was adorning
(How lovely 'tis here
At this time of the year!)
As on between hedges,
O'er brigs without ledges,
Past farms on the hillside,
A mill by the rillside,
A snow-plough, grown over
With dockweed and clover;
A rusty road-scraper;
And calves that did caper
Round cows who, unheeding,
Went on with their feeding;
And kyloes, red, umber,
And black, without number;
And stone-bings; and bees,
A beehive, and trees;
An ass with three tinkers;
A man that wore blinkers,
And stood among stones,
And rapp'd them with groans;
And birds that alighted,
And bobb'd, and flew o'er me,
I journey'd, delighted,
Hope tripping before me.
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