The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang Edited by Mrs. Lang |
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| II. | II
SCOTLAND |
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 | The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang |  |
21
II SCOTLAND
23
Ballade of his own Country
I scribbled on a fly-book's leaves
Among the shining salmon-flies;
A song for summer-time that grieves
I scribbled on a fly-book's leaves.
Between gray sea and golden sheaves,
Beneath the soft wet Morvern skies,
I scribbled on a fly-book's leaves,
Among the shining salmon-flies.
Among the shining salmon-flies;
A song for summer-time that grieves
I scribbled on a fly-book's leaves.
Between gray sea and golden sheaves,
Beneath the soft wet Morvern skies,
I scribbled on a fly-book's leaves,
Among the shining salmon-flies.
To C. H. A.
Let them boast of Arabia, oppressed
By the odour of myrrh on the breeze;
In the isles of the east and the west
That are sweet with the cinnamon trees
Let the sandal-wood perfume the seas,
Give the roses to Rhodes and to Crete,
We are more than content, if you please,
With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
By the odour of myrrh on the breeze;
In the isles of the east and the west
That are sweet with the cinnamon trees
Let the sandal-wood perfume the seas,
Give the roses to Rhodes and to Crete,
We are more than content, if you please,
With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
24
Though Dan Virgil enjoyed himself best
With the scent of the limes, when the bees
Hummed low 'round the doves in their nest,
While the vintagers lay at their ease;
Had he sung in our northern degrees,
He'd have sought a securer retreat,
He'd have dwelt, where the heart of us flees,
With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
With the scent of the limes, when the bees
Hummed low 'round the doves in their nest,
While the vintagers lay at their ease;
Had he sung in our northern degrees,
He'd have sought a securer retreat,
He'd have dwelt, where the heart of us flees,
With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
Oh, the broom has a chivalrous crest
And the daffodil's fair on the leas,
And the soul of the southron might rest,
And be perfectly happy with these;
But we, that were nursed on the knees
Of the hills of the north, we would fleet
Where our hearts might their longing appease
With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
And the daffodil's fair on the leas,
And the soul of the southron might rest,
And be perfectly happy with these;
But we, that were nursed on the knees
Of the hills of the north, we would fleet
Where our hearts might their longing appease
With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
Envoy
Princess, the domain of our questIt is far from the sounds of the street,
Where the Kingdom of Galloway's blest
With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
25
Grass of Parnassus
Pale star that by the lochs of Galloway,
In wet green places 'twixt the depth and height,
Dost keep thine hour while autumn ebbs away,
When now the moors have doffed the heather bright,
Grass of Parnassus, flower of my delight,
How gladly with the unpermitted bay—
Garlands not mine, and leaves that not decay—
How gladly would I twine thee if I might!
In wet green places 'twixt the depth and height,
Dost keep thine hour while autumn ebbs away,
When now the moors have doffed the heather bright,
Grass of Parnassus, flower of my delight,
How gladly with the unpermitted bay—
Garlands not mine, and leaves that not decay—
How gladly would I twine thee if I might!
The bays are out of reach! But far below
The peaks forbidden of the Muses' Hill,
Grass of Parnassus, thy returning snow
Between September and October chill
Doth speak to me of autumns long ago,
And these kind faces that are with me still.
The peaks forbidden of the Muses' Hill,
Grass of Parnassus, thy returning snow
Between September and October chill
Doth speak to me of autumns long ago,
And these kind faces that are with me still.
26
A Galloway Garland
We know not, on these hills of ours,
The fabled asphodel of Greece,
That filleth with immortal flowers
Fields where the heroes are at peace!
Not ours are myrtle buds like these
That breathe o'er isles where memories dwell
Of Sappho, in enchanted seas!
The fabled asphodel of Greece,
That filleth with immortal flowers
Fields where the heroes are at peace!
Not ours are myrtle buds like these
That breathe o'er isles where memories dwell
Of Sappho, in enchanted seas!
We meet not, on our upland moor,
The singing Maid of Helicon,
You may not hear her music pure
Float on the mountain meres withdrawn;
The Muse of Greece, the Muse is gone!
But we have songs that please us well
And flowers we love to look upon.
The singing Maid of Helicon,
You may not hear her music pure
Float on the mountain meres withdrawn;
The Muse of Greece, the Muse is gone!
But we have songs that please us well
And flowers we love to look upon.
More sweet than southern myrtles far
The bruised marsh-myrtle breatheth keen;
Parnassus names the flower, the star,
That shines among the well-heads green
The bright marsh-asphodels between—
Marsh-myrtle and marsh-asphodel
May crown the northern Muse a queen.
The bruised marsh-myrtle breatheth keen;
Parnassus names the flower, the star,
That shines among the well-heads green
The bright marsh-asphodels between—
Marsh-myrtle and marsh-asphodel
May crown the northern Muse a queen.
27
A Sunset on Yarrow
The wind and the day had lived together,
They died together, and far away
Spoke farewell in the sultry weather,
Out of the sunset, over the heather,
The dying wind and the dying day.
They died together, and far away
Spoke farewell in the sultry weather,
Out of the sunset, over the heather,
The dying wind and the dying day.
Far in the south, the summer levin
Flushed, a flame in the gray soft air:
We seemed to look on the hills of heaven;
You saw within, but to me 'twas given
To see your face, as an angel's, there.
Flushed, a flame in the gray soft air:
We seemed to look on the hills of heaven;
You saw within, but to me 'twas given
To see your face, as an angel's, there.
Never again, ah surely never
Shall we wait and watch, where of old we stood,
The low good-night of the hill and the river,
The faint light fade, and the wan stars quiver,
Twain grown one in the solitude.
Shall we wait and watch, where of old we stood,
The low good-night of the hill and the river,
The faint light fade, and the wan stars quiver,
Twain grown one in the solitude.
28
Ballade of the Tweed
To T. W. L.
The ferox rins in rough Loch Awe,
A weary cry frae ony toun;
The Spey, that loups o'er linn and fa',
They praise a' ither streams aboon;
They boast their braes o' bonny Doon:
Gie me to hear the ringing reel,
Where shilfas sing and cushats croon
By fair Tweed-side, at Ashiesteel!
A weary cry frae ony toun;
The Spey, that loups o'er linn and fa',
They praise a' ither streams aboon;
They boast their braes o' bonny Doon:
Gie me to hear the ringing reel,
Where shilfas sing and cushats croon
By fair Tweed-side, at Ashiesteel!
There's Ettrick, Meggat, Ail, and a',
Where trout swim thick in May and June;
Ye'll see them take in showers o' snaw
Some blinking, cauldrife April noon:
Rax ower the palmer and march-broun,
And syne we'll show a bonny creel,
In spring or simmer, late or soon,
By fair Tweed-side, at Ashiesteel!
Where trout swim thick in May and June;
Ye'll see them take in showers o' snaw
Some blinking, cauldrife April noon:
Rax ower the palmer and march-broun,
And syne we'll show a bonny creel,
In spring or simmer, late or soon,
By fair Tweed-side, at Ashiesteel!
29
There's mony a water, great or sma',
Gaes singing in his siller tune,
Through glen and heugh, and hope and shaw,
Beneath the sun-licht or the moon:
But set us in our fishing-shoon
Between the Caddon-burn and Peel,
And syne we'll cross the heather broun
By fair Tweed-side at Ashiesteel!
Gaes singing in his siller tune,
Through glen and heugh, and hope and shaw,
Beneath the sun-licht or the moon:
But set us in our fishing-shoon
Between the Caddon-burn and Peel,
And syne we'll cross the heather broun
By fair Tweed-side at Ashiesteel!
Envoy
Deil take the dirty, trading loonWad gar the water ca' his wheel,
And drift his dyes and poisons doun
By fair Tweed-side at Ashiesteel!
30
April on Tweed
As birds are fain to build their nest
The first soft sunny day,
So longing wakens in my breast
A month before the May,
When now the wind is from the west,
And winter melts away.
The first soft sunny day,
So longing wakens in my breast
A month before the May,
When now the wind is from the west,
And winter melts away.
The snow lies yet on Eildon Hill,
But soft the breezes blow.
If melting snows the waters fill,
We nothing heed the snow,
But we must up and take our will—
A fishing will we go!
But soft the breezes blow.
If melting snows the waters fill,
We nothing heed the snow,
But we must up and take our will—
A fishing will we go!
Below the branches brown and bare,
Beneath the primrose lea,
The trout lies waiting for his fare,
A hungry trout is he;
He's hooked, and springs and splashes there
Like salmon from the sea!
Beneath the primrose lea,
The trout lies waiting for his fare,
A hungry trout is he;
He's hooked, and springs and splashes there
Like salmon from the sea!
31
Oh, April-tide's a pleasant tide,
However times may fall,
And sweet to welcome spring, the bride,
You hear the mavis call;
But all adown the water-side
The spring's most fair of all
However times may fall,
And sweet to welcome spring, the bride,
You hear the mavis call;
But all adown the water-side
The spring's most fair of all
32
Twilight on Tweed
Three crests against the saffron sky,
Beyond the purple plain,
The dear remembered melody
Of Tweed once more again.
Beyond the purple plain,
The dear remembered melody
Of Tweed once more again.
Wan water from the border hills,
Dear voice from the old years,
Thy distant music lulls and stills,
And moves to quiet tears.
Dear voice from the old years,
Thy distant music lulls and stills,
And moves to quiet tears.
Like a loved ghost thy fabled flood
Fleets through the dusky land;
Where Scott, come home to die, has stood,
My feet returning stand.
Fleets through the dusky land;
Where Scott, come home to die, has stood,
My feet returning stand.
A mist of memory broods and floats,
The border waters flow;
The air is full of ballad notes,
Borne out of long ago.
The border waters flow;
The air is full of ballad notes,
Borne out of long ago.
33
Old songs that sung themselves to me,
Sweet through a boy's day-dream,
While trout below the blossom'd tree
Plashed in the golden stream.
Sweet through a boy's day-dream,
While trout below the blossom'd tree
Plashed in the golden stream.
Twilight, and Tweed, and Eildon Hill,
Fair and thrice fair you be;
You tell me that the voice is still
That should have welcomed me.
Fair and thrice fair you be;
You tell me that the voice is still
That should have welcomed me.
34
Ballant o' Ballantrae
To Robert Louis Stevenson
[_]
Written in wet weather, this conveyed to the Master of Ballantrae a wrong idea of a very beautiful and charming place, with links, a river celebrated by Burns, good sea-fishing, and, on the river, a ruined castle at every turn of the stream ‘Try Ballantrae’ is a word of wisdom.
Whan suthern wunds gar spindrift flee
Abune the clachan, faddums hie,
Whan for the cluds I canna see
The bonny lift,
I'd fain indite an ode to thee
Had I the gift!
Abune the clachan, faddums hie,
Whan for the cluds I canna see
The bonny lift,
I'd fain indite an ode to thee
Had I the gift!
Ken ye the coast o' wastland Ayr?
Oh mon, it's unco bleak and bare!
Ye daunder here, ye daunder there,
And mak' your moan,
They've rain and wund eneuch to tear
The suthern cone!
Oh mon, it's unco bleak and bare!
Ye daunder here, ye daunder there,
And mak' your moan,
They've rain and wund eneuch to tear
The suthern cone!
35
Ye're seekin' sport! There's nane ava',
Ye'll sit and glower ahint the wa'
At bleesin' breakers till ye staw,
If that's yer wush;
‘There's aye the Stinchar.’ Hoot awa',
She wunna fush!
Ye'll sit and glower ahint the wa'
At bleesin' breakers till ye staw,
If that's yer wush;
‘There's aye the Stinchar.’ Hoot awa',
She wunna fush!
She wunna fush at ony gait,
She's roarin' reid in wrathfu' spate;
Maist like yer kimmer when ye're late
Frae Girvan Fair!
Forbye to speer for leave I'm blate
For fushin' there!
She's roarin' reid in wrathfu' spate;
Maist like yer kimmer when ye're late
Frae Girvan Fair!
Forbye to speer for leave I'm blate
For fushin' there!
O Louis, you that writes in Scots,
Ye're far awa' frae stirks and stots,
Wi' drookit hurdies, tails in knots,
An unco way!
My mirth's like thorns aneth the pots
In Ballantrae!
Ye're far awa' frae stirks and stots,
Wi' drookit hurdies, tails in knots,
An unco way!
My mirth's like thorns aneth the pots
In Ballantrae!
36
Ballade of his Choice of a Sepulchre
Here I'd come when weariest!
Here the breast
Of the Windburg's tufted over
Deep with bracken; here his crest
Takes the west,
Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover.
Here the breast
Of the Windburg's tufted over
Deep with bracken; here his crest
Takes the west,
Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover.
Silent here are lark and plover;
In the cover
Deep below, the cushat best
Loves his mate, and croons above her
O'er their nest,
Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover.
In the cover
Deep below, the cushat best
Loves his mate, and croons above her
O'er their nest,
Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover.
Bring me here, life's tired-out guest,
To the blest
Bed that waits the weary rover,
Here should failure be confessed;
Ends my quest,
Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover!
To the blest
Bed that waits the weary rover,
Here should failure be confessed;
Ends my quest,
Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover!
37
Envoy
Friend, or stranger kind, or lover,Ah, fulfil a last behest,
Let me rest
Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover!
| The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang | |