 | The White Pilgrim and Other Poems |  |
141
SONGS AND BALLADS.
143
A LIFE'S REGRET.
Turning the leaves in an idle way
Of a book I was skimming the other day,
I found a line at the end of a song,
Which keeps on haunting me all day long
With its sweet and mournful melody;
“O love, my love, had you loved but me!”
Sadder a burden could never be
Than “Love, my love, had you loved but me!”
Of a book I was skimming the other day,
I found a line at the end of a song,
Which keeps on haunting me all day long
With its sweet and mournful melody;
“O love, my love, had you loved but me!”
Sadder a burden could never be
Than “Love, my love, had you loved but me!”
Few words and simple; but oh, how much
The singer has told in that little touch!
How hard a story of chances lost,
Of bright hopes blighted and true love crossed,
Is heard in the whispered melody;
“O love, my love, had you loved but me!”
To many a sorrow the key may be
That “Love, my love, had you loved but me!”
The singer has told in that little touch!
How hard a story of chances lost,
Of bright hopes blighted and true love crossed,
Is heard in the whispered melody;
“O love, my love, had you loved but me!”
To many a sorrow the key may be
That “Love, my love, had you loved but me!”
144
I don't believe in what poets have said
Of hearts that are broken and lives that are dead;
Lives well ordered will stand to their course,
And hearts of true metal ring little the worse,
But they vibrate still to that melody;
“O love, my love, had you loved but me!”
My life is well; but what would it be,
Sweet “Love, my love, had you loved but me!”
Of hearts that are broken and lives that are dead;
Lives well ordered will stand to their course,
And hearts of true metal ring little the worse,
But they vibrate still to that melody;
“O love, my love, had you loved but me!”
My life is well; but what would it be,
Sweet “Love, my love, had you loved but me!”
The world rolls on and the years roll by,
Day-dreams vanish and memories die;
But it surges up with a restless pain.
That fond lost longing ever again,
Breathed in the passionate melody;
“O love, my love, had you loved but me!”
It might have been, but it cannot be!
Yet “Love, my love, had you loved but me!”
Day-dreams vanish and memories die;
But it surges up with a restless pain.
That fond lost longing ever again,
Breathed in the passionate melody;
“O love, my love, had you loved but me!”
It might have been, but it cannot be!
Yet “Love, my love, had you loved but me!”
145
SPINNING-WHEEL SONG.
Flash, shuttle, through the loom,
Warp and woof blending;
Crooning, from room to room,
Songs never ending.
What sighs my wheel to me
In the night season?
Love still the burden be,
Love, and unreason.
Warp and woof blending;
Crooning, from room to room,
Songs never ending.
What sighs my wheel to me
In the night season?
Love still the burden be,
Love, and unreason.
Wheel, whisper in mine ear
Tales of true lovers;
Clear is thy note, and clear
What it discovers.
Sing, how a maiden bright
Cannot be lonely,
If she talk day and night,
With her wheel only.
Tales of true lovers;
Clear is thy note, and clear
What it discovers.
Sing, how a maiden bright
Cannot be lonely,
If she talk day and night,
With her wheel only.
Flash, shuttle, whisper, wheel,
Humming and turning!
Secrets of eld reveal,
Scraps of love learning!
Tell me my heart is near,
Bid me not sorrow;
Tell me he will be here
With me to-morrow.
Humming and turning!
Secrets of eld reveal,
Scraps of love learning!
Tell me my heart is near,
Bid me not sorrow;
Tell me he will be here
With me to-morrow.
146
“RUBY WINE AND ROSY LIP.”
Ruby wine and rosy lip
I have quaffed and press'd;
Nor, while each in turn I sip,
Know I which is best.
Tell me which is most divine,
Ruby lip or rosy wine?
I have quaffed and press'd;
Nor, while each in turn I sip,
Know I which is best.
Tell me which is most divine,
Ruby lip or rosy wine?
When the glass alone I hold,
Doubtful is the bliss;
For although it cannot scold,
Yet it cannot—kiss.
Tell me which is most divine,
Rosy lip or ruby wine?
Doubtful is the bliss;
For although it cannot scold,
Yet it cannot—kiss.
Tell me which is most divine,
Rosy lip or ruby wine?
When I drink but woman's eyes,
Partial is the joy;
What if there no poison lies,
Woman may be-coy!
Tell me which is most divine,
Ruby lip or rosy wine?
Partial is the joy;
What if there no poison lies,
Woman may be-coy!
Tell me which is most divine,
Ruby lip or rosy wine?
147
Both at once do best engage
All my heart, in sooth,
If the wine be crowned with age,
And the lip with youth.
Both alike are most divine,
Rosy lip and ruby wine!
All my heart, in sooth,
If the wine be crowned with age,
And the lip with youth.
Both alike are most divine,
Rosy lip and ruby wine!
Ruby wine and rosy lip
Give, my love, to me;
Happy to my finger's tip
By my trust in thee.
True love only makes divine
Ruby lip and rosy wine.
Give, my love, to me;
Happy to my finger's tip
By my trust in thee.
True love only makes divine
Ruby lip and rosy wine.
148
MY SECRET.
I would not breathe my darling's name
To sea below, or sky above;
To Nature's spies I'll ne'er proclaim
The golden secret of my love.
To sea below, or sky above;
To Nature's spies I'll ne'er proclaim
The golden secret of my love.
In vain the stream its murmur stills,
That secret from my breast to steal,
And lurks amid the treacherous hills,
If echo might her name reveal.
That secret from my breast to steal,
And lurks amid the treacherous hills,
If echo might her name reveal.
In vain the wind mine ear deceives,
Hushed its rude voice in whisper low,
Eavesdropping through the tell-tale leaves
To hear her praises as I go.
Hushed its rude voice in whisper low,
Eavesdropping through the tell-tale leaves
To hear her praises as I go.
The image in my soul enshrined
Lip-service of the best would shame;
To babbling stream, or wanton wind,
I will not breathe my darling's name.
Lip-service of the best would shame;
To babbling stream, or wanton wind,
I will not breathe my darling's name.
149
SERENADE.
Sleep, dear, sleep! Such eyes as those, love,
Burn so brightly all the day,
That they need the night's repose, love,
To be trimmed, and put away.
If the vestal soul they shine in
Always lit the flame should keep,
What should I find air for mine in?
Sleep, dear, sleep!
Burn so brightly all the day,
That they need the night's repose, love,
To be trimmed, and put away.
If the vestal soul they shine in
Always lit the flame should keep,
What should I find air for mine in?
Sleep, dear, sleep!
Dream, dear, dream! Thy thoughts by day, love,
Thy sweet will may rule and guide;
Slumber-winged, they fain must stray, love,
To thy constant lover's side.
In the sleeper's fields Elysian
They can find no better theme—
If I mingle with thy vision,
Dream, dear, dream!
Thy sweet will may rule and guide;
Slumber-winged, they fain must stray, love,
To thy constant lover's side.
In the sleeper's fields Elysian
They can find no better theme—
If I mingle with thy vision,
Dream, dear, dream!
Wake, dear, wake! The sun is high, love,
And outburns the morning star;
Only in the eyes of my love,
Shines a glory purer far.
Brighter than the sunrise splendour,
When the day's first blushes break,
Is the love-light true and tender;
Wake, dear, wake!
And outburns the morning star;
Only in the eyes of my love,
Shines a glory purer far.
Brighter than the sunrise splendour,
When the day's first blushes break,
Is the love-light true and tender;
Wake, dear, wake!
150
HORATIAN ODE.
Helvellyn's height with snows is white,
The forest branches bow and splinter;
No ripple breaks the frozen lakes,
Then shut my door on Cold and Winter.
The forest branches bow and splinter;
No ripple breaks the frozen lakes,
Then shut my door on Cold and Winter.
On my hearth-dogs pile up the logs—
Pile high, my boy; and down your throttle
Right freely pour my “thirty-four,”
And never spare the old man's bottle.
Pile high, my boy; and down your throttle
Right freely pour my “thirty-four,”
And never spare the old man's bottle.
Leave all the rest to him who best
Knows how to still the roar of Ocean;
To calm the wind in wildest mind,
And hush the leaflet's lightest motion.
Knows how to still the roar of Ocean;
To calm the wind in wildest mind,
And hush the leaflet's lightest motion.
Fear not to stay upon the day,
And count for gain each happy pleasure;
Be not above the game of Love,
And featly tread the Christmas measure.
And count for gain each happy pleasure;
Be not above the game of Love,
And featly tread the Christmas measure.
151
Let blood run cold when life grows old,
Stick now to skate and tennis-racquet,
Till westward-ho the sun-wheels go,
Then join the sports of frock and jacket.
Stick now to skate and tennis-racquet,
Till westward-ho the sun-wheels go,
Then join the sports of frock and jacket.
When bright eyes smile, laugh back the while,
And find the nook where Beauty lingers;
Steal golden charm from rounded arm,
Half-given, half-held, by fairy fingers.
And find the nook where Beauty lingers;
Steal golden charm from rounded arm,
Half-given, half-held, by fairy fingers.
152
VENETIAN BOAT-SONG.
The boatmen are calling,
“Stalì—stalì!”
The glory is falling
On me—on me!
The sunlight is shaking
The bay—the bay!
Then up and be waking;
“Già è—già è!”
“Stalì—stalì!”
The glory is falling
On me—on me!
The sunlight is shaking
The bay—the bay!
Then up and be waking;
“Già è—già è!”
In Venice the golden,
To dream—to dream,
With love-stories olden,
For theme—for theme!
The blue sky above her
Fair sea—fair sea,
Laughs light on the lover;
“Stalì—stalì!”
To dream—to dream,
With love-stories olden,
For theme—for theme!
The blue sky above her
Fair sea—fair sea,
Laughs light on the lover;
“Stalì—stalì!”
153
The waves are her highways,
So deep—so deep!
The waters her byways,
Asleep—asleep!
No stir in the air is,
No sound—no sound,
Save footsteps of fairies,
Around—around!
So deep—so deep!
The waters her byways,
Asleep—asleep!
No stir in the air is,
No sound—no sound,
Save footsteps of fairies,
Around—around!
The clouds of the hazy
Forenoon—forenoon,
Sleep over the lazy
Lagoon—lagoon!
About us a glamour
Doth move—doth move,
The sense to enamour
Of love—of love!
Forenoon—forenoon,
Sleep over the lazy
Lagoon—lagoon!
About us a glamour
Doth move—doth move,
The sense to enamour
Of love—of love!
The Doges are perished,
And gone—and gone;
The sea-bride they cherished,
Laughs on—laughs on!
We pass through Death's portal,
As they—as they;
Like her, Love's immortal!
“Già è—già è!”
And gone—and gone;
The sea-bride they cherished,
Laughs on—laughs on!
We pass through Death's portal,
As they—as they;
Like her, Love's immortal!
“Già è—già è!”
The pride of the nations,
“Stalì—stalì!”
That hath for foundations
The sea—the sea,
Was made for a home, dear,
For you—for you;
Then why should we roam, dear,
We two—we two?
“Stalì—stalì!”
That hath for foundations
The sea—the sea,
154
For you—for you;
Then why should we roam, dear,
We two—we two?
155
MARIAN MAY.
Marian May was our hamlet's pride,
Worthy a queen to be,
For of all the maids in the country-side
Was none so fair as she.
Worthy a queen to be,
For of all the maids in the country-side
Was none so fair as she.
Her hair was like silk and her eyes like wine,
Liquid and dark and deep;
They sparkled and danced in the broad sunshine,
Or melted in rosy sleep.
Liquid and dark and deep;
They sparkled and danced in the broad sunshine,
Or melted in rosy sleep.
Lovers by scores for her white hand sighed,
Of high and of low degree,
And many came riding from far and wide,
Her sweethearts fain to be.
Of high and of low degree,
And many came riding from far and wide,
Her sweethearts fain to be.
The squire had plenty of golden store,
Such as for him was meet;
And he wished no better, and asked no more,
Than to lay it all at her feet.
Such as for him was meet;
And he wished no better, and asked no more,
Than to lay it all at her feet.
156
But she put his gifts and his vows aside,
Laughing, and out spake she:
“I never was born for a rich man's bride,
So I cannot mate with thee.”
Laughing, and out spake she:
“I never was born for a rich man's bride,
So I cannot mate with thee.”
The parson he came, with his face so grave,
Gentle and sleek and prim,
And said the best way her soul to save
Was to take and marry him.
Gentle and sleek and prim,
And said the best way her soul to save
Was to take and marry him.
But she only opened her eyes full wide,
Wondering, and quoth she:
“Were there never a man in the world beside,
You'd be far too good for me!”
Wondering, and quoth she:
“Were there never a man in the world beside,
You'd be far too good for me!”
The colonel he swore a right round oath:
“Little one, be my wife!
I've scars and a pension enough for both,
If you'll share a soldier's life.”
“Little one, be my wife!
I've scars and a pension enough for both,
If you'll share a soldier's life.”
He vowed that he would not be denied,
Low on his bended knee;
But she tossed her head with a pretty pride,
Said: “I never will wed with thee!”
Low on his bended knee;
But she tossed her head with a pretty pride,
Said: “I never will wed with thee!”
Robin came back from the sea one day,
Out of the distant West;
And the child with whom he used to play,
A woman he clasped to his breast.
Out of the distant West;
And the child with whom he used to play,
A woman he clasped to his breast.
157
She sobbed and kissed, and she laughed and cried:
Welcome, my love,” said she;
“For woe or for weal, and whate'er betide,
I will fare the world through with thee!”
Welcome, my love,” said she;
“For woe or for weal, and whate'er betide,
I will fare the world through with thee!”
158
ST. VALENTINE'S TOUR.
St. Valentine jumped from his narrow bed,
And he gave a sleepy stare;
And the good old saint he gaily said,
“It's a very long time that I've been dead,
And I want a change of air.
And he gave a sleepy stare;
And the good old saint he gaily said,
“It's a very long time that I've been dead,
And I want a change of air.
“The world has been taking my name in vain
For many a bygone day;
And though all these years in the earth I've lain
(O Lord! what a sharp rheumatic pain!)
They chatter of me alway.
For many a bygone day;
And though all these years in the earth I've lain
(O Lord! what a sharp rheumatic pain!)
They chatter of me alway.
“The lad to his lassie still once a-year
Sends pictures of me by post;
The clodhopper woos his village-dear
With a portrait grinning from ear to ear,
And the beautiful countess expects to hear,
The soft things she likes the most.
Sends pictures of me by post;
The clodhopper woos his village-dear
With a portrait grinning from ear to ear,
And the beautiful countess expects to hear,
The soft things she likes the most.
159
“I've slept so long that I guess by this
I've slept back my youth divine;
My birthday rights no more I'll miss,
But I'll wake some pretty girl up with a kiss,
And make her my Valentine.”
I've slept back my youth divine;
My birthday rights no more I'll miss,
But I'll wake some pretty girl up with a kiss,
And make her my Valentine.”
So up he rose, and he wrapped him round
With whatever came to hand;
He saw that his flesh was firm and sound,
(For they had embalmed him in holy ground),
But he felt so cramped that the thing he found
The hardest was how to stand.
With whatever came to hand;
He saw that his flesh was firm and sound,
(For they had embalmed him in holy ground),
But he felt so cramped that the thing he found
The hardest was how to stand.
But saints are not puzzled their legs to mend,
And laugh at such trifles small;
He got to back him a Hebrew friend,
And he walked for a twelvemonth, straight on end,
Round the Agricultural Hall.
And laugh at such trifles small;
He got to back him a Hebrew friend,
And he walked for a twelvemonth, straight on end,
Round the Agricultural Hall.
As he walked he slept, as he walked he dined,
And he walked all night and day!
While a she South African, strong of mind,
(But as ugly as you might wish to find),
Was walking the other way.
And he walked all night and day!
While a she South African, strong of mind,
(But as ugly as you might wish to find),
Was walking the other way.
For his every mile she her twain would do,
And fondly on him winked she;
But though he was dead, the old saint knew
What well might be called a thing or two,
And, thought he, “Though I'm good enough for you,
So are not you for me!”
And fondly on him winked she;
But though he was dead, the old saint knew
What well might be called a thing or two,
And, thought he, “Though I'm good enough for you,
So are not you for me!”
160
He flies to the maidens of Spiers and Pond,
And thinks, as their drinks he quaffs,
“Of bar-room Hebes I am not fond,
So I'll stroll up the streets of the Regent and Bond,
And look at the photographs.”
And thinks, as their drinks he quaffs,
“Of bar-room Hebes I am not fond,
So I'll stroll up the streets of the Regent and Bond,
And look at the photographs.”
Fair Myra de Vaux from the window-pane
Shot straight at his heart below:
He rushed to see her at Drury Lane,
But found that the shaft had sped in vain;
For, alas! her modicum of brain
Was all in the shop-windowe.
Shot straight at his heart below:
He rushed to see her at Drury Lane,
But found that the shaft had sped in vain;
For, alas! her modicum of brain
Was all in the shop-windowe.
The rose of fashion—the sweet May Fayre,
The twin photographer's pet—
To the giddy world did the saint repair,
And she danced a cotillon with him there;
But he thought her (which made St. Valentine swear)
The stupidest girl he met.
The twin photographer's pet—
To the giddy world did the saint repair,
And she danced a cotillon with him there;
But he thought her (which made St. Valentine swear)
The stupidest girl he met.
So he hied him away from London vast,
And off to the country went;
To the brawny North he journeyed fast,
By a swift express on his road he passed,
(And they merrily told him that the last
Had met with an accident).
And off to the country went;
To the brawny North he journeyed fast,
By a swift express on his road he passed,
(And they merrily told him that the last
Had met with an accident).
St. Valentine sought in every place,
And he had not wandered far,
Ere he saw two sisters of Irish race,
One dark and the other fair of face,
But like in feature, and pure in grace,
As Irish maidens are.
And he had not wandered far,
Ere he saw two sisters of Irish race,
161
But like in feature, and pure in grace,
As Irish maidens are.
A red and white rose on a common stem,
And the saint he looked and smiled;
For he saw to the honest heart of them,
And knew that never a brighter gem
Was set in a regal diadem
Than either pretty child.
And the saint he looked and smiled;
For he saw to the honest heart of them,
And knew that never a brighter gem
Was set in a regal diadem
Than either pretty child.
The mark of toil the young faces wore,
For they toiled for daily bread;
But the good saint laughed: “My search is o'er,
Your guardian I to the better shore:
My Valentines ye for evermore:”
'Twas thus St. Valentine said.
For they toiled for daily bread;
But the good saint laughed: “My search is o'er,
Your guardian I to the better shore:
My Valentines ye for evermore:”
'Twas thus St. Valentine said.
162
READY, AY, READY.
Old England's sons are English yet,
Old England's hearts are strong;
And still she wears her coronet
Aflame with sword and song.
As in their pride our fathers died,
If need be, so die we;
So wield we still, gainsay who will,
The sceptre of the sea.
England, stand fast; let hand and heart be steady;
Be thy first word thy last: Ready, ay, ready!
Old England's hearts are strong;
And still she wears her coronet
Aflame with sword and song.
As in their pride our fathers died,
If need be, so die we;
So wield we still, gainsay who will,
The sceptre of the sea.
England, stand fast; let hand and heart be steady;
Be thy first word thy last: Ready, ay, ready!
We've Raleighs still for Raleigh's part,
We've Nelsons yet unknown;
The pulses of the Lion-Heart
Beat on through Wellington.
Hold, Britain, hold thy creed of old,
Strong foe and steadfast friend,
And still unto thy motto true,
Defy not, but defend.
England, stand fast; let heart and hand be steady;
Be thy first word thy last: Ready, ay, ready!
We've Nelsons yet unknown;
The pulses of the Lion-Heart
Beat on through Wellington.
Hold, Britain, hold thy creed of old,
Strong foe and steadfast friend,
And still unto thy motto true,
Defy not, but defend.
England, stand fast; let heart and hand be steady;
Be thy first word thy last: Ready, ay, ready!
163
Men whispered that our arm was weak,
Men said our blood was cold,
And that our hearts no longer speak
The clarion-note of old;
But let the spear and sword draw near
The sleeping lion's den,
His island shore shall start once more
To life with armèd men.
England, stand fast; let heart and hand be steady;
Be thy first word thy last: Ready, ay, ready!
Men said our blood was cold,
And that our hearts no longer speak
The clarion-note of old;
But let the spear and sword draw near
The sleeping lion's den,
His island shore shall start once more
To life with armèd men.
England, stand fast; let heart and hand be steady;
Be thy first word thy last: Ready, ay, ready!
164
SIR PAUL'S DAUGHTER.
Sir Paul had a daughter as fair and as fine
As woman has been till now,
Her eye flashed dark as a flagon of wine,
And white as new milk was her brow;
Her life was so rare she had never a care,
Save to foot it in bower and in hall;
Every day lovers new like the blackberries grew
For the daughter of old Sir Paul.
As woman has been till now,
Her eye flashed dark as a flagon of wine,
And white as new milk was her brow;
Her life was so rare she had never a care,
Save to foot it in bower and in hall;
Every day lovers new like the blackberries grew
For the daughter of old Sir Paul.
Her wit flashed as keen as a scimitar's blade,
When carried in Moslem hand,
And love, still love, was her only trade,
And her only whim command.
But woe, oh woe! to the captured foe,
The wooer who came at her call,
For she pierced the heart with a deadly dart,
Did the daughter of old Sir Paul.
When carried in Moslem hand,
And love, still love, was her only trade,
And her only whim command.
But woe, oh woe! to the captured foe,
The wooer who came at her call,
For she pierced the heart with a deadly dart,
Did the daughter of old Sir Paul.
Her love and her wit like the lightning shone,
All bathed in a colour warm;
But blighted and struck where they fell anon
With the breath of the cruel storm.
Oh, dire was the ruth of the favoured youth,
Who for her gave soul and all!
For man or for boy it was death to toy
With the daughter of old Sir Paul.
All bathed in a colour warm;
But blighted and struck where they fell anon
With the breath of the cruel storm.
Oh, dire was the ruth of the favoured youth,
Who for her gave soul and all!
For man or for boy it was death to toy
With the daughter of old Sir Paul.
165
BRIAN BORU.
King Brian Boru was a monarch so bold,
He dressed cool in the heat, and dressed warm in the cold!
Sure never his equal on earth has been seen
For washing potatoes in kegs o' potheen;
When tired of the state and its manifold care,
Oh, he'd take his shillelagh to Donnybrook Fair,
With great condescension he'd join in the fun,
Break the heads of his subjects as if he was one,
And look such a darlin' that nobody knew
Whether he was St. Pathrick or Brian Boru.
He dressed cool in the heat, and dressed warm in the cold!
Sure never his equal on earth has been seen
For washing potatoes in kegs o' potheen;
When tired of the state and its manifold care,
Oh, he'd take his shillelagh to Donnybrook Fair,
With great condescension he'd join in the fun,
Break the heads of his subjects as if he was one,
And look such a darlin' that nobody knew
Whether he was St. Pathrick or Brian Boru.
King Brian Boru was a monarch so sly,
That he'd catch all the girls wid a wink of his eye!
He was neat, he was sweet, he was straight, he was big,
But never so great as when dancin' a jig;
He danced like a fairy that weighs twenty stone,
As the kings and the leprochauns trip it alone,
For he was a man of a wonderful kind,
And left several million descendants behind,
Till divil a one of the progeny knew
Who owned the succession of Brian Boru.
That he'd catch all the girls wid a wink of his eye!
He was neat, he was sweet, he was straight, he was big,
But never so great as when dancin' a jig;
He danced like a fairy that weighs twenty stone,
As the kings and the leprochauns trip it alone,
For he was a man of a wonderful kind,
And left several million descendants behind,
Till divil a one of the progeny knew
Who owned the succession of Brian Boru.
166
King Brian Boru had red hair to the taste,
Which in beautiful ringlets hung down to his waist!
He had eyes just as green as me favourite cat,
Which when he was angry got greener than that:
Oh, an elegant vision was Brian to see,
Wid a crown on his head and a wench on his knee!
In one hand the sceptre, in t'other the bowl:
May the angels sing rest to His Majesty's sowl,
And remark to soft music that never they knew
Such a broth of a boy as King Brian Boru!
Which in beautiful ringlets hung down to his waist!
He had eyes just as green as me favourite cat,
Which when he was angry got greener than that:
Oh, an elegant vision was Brian to see,
Wid a crown on his head and a wench on his knee!
In one hand the sceptre, in t'other the bowl:
May the angels sing rest to His Majesty's sowl,
And remark to soft music that never they knew
Such a broth of a boy as King Brian Boru!
| The White Pilgrim and Other Poems | |