The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang Edited by Mrs. Lang |
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GAMES AND SPORT |
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 | The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang |  |
53
IX GAMES AND SPORT
CRICKET, GOLF, FISHING
55
Ballade of the Three Graces
W. G. E. M. G. F.
In the mountains and meadows of Greece,
In the holy, the delicate air,
When Pan was the piper of peace,
When the satyrs were all debonair,
In the days dear to old Lemprière,
The Graces would frolic and bound.
Our Graces are still, we declare,
The best men in England, all round!
In the holy, the delicate air,
When Pan was the piper of peace,
When the satyrs were all debonair,
In the days dear to old Lemprière,
The Graces would frolic and bound.
Our Graces are still, we declare,
The best men in England, all round!
Though the season of midsummer cease
The blossom of Hellas to bear,
Though the critics, a cohort of geese,
Deny that dame Venus is fair,
The Graces, at least are ‘all there’,
And no better bats to be found,
And at point, or at long-leg, or square,
The best men in England, all round!
The blossom of Hellas to bear,
Though the critics, a cohort of geese,
Deny that dame Venus is fair,
The Graces, at least are ‘all there’,
And no better bats to be found,
And at point, or at long-leg, or square,
The best men in England, all round!
56
May Gilbert abide in the crease!
And the bowling of Fred may it scare!
And the slows of the coroner tease
The colonists hugely that dare!
Go smite them, ye brethren, nor spare!
Till the glades of St. John's Wood resound
With the cheers that are surely your share,
The best men in England, all round!
And the bowling of Fred may it scare!
And the slows of the coroner tease
The colonists hugely that dare!
Go smite them, ye brethren, nor spare!
Till the glades of St. John's Wood resound
With the cheers that are surely your share,
The best men in England, all round!
Envoy
Old Glostershire, cast away care,And go in for a new county ground.
Green mother of cricketers rare,
The best men in England, all round!
57
A Ballade of Mourning
1878
The glories of the ball and bat,
Alas! are unsubstantial things;
Fate lays the stoutest wicket flat,
Nor spares the game's anointed kings.
Look on these ‘duck's-eggs’—ranged in strings;
Hark to that shout—a losing cheer!
Ah me! (the question soothes and stings)
Where are the scores of yester-year?
Alas! are unsubstantial things;
Fate lays the stoutest wicket flat,
Nor spares the game's anointed kings.
Look on these ‘duck's-eggs’—ranged in strings;
Hark to that shout—a losing cheer!
Ah me! (the question soothes and stings)
Where are the scores of yester-year?
I'll wear a willow round my hat
This day of days for many springs,
And sitting where the patriarch sat,
Spend the sad hours in murmurings
That fortune should have spread her wings
And sought the lower hemisphere,
Singing, as melancholy sings,
‘Where are the scores of yester-year?’
This day of days for many springs,
And sitting where the patriarch sat,
Spend the sad hours in murmurings
That fortune should have spread her wings
And sought the lower hemisphere,
Singing, as melancholy sings,
‘Where are the scores of yester-year?’
58
The stump of Grace is taken—pat!
Vain is the sceptre Hornby swings;
Webbe, Ridley, Hearne—on this and that
The bowlers' craft destruction brings.
Fatal and strange, like stones from slings,
Are Spofforth's ‘fasts’, and Boyle's. Oh, dear!
Lord's with the lamentation sings,
‘Where are the scores of yester-year?’
Vain is the sceptre Hornby swings;
Webbe, Ridley, Hearne—on this and that
The bowlers' craft destruction brings.
Fatal and strange, like stones from slings,
Are Spofforth's ‘fasts’, and Boyle's. Oh, dear!
Lord's with the lamentation sings,
‘Where are the scores of yester-year?’
Envoy
Prince, though I know how fortune flingsHer darts, and how they disappear,
This thought my bosom racks and wrings—
Where are the scores of yester-year?
59
The Old Cricketer's Lament
Ah, known or unknown playfellowsWhom still the old Pavilion hears
Serenely critical of slows,
And wise with all the weight of years—
Men who perchance remember Mynn,
(Of these there are not very many)
And Powys' pace and Butler's spin,
And Francis, Ottaway, and Kenney.
Can you recall a year like this?
A year of rain, a year of woe?
How many catches did we miss!
Was cricket ever half so slow!
Could that gray Bishop —he who played
So gallantly in'27—
Have seen such dire fiascos made
In all his years, by our Eleven?
Nay, let the seasons come and fleet,
Let us be missed from field and town,
Let ancient cricketers who meet
Hint that our wickets have gone down;
They shall not see, they shall not weep
Such weather and such strokes of fate,
As we who sad and slowly creep
From Lord's this awful '88.
60
Death in June
For Cricketers Only
June is the month of Suicides
Why do we slay ourselves in June,
When life, if ever, seems so sweet?
When ‘moon’, and ‘tune’, and ‘afternoon’,
And other happy rhymes we meet;
When strawberries are coming soon?
‘Why do we do it?’ you repeat!
When life, if ever, seems so sweet?
When ‘moon’, and ‘tune’, and ‘afternoon’,
And other happy rhymes we meet;
When strawberries are coming soon?
‘Why do we do it?’ you repeat!
Ah, careless butterfly! to thee
The strawberry seems passing good;
And sweet, on music's wings, to flee
Amid the waltzing multitude,
And revel late—perchance till three—
For love is monarch of thy mood!
The strawberry seems passing good;
And sweet, on music's wings, to flee
Amid the waltzing multitude,
And revel late—perchance till three—
For love is monarch of thy mood!
Alas, to us no solace shows
For sorrows we endure—at Lord's,
When Oxford's bowling always goes
For ‘fours’ for ever to the cords—
Or more, perhaps, with ‘overthrows’;
These things can pierce the heart like swords.
For sorrows we endure—at Lord's,
When Oxford's bowling always goes
For ‘fours’ for ever to the cords—
Or more, perhaps, with ‘overthrows’;
These things can pierce the heart like swords.
61
And thus it is though woods are green,
Though mayflies down the Test are rolling;
Though sweet, the silver showers between,
The finches sing in strains consoling,
We cut our throats for very spleen,
And very shame of Oxford's bowling.
Though mayflies down the Test are rolling;
Though sweet, the silver showers between,
The finches sing in strains consoling,
We cut our throats for very spleen,
And very shame of Oxford's bowling.
62
Brahma
If the wild bowler thinks he bowls,Or if the batsman thinks he's bowled,
They know not, poor misguided souls,
They too shall perish unconsoled.
I am the batsman and the bat,
I am the bowler and the ball,
The umpire, the pavilion cat,
The roller, pitch, and stumps, and all.
63
Ballade of Dead Cricketers
Ah, where be Beldham now, and Brett,
Barker, and Hogsflesh, where be they?
Brett, of all bowlers fleetest yet
That drove the bails in disarray?
And Small that would, like Orpheus, play
Till wild bulls followed his minstrelsy?
Booker, and Quiddington, and May?
Beneath the daisies, there they lie!
Barker, and Hogsflesh, where be they?
Brett, of all bowlers fleetest yet
That drove the bails in disarray?
And Small that would, like Orpheus, play
Till wild bulls followed his minstrelsy?
Booker, and Quiddington, and May?
Beneath the daisies, there they lie!
And where is Lambert, that would get
The stumps with balls that broke astray?
And Mann, whose balls would ricochet
In almost an unholy way
(So do baseballers ‘pitch’ to-day);
George Lear, that seldom let a bye,
And Richard Nyren, grave and gray?
Beneath the daisies, there they lie!
The stumps with balls that broke astray?
And Mann, whose balls would ricochet
In almost an unholy way
(So do baseballers ‘pitch’ to-day);
George Lear, that seldom let a bye,
And Richard Nyren, grave and gray?
Beneath the daisies, there they lie!
64
Tom Sueter, too, the ladies' pet,
Brown, that would bravest hearts affray;
Walker, invincible when set,
(Tom, of the spider limbs and splay);
Think ye that we could match them, pray,
These heroes of Broad-halfpenny,
With Buck to hit, and Small to stay?
Beneath the daisies, there they lie!
Brown, that would bravest hearts affray;
Walker, invincible when set,
(Tom, of the spider limbs and splay);
Think ye that we could match them, pray,
These heroes of Broad-halfpenny,
With Buck to hit, and Small to stay?
Beneath the daisies, there they lie!
Envoy
Prince, canst thou moralize the lay?How all things change below the sky!
Of Fry and Grace shall mortals say,
‘Beneath the daisies, there they lie!’
65
To Helen
(After seeing her bowl with her usual success.)
St. Leonard's Hall.
Helen, thy bowling is to me
Like that wise Alfred Shaw's of yore,
Which gently broke the wickets three:
From Alfred few could smack a four:
Most difficult to score!
Like that wise Alfred Shaw's of yore,
Which gently broke the wickets three:
From Alfred few could smack a four:
Most difficult to score!
The music of the moaning sea,
The rattle of the flying bails,
The gray sad spires, the tawny sails—
What memories they bring to me,
Beholding thee!
The rattle of the flying bails,
The gray sad spires, the tawny sails—
What memories they bring to me,
Beholding thee!
Upon our old monastic pitch,
How sportsmanlike I see thee stand
The leather in thy lily hand,
O Helen of the yorkers, which
Are nobly planned!
How sportsmanlike I see thee stand
The leather in thy lily hand,
O Helen of the yorkers, which
Are nobly planned!
66
Ballade of Cricket
To T. W. L.
The burden of hard hitting: slog away!
Here shalt thou make a ‘five’ and there a ‘four’,
And then upon thy bat shalt lean, and say,
That thou art in for an uncommon score.
Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar,
And thou to rival Thornton shalt aspire;
When lo, the Umpire gives thee ‘leg before’—
‘This is the end of every man's desire!’
Here shalt thou make a ‘five’ and there a ‘four’,
And then upon thy bat shalt lean, and say,
That thou art in for an uncommon score.
Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar,
And thou to rival Thornton shalt aspire;
When lo, the Umpire gives thee ‘leg before’—
‘This is the end of every man's desire!’
The burden of much bowling, when the stay
Of all thy team is ‘collared’, swift or slower,
When ‘bailers’ break not in their wonted way,
And ‘yorkers’ come not off as here-to-fore;
When length balls shoot no more—ah never more!
When all deliveries lose their former fire,
When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door—
‘This is the end of every man's desire!’
Of all thy team is ‘collared’, swift or slower,
When ‘bailers’ break not in their wonted way,
And ‘yorkers’ come not off as here-to-fore;
When length balls shoot no more—ah never more!
When all deliveries lose their former fire,
When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door—
‘This is the end of every man's desire!’
67
The burden of long fielding, when the clay
Clings to thy shoon in sudden shower's downpour,
And running still thou stumblest; or the ray
Of blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore,
And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore,
Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a ‘skyer’,
And lose a match the fates cannot restore—
‘This is the end of every man's desire!’
Clings to thy shoon in sudden shower's downpour,
And running still thou stumblest; or the ray
Of blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore,
And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore,
Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a ‘skyer’,
And lose a match the fates cannot restore—
‘This is the end of every man's desire!’
Envoy
Alas, yet liefer on youth's hither shoreWould I be some poor player on scant hire,
Than king among the old, who play no more,—
‘This is the end of every man's desire!’
68
[A hope for the hopeless lips to frame]
[_]
Verse written by A. L. in a copy of ‘XXII Ballades in Blue China’, 1880, given to C. J. L. by A. L.
A hope for the hopeless lips to frame,
'Tis, oh, for a hard-hit innings of Game!
A prayer unheard that the wild wind blows,
'Tis, oh, for an over of Ridley's slows!
'Tis, oh, for a hard-hit innings of Game!
A prayer unheard that the wild wind blows,
'Tis, oh, for an over of Ridley's slows!
Captain Oxford Eleven in 1875 and won the match v. Cambridge by six runs by putting himself on to bowl lobs and taking two wickets at the end of the innings. 1875 is known to cricketers as Ridley's Year.
69
GOLF
A Song of Life and Golf
The thing they ca' the stimy o't,
I find it ilka where!
Ye 'maist lie deid—an unco shot—
Anither's ba' is there!
Ye canna win into the hole,
However gleg ye be,
And aye, where'er ma ba' may roll,
Some limmer stimies me!
Chorus—Somebody stimying me,
Somebody stimying me,
The grass may grow, the ba' may row,
Some limmer stimies me!
I find it ilka where!
Ye 'maist lie deid—an unco shot—
Anither's ba' is there!
Ye canna win into the hole,
However gleg ye be,
And aye, where'er ma ba' may roll,
Some limmer stimies me!
Chorus—Somebody stimying me,
Somebody stimying me,
The grass may grow, the ba' may row,
Some limmer stimies me!
I lo'ed a lass, a bonny lass,
Her lips an' locks were reid;
Intil her heart I couldna pass:
Anither man lay deid!
He cam' atween me an' her heart,
I turned wi' tearfu' e'e;
I couldna loft him, I maun part,
The limmer stimied me!
Her lips an' locks were reid;
Intil her heart I couldna pass:
Anither man lay deid!
He cam' atween me an' her heart,
I turned wi' tearfu' e'e;
I couldna loft him, I maun part,
The limmer stimied me!
70
I socht a kirk, a bonny kirk,
Wi' teind, an' glebe, an' a';
A bonny yaird to feed a stirk,
An' links to ca' the ba'!
Anither lad he cam' an' fleeched—
A Convartit U.P.—
An' a' in vain ma best I preached,
That limmer stimied me!
Wi' teind, an' glebe, an' a';
A bonny yaird to feed a stirk,
An' links to ca' the ba'!
Anither lad he cam' an' fleeched—
A Convartit U.P.—
An' a' in vain ma best I preached,
That limmer stimied me!
It's aye the same in life an' gowf;
I'm stimied, late an' ear';
This world is but a weary howf,
I'd fain be itherwhere.
But whan auld deith wad hole ma corp,
As sure as deith ye'll see
Some coof has played the moudiewarp,
Rin in, an' stimied me!
Chorus (if thought desirable).
I'm stimied, late an' ear';
This world is but a weary howf,
I'd fain be itherwhere.
But whan auld deith wad hole ma corp,
As sure as deith ye'll see
Some coof has played the moudiewarp,
Rin in, an' stimied me!
Chorus (if thought desirable).
71
Ode to Golf
‘Delusive nymph, farewell!’
How oft we've said or sung,
When balls evasive fell,
Or in the jaws of ‘Hell’,
Or salt sea-weeds among,
'Mid shingle and sea-shell!
How oft we've said or sung,
When balls evasive fell,
Or in the jaws of ‘Hell’,
Or salt sea-weeds among,
'Mid shingle and sea-shell!
How oft beside the burn,
We play the sad ‘two more’;
How often at the turn,
The heather must we spurn;
How oft we've ‘topped and swore’,
In bent and whin and fern!
We play the sad ‘two more’;
How often at the turn,
The heather must we spurn;
How oft we've ‘topped and swore’,
In bent and whin and fern!
Yes, when the broken head
Bounds further than the ball,
The heart has inly bled.
Ah! and the lips have said
Words we would fain recall—
Wild words, of passion bred.
Bounds further than the ball,
The heart has inly bled.
Ah! and the lips have said
Words we would fain recall—
Wild words, of passion bred.
72
In bunkers all unknown,
Far beyond ‘Walkinshaw’,
Where never ball had flown—
Reached by ourselves alone—
Caddies have heard with awe
The music of our moan.
Far beyond ‘Walkinshaw’,
Where never ball had flown—
Reached by ourselves alone—
Caddies have heard with awe
The music of our moan.
Yet, nymph, if once alone,
The ball hath featly fled—
Not smitten from the bone—
That drive doth still atone
And one long shot laid dead
Our grief to the winds hath blown.
The ball hath featly fled—
Not smitten from the bone—
That drive doth still atone
And one long shot laid dead
Our grief to the winds hath blown.
So, still beside the tee,
We meet in storm or calm,
Lady, and worship thee;
While the loud lark sings free,
Piping his matin psalm
Above the gray, sad sea.
We meet in storm or calm,
Lady, and worship thee;
While the loud lark sings free,
Piping his matin psalm
Above the gray, sad sea.
73
Ballade of the Royal Game of Golf
There are laddies will drive ye a ba'
To the burn frae the farthermost tee;
But ye mauna think driving is a’,
Ye may heel her, and send her ajee,
Ye may land in the sand or the sea;
And ye're dune, sir, ye're no worth a preen,
Tak' the word that an auld man 'll gie,
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
To the burn frae the farthermost tee;
But ye mauna think driving is a’,
Ye may heel her, and send her ajee,
Ye may land in the sand or the sea;
And ye're dune, sir, ye're no worth a preen,
Tak' the word that an auld man 'll gie,
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
The auld folk are crouse, and they craw
That their putting is pawky and slee;
In a bunker they're nae gude ava',
But to girn, and to gar the sand flee.
And a lassie can putt—ony she,—
Be she Maggy, or Bessie, or Jean;
But a cleek-shot's the billy for me,
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
That their putting is pawky and slee;
In a bunker they're nae gude ava',
But to girn, and to gar the sand flee.
And a lassie can putt—ony she,—
Be she Maggy, or Bessie, or Jean;
But a cleek-shot's the billy for me,
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
74
I hae play'd in the frost and the thaw,
I hae play'd since the year thirty-three,
I hae play'd in the rain and the snaw,
And I trust I may play till I dee;
And I tell ye the truth and nae lee,
For I speak o' the thing I hae seen—
Tom Morris, I ken, will agree—
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
I hae play'd since the year thirty-three,
I hae play'd in the rain and the snaw,
And I trust I may play till I dee;
And I tell ye the truth and nae lee,
For I speak o' the thing I hae seen—
Tom Morris, I ken, will agree—
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
Envoy
Prince, faith you're improving a wee,And, Lord, man! they tell me you're keen;
Tak' the best o' advice that can be,
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
75
Off my Game
‘I’m off my game,' the golfer said,
And shook his locks in woe;
‘My putter never lays me dead,
My drives will never go;
Howe'er I swing, howe'er I stand,
Results are still the same,
I'm in the burn, I'm in the sand—
I'm off my game!
And shook his locks in woe;
‘My putter never lays me dead,
My drives will never go;
Howe'er I swing, howe'er I stand,
Results are still the same,
I'm in the burn, I'm in the sand—
I'm off my game!
‘Oh, would that such mishaps might fall
On Laidlay or Macfie,
That they might toe or heel the ball,
And sclaff along like me!
Men hurry from me in the street,
And execrate my name,
Old partners shun me when we meet—
I'm off my game!
On Laidlay or Macfie,
That they might toe or heel the ball,
And sclaff along like me!
Men hurry from me in the street,
And execrate my name,
Old partners shun me when we meet—
I'm off my game!
76
‘Why is it that I play at all?
Let memory remind me
How once I smote upon my ball,
And bunkered it—behind me.
I mostly slice into the whins,
And my excuse is lame—
It cannot cover half my sins—
I'm off my game!
Let memory remind me
How once I smote upon my ball,
And bunkered it—behind me.
I mostly slice into the whins,
And my excuse is lame—
It cannot cover half my sins—
I'm off my game!
I hate the sight of all my set,
I grow morose as Byron;
I never loved a brassey yet,
And now I hate an iron.
My cleek seems merely made to top,
My putting's wild or tame;
It's really time for me to stop—
I'm off my game.’
I grow morose as Byron;
I never loved a brassey yet,
And now I hate an iron.
My cleek seems merely made to top,
My putting's wild or tame;
It's really time for me to stop—
I'm off my game.’
77
Ballade of Roulette
To R. R.
This life—one was thinking to-day,
In the midst of a medley of fancies—
Is a game, and the board where we play
Green earth with her poppies and pansies.
Let manque be faded romances,
Be passe remorse and regret;
Hearts dance with the wheel as it dances—
The wheel of Dame Fortune's roulette.
In the midst of a medley of fancies—
Is a game, and the board where we play
Green earth with her poppies and pansies.
Let manque be faded romances,
Be passe remorse and regret;
Hearts dance with the wheel as it dances—
The wheel of Dame Fortune's roulette.
The lover will stake as he may
His heart on his Peggies and Nancies;
The girl has her beauty to lay;
The saint has his prayers and his trances;
The poet bets endless expanses
In dreamland; the scamp has his debt:
How they gaze at the wheel as it glances—
The wheel of Dame Fortune's roulette!
His heart on his Peggies and Nancies;
The girl has her beauty to lay;
The saint has his prayers and his trances;
The poet bets endless expanses
In dreamland; the scamp has his debt:
How they gaze at the wheel as it glances—
The wheel of Dame Fortune's roulette!
78
The Kaiser will stake his array
Of sabres, of Krupps, and of lances;
An Englishman punts with his pay,
And glory the jeton of France is;
Your artists—or Whistlers or Vances,
Have voices or colours to bet;
Will you moan that its motion askance is—
The wheel of Dame Fortune's roulette?
Of sabres, of Krupps, and of lances;
An Englishman punts with his pay,
And glory the jeton of France is;
Your artists—or Whistlers or Vances,
Have voices or colours to bet;
Will you moan that its motion askance is—
The wheel of Dame Fortune's roulette?
Envoy
The prize that the pleasure enhances?The prize is—at last to forget
The changes, the chops, and the chances—
The wheel of Dame Fortune's roulette.
79
FISHING
Piscatori Piscator
In Memory of Thomas Tod Stoddart
An angler to an angler here,
To one who longed not for the bays,
I bring a little gift and dear,
A line of love, a word of praise,
A common memory of the ways,
By Elibank and Yair that lead;
Of all the burns, from all the braes,
That yield their tribute to the Tweed.
To one who longed not for the bays,
I bring a little gift and dear,
A line of love, a word of praise,
A common memory of the ways,
By Elibank and Yair that lead;
Of all the burns, from all the braes,
That yield their tribute to the Tweed.
His boyhood found the waters clean,
His age deplored them, foul with dye;
But purple hills, and copses green,
And these old towers he wandered by,
Still to the simple strains reply
Of his pure unrepining reed,
Who lies where he was fain to lie,
Like Scott, within the sound of Tweed.
His age deplored them, foul with dye;
But purple hills, and copses green,
And these old towers he wandered by,
Still to the simple strains reply
Of his pure unrepining reed,
Who lies where he was fain to lie,
Like Scott, within the sound of Tweed.
80
The Contented Angler
The Angler hath a jolly life
Who by the rail runs down,
And leaves his business and his wife,
And all the din of town.
The wind down stream is blowing straight,
And nowhere cast can he:
Then lo, he doth but sit and wait
In kindly company.
Who by the rail runs down,
And leaves his business and his wife,
And all the din of town.
The wind down stream is blowing straight,
And nowhere cast can he:
Then lo, he doth but sit and wait
In kindly company.
The miller turns the water off,
Or folk be cutting weed,
While he doth at misfortune scoff,
From every trouble freed.
Or else he waiteth for a rise,
And ne'er a rise may see;
For why, there are not any flies
To bear him company.
Or folk be cutting weed,
While he doth at misfortune scoff,
From every trouble freed.
Or else he waiteth for a rise,
And ne'er a rise may see;
For why, there are not any flies
To bear him company.
81
Or, if he mark a rising trout,
He straightway is caught up;
And then he takes his flasket out,
And drinks a rousing cup.
Or if a trout he chance to hook,
Weeded and broke is he;
And then he finds a goodly book
Instructive company.
He straightway is caught up;
And then he takes his flasket out,
And drinks a rousing cup.
Or if a trout he chance to hook,
Weeded and broke is he;
And then he finds a goodly book
Instructive company.
82
The Last Cast
The Angler's Apology
Just one cast more! how many a year
Beside how many a pool and stream,
Beneath the falling leaves and sere,
I've sighed, reeled up, and dreamed my dream!
Beside how many a pool and stream,
Beneath the falling leaves and sere,
I've sighed, reeled up, and dreamed my dream!
Dreamed of the sport since April first
Her hands fulfilled of flowers and snow,
Adown the pastoral valleys burst
Where Ettrick and where Teviot flow.
Her hands fulfilled of flowers and snow,
Adown the pastoral valleys burst
Where Ettrick and where Teviot flow.
Dreamed of the singing showers that break,
And sting the lochs, or near or far,
And rouse the trout, and stir ‘the take’
From Urigil to Lochinvar.
And sting the lochs, or near or far,
And rouse the trout, and stir ‘the take’
From Urigil to Lochinvar.
Dreamed of the kind propitious sky
O'er Ari Innes brooding gray;
The sea trout, rushing at the fly,
Breaks the black wave with sudden spray!
O'er Ari Innes brooding gray;
The sea trout, rushing at the fly,
Breaks the black wave with sudden spray!
83
Brief are man's days at best; perchance
I waste my own, who have not seen
The castled palaces of France
Shine on the Loire in summer green.
I waste my own, who have not seen
The castled palaces of France
Shine on the Loire in summer green.
And clear and fleet Eurotas still,
You tell me, laves his reedy shore,
And flows beneath his fabled hill
Where Dian drave the chase of yore.
You tell me, laves his reedy shore,
And flows beneath his fabled hill
Where Dian drave the chase of yore.
And ‘like a horse unbroken’ yet
The yellow stream with rush and foam,
'Neath tower, and bridge, and parapet,
Girdles his ancient mistress, Rome!
The yellow stream with rush and foam,
'Neath tower, and bridge, and parapet,
Girdles his ancient mistress, Rome!
I may not see them, but I doubt
If seen I'd find them half so fair
As ripples of the rising trout
That feed beneath the elms of Yair.
If seen I'd find them half so fair
As ripples of the rising trout
That feed beneath the elms of Yair.
Nay, spring I'd meet by Tweed or Ail,
And summer by Loch Assynt's deep,
And autumn in that lonely vale
Where wedded Avons westward sweep,
And summer by Loch Assynt's deep,
And autumn in that lonely vale
Where wedded Avons westward sweep,
Or where, amid the empty fields,
Among the bracken of the glen,
Her yellow wreath October yields
To crown the crystal brows of Ken.
Among the bracken of the glen,
Her yellow wreath October yields
To crown the crystal brows of Ken.
84
Unseen, Eurotas, southward steal!
Unknown, Alpheus, westward glide!
You never heard the ringing reel,
The music of the water side!
Unknown, Alpheus, westward glide!
You never heard the ringing reel,
The music of the water side!
Though gods have walked your woods among,
Though nymphs have fled your banks along;
You speak not that familiar tongue
Tweed murmurs like my cradle song.
Though nymphs have fled your banks along;
You speak not that familiar tongue
Tweed murmurs like my cradle song.
My cradle song—no other hymn
I'd choose, nor gentler requiem dear
Than Tweed's, that through death's twilight dim
Mourned in the latest Minstrel's ear!
I'd choose, nor gentler requiem dear
Than Tweed's, that through death's twilight dim
Mourned in the latest Minstrel's ear!
85
Shameful Death
(The keeper speaks)
The biggest trout in the brook!
His weight it was five pound clear;
Never he'd wink at a hook,
If you fished for him half the year,
And in summer he lay where a tall flag shook
In the thin at the tail o' the weir.
His weight it was five pound clear;
Never he'd wink at a hook,
If you fished for him half the year,
And in summer he lay where a tall flag shook
In the thin at the tail o' the weir.
He did not die by the line,
He did not fall to the fly,
Not fishing far and fine
On the stream where he used to lie,
But six bait hooks and a ball o' twine
Brought that big trout to die!
He did not fall to the fly,
Not fishing far and fine
On the stream where he used to lie,
But six bait hooks and a ball o' twine
Brought that big trout to die!
It was 'Arry from London town,
A music-hall cad, and a fast;
'Arry, and Moses Brown,
As had served before the mast,
With young George Smith, a clod-hopping clown,
Killed that big trout at last!
A music-hall cad, and a fast;
'Arry, and Moses Brown,
As had served before the mast,
With young George Smith, a clod-hopping clown,
Killed that big trout at last!
86
It's a good long while since then—
I'm a little bit stiff or so—
But last year I and my men,
Down there, where the alders grow,
Rolled 'Arry from town in the mud o' the fen,
And kicked him, and let him go!
I'm a little bit stiff or so—
But last year I and my men,
Down there, where the alders grow,
Rolled 'Arry from town in the mud o' the fen,
And kicked him, and let him go!
It's long since the big trout died,
And my hair is mostly gray,
But down by the water-side
Mo bathed—on a Sabbath day!
And Lor', sir, I laughed till I nearly cried,
For we tuk his clothes away!
And my hair is mostly gray,
But down by the water-side
Mo bathed—on a Sabbath day!
And Lor', sir, I laughed till I nearly cried,
For we tuk his clothes away!
87
Piscatrix
Foot-deep in wet flowers and grasses,
O playmate of sunshine and shade!
What song has the stream as it passes?
What song does it sing to its maid?
O playmate of sunshine and shade!
What song has the stream as it passes?
What song does it sing to its maid?
Does it sing of the hills left behind it?
Does it sing of the moorland and mist?
Of the mosses that break it and bind it,
Of flowers that its waters have kissed?
Does it sing of the moorland and mist?
Of the mosses that break it and bind it,
Of flowers that its waters have kissed?
Does it sing how it runs to the river?
Shall it greatly delight it to be
With the waters that murmur for ever
To the death of the depths of the sea?
Shall it greatly delight it to be
With the waters that murmur for ever
To the death of the depths of the sea?
88
The Salmo Irritans
A most accommodating fish
Is he who lies in stream or pot,
Who rises frequent as you wish
At Silver Doctor or Jock Scott,
Or any other fly you've got
In all the piscatory clans;
You strike, but ah! you strike him not;
He is the Salmo Irritans.
Is he who lies in stream or pot,
Who rises frequent as you wish
At Silver Doctor or Jock Scott,
Or any other fly you've got
In all the piscatory clans;
You strike, but ah! you strike him not;
He is the Salmo Irritans.
You give him the accustomed rest;
A quarter of an hour or so—
And then you cast your very best,
Your heart is throbbing, loud or low;
He rises with a splendid show
Of silver sides and fins like fans,
Perchance you think you've got him? No!
He is the Salmo Irritans.
A quarter of an hour or so—
And then you cast your very best,
Your heart is throbbing, loud or low;
He rises with a splendid show
Of silver sides and fins like fans,
Perchance you think you've got him? No!
He is the Salmo Irritans.
89
You leave him till the eventide,
When wandering on by dub and pool
A score of other casts you've tried,
All fruitless and all beautiful;
But he still rises, calm and cool,
Who is not yours, nor any man's!
He leaves you looking like a fool—
He is the Salmo Irritans.
When wandering on by dub and pool
A score of other casts you've tried,
All fruitless and all beautiful;
But he still rises, calm and cool,
Who is not yours, nor any man's!
He leaves you looking like a fool—
He is the Salmo Irritans.
Envoy
Prince, wherefore comes he always short,This demon whom the angler bans?
This is his selfish view of sport,
He is the Salmo Irritans!
90
The Last Chance
Within the streams, Pausanias saith,That down Cocytus valley flow,
Girdling the gray domain of Death,
The spectral fishes come and go;
The ghosts of trout flit to and fro.
Persephone, fulfil my wish;
And grant that in the shades below
My ghost may land the ghosts of fish.
91
Scots Wha
Scots wha fish wi' salmon roe,
Scots wha sniggle as ye go,
Will ye stand the Bailie? No!
Let the limmer die!
Scots wha sniggle as ye go,
Will ye stand the Bailie? No!
Let the limmer die!
Now's the day and now's the time,
Poison a' the burns wi' lime,
Fishing fair's a dastard crime,
We're for fishing free!
Poison a' the burns wi' lime,
Fishing fair's a dastard crime,
We're for fishing free!
92
The Philosophy of Fly-fishing
Leave thou thy gillie, when he playsHis local flies, his early views;
Nor thou with shadowed hint confuse
His notion of the hook that pays.
| The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang | |