The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang Edited by Mrs. Lang |
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LOYAL LYRICS AND
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 | The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang |  |
39
III LOYAL LYRICS AND DEEDS OF MEN
41
White Rose Day
June 10, 1688.
'Twas a day of faith and flowers
Of honour that could not die,
Of hope that counted the hours,
Of sorrowing loyalty:
And the blackbird sang in the closes,
The blackbird piped in the spring,
For the day of the dawn of the roses,
The dawn of the day of the King.
Of honour that could not die,
Of hope that counted the hours,
Of sorrowing loyalty:
And the blackbird sang in the closes,
The blackbird piped in the spring,
For the day of the dawn of the roses,
The dawn of the day of the King.
White roses over the heather,
And down by the Lowland lea,
And far in the faint blue weather,
A white sail guessed on the sea.
But the deep night gathers and closes,
Shall ever a morning bring
The lord of the leal white roses,
The face of the rightful King?
And down by the Lowland lea,
And far in the faint blue weather,
A white sail guessed on the sea.
But the deep night gathers and closes,
Shall ever a morning bring
The lord of the leal white roses,
The face of the rightful King?
42
The Tenth of June, 1715
[_]
(Being a Song writ for a lady born on June 10th, the birthday of his Most Sacred Majesty King James III and VIII.)
Day of the King and the flower!
And the girl of my heart's delight!
The blackbird sings in the bower,
And the nightingale sings in the night
A song to the roses white.
And the girl of my heart's delight!
The blackbird sings in the bower,
And the nightingale sings in the night
A song to the roses white.
Day of the flower and the King!
When shall the sails of white
Shine on the seas and bring
In the day, in the dawn, in the night,
The King to his land and his right?
When shall the sails of white
Shine on the seas and bring
In the day, in the dawn, in the night,
The King to his land and his right?
Day of my love and my may,
After the long years' flight,
Born on the King's birthday,
Born for my heart's delight,
With the dawn of the roses white!
After the long years' flight,
Born on the King's birthday,
Born for my heart's delight,
With the dawn of the roses white!
43
Black as the blackbird's wing
Is her hair, and her brow as white
As the white rose blossoming,
And her eyes as the falcon's bright,
And her heart is leal to the right.
Is her hair, and her brow as white
As the white rose blossoming,
And her eyes as the falcon's bright,
And her heart is leal to the right.
When shall the joy bells ring?
When shall the hours unite
The right with the might of my King,
And my heart with my heart's delight—
In the dawn, in the day, in the night?
When shall the hours unite
The right with the might of my King,
And my heart with my heart's delight—
In the dawn, in the day, in the night?
44
The Prince's Birthday
Rome. December 31, 1721
Awonderful star shone forth
From the frozen skies of the north
Upon Rome for an old year's night:
And a flower on the dear white rose
Broke, in the season of snows,
To bloom for a day's delight.
From the frozen skies of the north
Upon Rome for an old year's night:
And a flower on the dear white rose
Broke, in the season of snows,
To bloom for a day's delight.
Lost is the star in the night,
And the rose of a day's delight
Fled ‘where the roses go’:
But the fragrance and light from afar,
Born of the rose and the star,
Breathe over the years and the snow.
And the rose of a day's delight
Fled ‘where the roses go’:
But the fragrance and light from afar,
Born of the rose and the star,
Breathe over the years and the snow.
45
How they Held the Bass for King
James—1691-1693
Time of Narrating—1743.
Ye hae heard Whigs crack o' the Saints in the Bass, my faith, a gruesome tale;
How the Remnant paid at a tippeny rate, for a quart o' ha'penny ale!
But I'll tell ye anither tale o' the Bass, that'll hearten ye up to hear,
Sae I pledge ye to Middleton first in a glass, and a health to the Young Chevalier!
How the Remnant paid at a tippeny rate, for a quart o' ha'penny ale!
But I'll tell ye anither tale o' the Bass, that'll hearten ye up to hear,
Sae I pledge ye to Middleton first in a glass, and a health to the Young Chevalier!
The Bass stands frae North Berwick Law a league or less to sea,
About its feet the breakers beat, abune the seamaws flee,
There's castle stark and dungeon dark, wherein the godly lay,
That made their rant for the Covenant through mony a weary day.
For twal' years lang the caverns rang wi' preaching, prayer, and psalm,
Ye'd think the winds were soughing wild, when a' the winds were calm,
There wad they preach, each Saint to each, and glower as the soldiers pass,
And Peden wared his malison on a bonny leaguer lass,
As she stood and daffed, while the warders laughed, and wha sae blithe as she,
But a wind o' ill worked his warlock will, and flang her out to sea.
Then wha sae bright as the Saints that night, and an angel came, say they,
And sang in the cell where the Righteous dwell, but he took na a Saint away.
There yet might they be, for nane could flee, and nane daur'd break the jail,
And still the sobbing o' the sea might mix wi' their warlock wail;
But then came in black echty-echt, and bluidy echtynine,
Wi' Cess, and Press, and Presbytery, and a' the dule sin' syne;
The Saints won free wi' the power o' the key, and Cavaliers maun pine!
It was Halyburton, Middleton, and Roy and young Dunbar,
That Livingstone took on Cromdale Haughs, in the last fight of the war:
And they were warded in the Bass, till the time they should be slain,
Where bluidy Mitchell, and Blackader, and Earlston lang had lain;
Four lads alone, 'gainst a garrison, but glory crowns their names,
For they brought it to pass that they took the Bass, and they held it for King James!
About its feet the breakers beat, abune the seamaws flee,
There's castle stark and dungeon dark, wherein the godly lay,
That made their rant for the Covenant through mony a weary day.
For twal' years lang the caverns rang wi' preaching, prayer, and psalm,
Ye'd think the winds were soughing wild, when a' the winds were calm,
46
And Peden wared his malison on a bonny leaguer lass,
As she stood and daffed, while the warders laughed, and wha sae blithe as she,
But a wind o' ill worked his warlock will, and flang her out to sea.
Then wha sae bright as the Saints that night, and an angel came, say they,
And sang in the cell where the Righteous dwell, but he took na a Saint away.
There yet might they be, for nane could flee, and nane daur'd break the jail,
And still the sobbing o' the sea might mix wi' their warlock wail;
But then came in black echty-echt, and bluidy echtynine,
Wi' Cess, and Press, and Presbytery, and a' the dule sin' syne;
The Saints won free wi' the power o' the key, and Cavaliers maun pine!
It was Halyburton, Middleton, and Roy and young Dunbar,
That Livingstone took on Cromdale Haughs, in the last fight of the war:
And they were warded in the Bass, till the time they should be slain,
47
Four lads alone, 'gainst a garrison, but glory crowns their names,
For they brought it to pass that they took the Bass, and they held it for King James!
It isna by preaching half the night, ye'll burst a dungeon door;
It wasna by dint o' psalmody they broke the hold—they four;
For lang years three that rock in the sea bade Wullie Wanbeard gae swing,
And England and Scotland fause may be, but the Bass Rock stands for the King!
It wasna by dint o' psalmody they broke the hold—they four;
For lang years three that rock in the sea bade Wullie Wanbeard gae swing,
And England and Scotland fause may be, but the Bass Rock stands for the King!
There's but ae pass gangs up the Bass, it's guarded wi' strong gates four,
And still as the soldiers went to the sea, they steikit them, door by door,
And this did they do when they helped a crew that brought their coals on shore.
Thither all had gone, save three men alone: then Middleton gripped his man,
Halyburton felled the sergeant lad, Dunbar seized the gunner, Swan;
And still as the soldiers went to the sea, they steikit them, door by door,
And this did they do when they helped a crew that brought their coals on shore.
Thither all had gone, save three men alone: then Middleton gripped his man,
Halyburton felled the sergeant lad, Dunbar seized the gunner, Swan;
48
Roy bound their hands, in hempen bands, and the Cavaliers were free.
And they trained the guns on the soldier loons that were down wi' the boat by the sea!
Then Middleton cried frae the high cliff-side, and his voice garr'd the auld rocks ring,
‘Will ye stand or flee by the land or sea, for I hold the Bass for the King?’
And they trained the guns on the soldier loons that were down wi' the boat by the sea!
Then Middleton cried frae the high cliff-side, and his voice garr'd the auld rocks ring,
‘Will ye stand or flee by the land or sea, for I hold the Bass for the King?’
They had nae desire to face the fire; it was mair than men might do,
So they e'en sailed back in the auld coal-smack, a sorry and shame-faced crew,
And they hirpled doun to Edinburgh toun, wi' the story of their shames,
How the prisoners bold had broken hold, and kept the Bass for King James.
So they e'en sailed back in the auld coal-smack, a sorry and shame-faced crew,
And they hirpled doun to Edinburgh toun, wi' the story of their shames,
How the prisoners bold had broken hold, and kept the Bass for King James.
King James he has sent them guns and men, and the Whigs they guard the Bass,
But they never could catch the Cavaliers, who took toll of ships that pass;
They fared wild and free as the birds o' the sea, and at night they went on the wing,
And they lifted the kye o' Whigs far and nigh, and they revelled and drank to the King.
But they never could catch the Cavaliers, who took toll of ships that pass;
They fared wild and free as the birds o' the sea, and at night they went on the wing,
And they lifted the kye o' Whigs far and nigh, and they revelled and drank to the King.
49
Then Wullie Wanbeard sends his ships to siege the Bass in form,
And first shall they break the fortress down, and syne the rock they'll storm.
After twa days' fight they fled in the night, and glad eneuch to go,
With their rigging rent, and their powder spent, and many a man laid low.
And first shall they break the fortress down, and syne the rock they'll storm.
After twa days' fight they fled in the night, and glad eneuch to go,
With their rigging rent, and their powder spent, and many a man laid low.
So for lang years three did they sweep the sea, but a closer watch was set,
Till nae food had they, but twa ounce a day o' meal was the maist they'd get.
And men fight but tame on an empty wame, so they sent a flag o' truce,
And blithe were the Privy Council then, when the Whigs had heard that news.
Twa Lords they sent wi' a strang intent to be dour on each Cavalier,
But wi' French cakes fine, and his last drap o' wine, did Middleton make them cheer.
Till nae food had they, but twa ounce a day o' meal was the maist they'd get.
And men fight but tame on an empty wame, so they sent a flag o' truce,
And blithe were the Privy Council then, when the Whigs had heard that news.
Twa Lords they sent wi' a strang intent to be dour on each Cavalier,
But wi' French cakes fine, and his last drap o' wine, did Middleton make them cheer.
On the muzzles o' guns he put coats and caps, and he set them aboot the wa's,
And the Whigs thocht then he had food and men to stand for the Rightfu' Cause.
So he got a' he craved, and his men were saved, and nane might say them nay,
Wi' sword by side, and flag o' pride, free men might they gang their way,
They might fare to France, they might bide at hame, and the better their grace to buy,
Wullie Wanbeard's purse maun pay the keep o' the men that did him defy!
And the Whigs thocht then he had food and men to stand for the Rightfu' Cause.
So he got a' he craved, and his men were saved, and nane might say them nay,
50
They might fare to France, they might bide at hame, and the better their grace to buy,
Wullie Wanbeard's purse maun pay the keep o' the men that did him defy!
Men never hae gotten sic terms o' peace since first men went to war,
As got Halyburton, and Middleton, and Roy, and the young Dunbar.
Sae I drink to ye here, To the Young Chevalier! I hae said ye an auld man's say,
And there may hae been mightier deeds of arms, but there never was nane sae gay!
As got Halyburton, and Middleton, and Roy, and the young Dunbar.
Sae I drink to ye here, To the Young Chevalier! I hae said ye an auld man's say,
And there may hae been mightier deeds of arms, but there never was nane sae gay!
51
Kenmure
1715
‘The heather's in a blaze, Willie,
The White Rose decks the tree,
The Fiery Cross is on the braes,
And the King is on the sea!
The White Rose decks the tree,
The Fiery Cross is on the braes,
And the King is on the sea!
‘Remember great Montrose, Willie,
Remember fair Dundee,
And strike one stroke at the foreign foes
Of the King that's on the sea.
Remember fair Dundee,
And strike one stroke at the foreign foes
Of the King that's on the sea.
‘There's Gordons in the north, Willie,
Are rising frank and free,
Shall a Kenmure Gordon not go forth
For the King that's on the sea?
Are rising frank and free,
Shall a Kenmure Gordon not go forth
For the King that's on the sea?
‘A trusty sword to draw, Willie,
A comely weird to dree,
For the royal rose that's like the snaw,
And the King that's on the sea!’
A comely weird to dree,
For the royal rose that's like the snaw,
And the King that's on the sea!’
52
He cast ae look across his lands,
Looked over loch and lea,
He took his fortune in his hands,
For the King was on the sea.
Looked over loch and lea,
He took his fortune in his hands,
For the King was on the sea.
Kenmures have fought in Galloway
For Kirk and Presbyt'rie,
This Kenmure faced his dying day,
For King James across the sea.
For Kirk and Presbyt'rie,
This Kenmure faced his dying day,
For King James across the sea.
It little skills what faith men vaunt,
If loyal men they be
To Christ's ain Kirk and Covenant,
Or the King that's o'er the sea.
If loyal men they be
To Christ's ain Kirk and Covenant,
Or the King that's o'er the sea.
53
Culloden
Dark, dark was the day when we looked on Culloden
And chill was the mist drop that clung to the tree,
The oats of the harvest hung heavy and sodden,
No light on the land and no wind on the sea.
And chill was the mist drop that clung to the tree,
The oats of the harvest hung heavy and sodden,
No light on the land and no wind on the sea.
There was wind, there was rain, there was fire on their faces,
When the clans broke the bayonets and died on the guns,
And 'tis Honour that watches the desolate places
Where they sleep through the change of the snows and the suns.
When the clans broke the bayonets and died on the guns,
And 'tis Honour that watches the desolate places
Where they sleep through the change of the snows and the suns.
Unfed and unmarshalled, outworn and outnumbered,
All hopeless and fearless, as fiercely they fought,
As when Falkirk with heaps of the fallen was cumbered,
As when Gledsmuir was red with the havoc they wrought.
All hopeless and fearless, as fiercely they fought,
As when Falkirk with heaps of the fallen was cumbered,
As when Gledsmuir was red with the havoc they wrought.
54
Ah, woe worth you, Sleat, and the faith that you vowed,
Ah, woe worth you, Lovat, Traquair, and Mackay;
And woe on the false fairy flag of Macleod,
And the fat squires who drank, but who dared not to die!
Ah, woe worth you, Lovat, Traquair, and Mackay;
And woe on the false fairy flag of Macleod,
And the fat squires who drank, but who dared not to die!
Where the graves of Clan Chattan are clustered together,
Where Macgillavray died by the Well of the Dead,
We stooped to the moorland and plucked the pale heather
That blooms where the hope of the Stuart was sped.
Where Macgillavray died by the Well of the Dead,
We stooped to the moorland and plucked the pale heather
That blooms where the hope of the Stuart was sped.
And a whisper awoke on the wilderness, sighing,
Like the voice of the heroes who battled in vain;
‘Not for Tearlach alone the red claymore was plying,
But to bring back the old life that comes not again.’
Like the voice of the heroes who battled in vain;
‘Not for Tearlach alone the red claymore was plying,
But to bring back the old life that comes not again.’
55
The Bonnie Banks o' Loch Lomond
1746
There's an ending o' the dance, and fair Morag's safe in France,
And the Clans they hae paid the lawing,
And the wuddy has her ain, and we twa are left alane,
Free o' Carlisle gaol in the dawing.
So ye'll tak the high road, and I'll tak the laigh road,
An' I'll be in Scotland before ye:
But me and my true love will never meet again,
By the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond.
And the Clans they hae paid the lawing,
And the wuddy has her ain, and we twa are left alane,
Free o' Carlisle gaol in the dawing.
So ye'll tak the high road, and I'll tak the laigh road,
An' I'll be in Scotland before ye:
But me and my true love will never meet again,
By the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond.
For my love's heart brake in twa, when she kenned the Cause's fa',
And she sleeps where there's never nane shall waken,
Where the glen lies a' in wrack, wi' the houses toom and black,
And her father's ha's forsaken.
And she sleeps where there's never nane shall waken,
Where the glen lies a' in wrack, wi' the houses toom and black,
And her father's ha's forsaken.
56
While there's heather on the hill shall my vengeance ne'er be still,
While a bush hides the glint o' a gun, lad;
Wi' the men o' Sergeant Môr shall I work to pay the score,
Till I wither on the wuddy in the sun, lad!
So ye'll tak the high road, and I'll tak the laigh road,
An' I'll be in Scotland before ye:
But me and my true love will never meet again,
By the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond.
While a bush hides the glint o' a gun, lad;
Wi' the men o' Sergeant Môr shall I work to pay the score,
Till I wither on the wuddy in the sun, lad!
So ye'll tak the high road, and I'll tak the laigh road,
An' I'll be in Scotland before ye:
But me and my true love will never meet again,
By the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond.
57
Lone Places of the Deer
Lone places of the deer,
Corrie, and Loch, and Ben,
Fount that wells in the cave,
Voice of the burn and the wave,
Softly you sing and clear
Of Charlie and his men.
Corrie, and Loch, and Ben,
Fount that wells in the cave,
Voice of the burn and the wave,
Softly you sing and clear
Of Charlie and his men.
Here has he lurked, and here
The heather has been his bed,
The wastes of the islands knew,
And the Highland hearts were true
To the bonny, the brave, the dear,
The royal, the hunted head.
The heather has been his bed,
The wastes of the islands knew,
And the Highland hearts were true
To the bonny, the brave, the dear,
The royal, the hunted head.
58
Red and White Roses
Red roses under the sun
For the King who is lord of land;
But he dies when his day is done,
For his memory careth none
When the glass runs empty of sand.
For the King who is lord of land;
But he dies when his day is done,
For his memory careth none
When the glass runs empty of sand.
White roses under the moon
For the King without lands to give;
But he reigns with the rose in June,
With the rose and the blackbird's tune,
And he lives while Faith shall live.
For the King without lands to give;
But he reigns with the rose in June,
With the rose and the blackbird's tune,
And he lives while Faith shall live.
Red roses for beef and beer;
Red roses for wine and gold;
But they drank of the water clear,
In exile and sorry cheer,
To the kings of our sires of old.
Red roses for wine and gold;
But they drank of the water clear,
In exile and sorry cheer,
To the kings of our sires of old.
Red roses for wealth and might;
White roses for hopes that flee;
And the dreams of the day and the night,
For the lord of our heart's delight—
For the King that is o'er the sea.
White roses for hopes that flee;
And the dreams of the day and the night,
For the lord of our heart's delight—
For the King that is o'er the sea.
59
Three Portraits of Prince Charles
1731
Beautiful face of a child,Lighted with laughter and glee,
Mirthful and tender and wild,
My heart is heavy for thee!
1744
Beautiful face of a youth,As an eagle poised to fly forth,
To the old land loyal of truth,
To the hills and the sounds of the north:
Fair face, daring and proud,
Lo! the shadow of doom, even now,
The fate of thy line, like a cloud,
Rests on the grace of thy brow!
1773
Cruel and angry face!
Hateful and heavy with wine,
Where are the gladness, the grace,
The beauty, the mirth that were thine?
Ah, my Prince, it were well—
Hadst thou to the gods been dear—
To have fallen where Keppoch fell,
With the war-pipe loud in thine ear!
To have died with never a stain
On the fair White Rose of renown,
To have fallen, fighting in vain,
For thy father, thy faith, and thy crown!
More than thy marble pile,
With its women weeping for thee,
Were to dream in thine ancient isle,
To the endless dirge of the sea!
But the fates deemed otherwise,
Far thou sleepest from home,
From the tears of the northern skies,
In the secular dust of Rome.
Hateful and heavy with wine,
Where are the gladness, the grace,
The beauty, the mirth that were thine?
60
Hadst thou to the gods been dear—
To have fallen where Keppoch fell,
With the war-pipe loud in thine ear!
To have died with never a stain
On the fair White Rose of renown,
To have fallen, fighting in vain,
For thy father, thy faith, and thy crown!
More than thy marble pile,
With its women weeping for thee,
Were to dream in thine ancient isle,
To the endless dirge of the sea!
But the fates deemed otherwise,
Far thou sleepest from home,
From the tears of the northern skies,
In the secular dust of Rome.
A city of death and the dead,
But thither a pilgrim came,
Wearing on weary head
The crowns of years and fame:
Little the Lucrine lake
Or Tivoli said to him,
Scarce did the memories wake
Of the far-off years and dim.
For he stood by Avernus' shore,
But he dreamed of a northern glen
And he murmured, over and o'er,
‘For Charlie and his men’:
And his feet, to death that went,
Crept forth to St. Peter's shrine,
And the latest minstrel bent
O'er the last of the Stuart line.
But thither a pilgrim came,
Wearing on weary head
The crowns of years and fame:
Little the Lucrine lake
Or Tivoli said to him,
Scarce did the memories wake
Of the far-off years and dim.
61
But he dreamed of a northern glen
And he murmured, over and o'er,
‘For Charlie and his men’:
And his feet, to death that went,
Crept forth to St. Peter's shrine,
And the latest minstrel bent
O'er the last of the Stuart line.
62
An Old Song
1750.
Oh, it's hame, hame, hame,
And it's hame I wadna be,
Till the Lord calls King James
To his ain countrie;
Bids the wind blaw frae France,
Till the Firth keps the faem,
And Loch Garry and Lochiel
Bring Prince Charlie hame.
And it's hame I wadna be,
Till the Lord calls King James
To his ain countrie;
Bids the wind blaw frae France,
Till the Firth keps the faem,
And Loch Garry and Lochiel
Bring Prince Charlie hame.
May the lads Prince Charlie led
That were hard on Willie's track,
When frae Laffen field he fled,
Wi' the claymore at his back;
May they stand on Scottish soil
When the White Rose bears the gree,
And the Lord calls the King
To his ain countrie!
That were hard on Willie's track,
When frae Laffen field he fled,
Wi' the claymore at his back;
May they stand on Scottish soil
When the White Rose bears the gree,
And the Lord calls the King
To his ain countrie!
63
Bid the seas arise and stand
Like walls on ilka side,
Till our Highland lad pass through
With Jehovah for his guide.
Dry up the river Forth,
As Thou didst the Red Sea,
When Israel cam hame
To his ain countrie.
Like walls on ilka side,
Till our Highland lad pass through
With Jehovah for his guide.
Dry up the river Forth,
As Thou didst the Red Sea,
When Israel cam hame
To his ain countrie.
One verse and the refrain are of 1750 or thereabouts. At Laffen, where William, Duke of Cumberland, was defeated and nearly captured by the Scots and Irish in the French service, Prince Charles is said to have served as a volunteer.
64
Jacobite ‘Auld Lang Syne’
Shall ancient freedom be forgot
And the auld Stuart line?
Shall ancient freedom be forgot
And Auld Lang Syne?
Though now we take King Louis' fee
And drink King Louis' wine,
We'll bring the King frae o'er the sea
For Auld Lang Syne.
And the auld Stuart line?
Shall ancient freedom be forgot
And Auld Lang Syne?
Though now we take King Louis' fee
And drink King Louis' wine,
We'll bring the King frae o'er the sea
For Auld Lang Syne.
We twa hae waded deep in blood,
And broke the red-coat line,
And forded Eden white in flood
For Auld Lang Syne.
And we hae fought the English coofs
Frae Garry to the Rhine,
Frae Gledsmuir to the field o' Val
In Auld Lang Syne.
And broke the red-coat line,
And forded Eden white in flood
For Auld Lang Syne.
And we hae fought the English coofs
Frae Garry to the Rhine,
Frae Gledsmuir to the field o' Val
In Auld Lang Syne.
65
The Butcher wi' the deil shall drink
And wi' the deevil dine,
But Charles shall dine in Holyrood
For Auld Lang Syne.
For He wha did proud Pharaoh crush
And save auld Jacob's line,
Shall speak wi' Charlie in the Bush
Like Moses, lang syne.
And wi' the deevil dine,
But Charles shall dine in Holyrood
For Auld Lang Syne.
For He wha did proud Pharaoh crush
And save auld Jacob's line,
Shall speak wi' Charlie in the Bush
Like Moses, lang syne.
66
The Last of the Leal
Here's a health to every man
Bore the brunt of wind and weather;
Winnowed sore by fortune's fan,
Faded faith of chief and clan:
Nairne and Caryl stand together;
Here's a health to every man
Bore the brunt of wind and weather!
Bore the brunt of wind and weather;
Winnowed sore by fortune's fan,
Faded faith of chief and clan:
Nairne and Caryl stand together;
Here's a health to every man
Bore the brunt of wind and weather!
Oh, round Charlie many ran,
When his foot was on the heather,
When his sword shone in the van.
Now, at ending of his span,
Gask and Caryl stand together!
When his foot was on the heather,
When his sword shone in the van.
Now, at ending of his span,
Gask and Caryl stand together!
Ne'er a hope from plot or plan,
Ne'er a hope from rose or heather;
Ay, the King's a broken man;
Few will bless, and most will ban.
Nairne and Caryl stand together!
Ne'er a hope from rose or heather;
Ay, the King's a broken man;
Few will bless, and most will ban.
Nairne and Caryl stand together!
67
Help is none from Crown or clan,
France is false—a fluttered feather;
But Kings are not made by man,
Till God end what God began,
Nairne and Caryl stand together,
Gask and Caryl stand together;
Here's a health to every man
Bore the brunt of wind and weather!
France is false—a fluttered feather;
But Kings are not made by man,
Till God end what God began,
Nairne and Caryl stand together,
Gask and Caryl stand together;
Here's a health to every man
Bore the brunt of wind and weather!
68
A Scot to Jeanne d'Arc
[_]
NOTE TO ‘A SCOT TO JEANNE D'ARC’
Jeanne d'Arc is said to have led a Scottish force at Lagny, when she
defeated the Burgundian, Franquet d'Arras. A Scottish artist painted her
banner; he was a James Polwarth, or Power or a Hume of Polwarth,
according to a conjecture of Mr. Hill Burton's. A monk of Dunfermline,
who continued Fordun's Chronicle, avers that he was with the Maiden in
her campaigns, and at her martyrdom. He calls her Puella a spiritu sancto
excitata. Unluckily his manuscript breaks off in the middle of a sentence.
At her trial, Jeanne said that she had only once seen her own portrait:
it was in the hands of a Scottish archer. The story of the white dove
which passed from her lips as they opened to her last cry of Jesus! was
reported at the trial for her Rehabilitation (1450-56).
Two archers of the name of Lang, Lain or Laing were in the French
service about 1507.
See the book on the Scottish Guard by Father Forbes Leith.
[_]
NOTE TO ‘A SCOT TO JEANNE D'ARC’
Jeanne d'Arc is said to have led a Scottish force at Lagny, when she defeated the Burgundian, Franquet d'Arras. A Scottish artist painted her banner; he was a James Polwarth, or Power or a Hume of Polwarth, according to a conjecture of Mr. Hill Burton's. A monk of Dunfermline, who continued Fordun's Chronicle, avers that he was with the Maiden in her campaigns, and at her martyrdom. He calls her Puella a spiritu sancto excitata. Unluckily his manuscript breaks off in the middle of a sentence. At her trial, Jeanne said that she had only once seen her own portrait: it was in the hands of a Scottish archer. The story of the white dove which passed from her lips as they opened to her last cry of Jesus! was reported at the trial for her Rehabilitation (1450-56).
Two archers of the name of Lang, Lain or Laing were in the French service about 1507.
See the book on the Scottish Guard by Father Forbes Leith.
Dark Lily without blame,
Not upon us the shame,
Whose sires were to the Auld Alliance true;
They, by the Maiden's side,
Victorious fought and died,
One stood by thee that fiery torment through,
Till the White Dove from thy pure lips had passed,
And thou wert with thine own St. Catherine at the last.
Not upon us the shame,
Whose sires were to the Auld Alliance true;
They, by the Maiden's side,
Victorious fought and died,
One stood by thee that fiery torment through,
Till the White Dove from thy pure lips had passed,
And thou wert with thine own St. Catherine at the last.
69
Once only didst thou see,
In artist's imagery,
Thine own face painted, and that precious thing
Was in an Archer's hand
From the leal northern land.
Alas, what price would not thy people bring
To win that portrait of the ruinous
Gulf of devouring years that hide the Maid from us!
In artist's imagery,
Thine own face painted, and that precious thing
Was in an Archer's hand
From the leal northern land.
Alas, what price would not thy people bring
To win that portrait of the ruinous
Gulf of devouring years that hide the Maid from us!
Born of a lowly line,
Noteless as once was thine,
One of that name I would were kin to me,
Who, in the Scottish Guard
Won this for his reward,
To fight for France, and memory of thee:
Not upon us, dark Lily without blame,
Not on the north may fall the shadow of that shame.
Noteless as once was thine,
One of that name I would were kin to me,
Who, in the Scottish Guard
Won this for his reward,
To fight for France, and memory of thee:
Not upon us, dark Lily without blame,
Not on the north may fall the shadow of that shame.
On France and England both
The shame of broken troth,
Of coward hate and treason black must be;
If England slew thee, France
Sent not one word, one lance,
One coin to rescue or to ransom thee.
And still thy Church unto the Maid denies
The halo and the palms, the Beatific prize.
The shame of broken troth,
Of coward hate and treason black must be;
If England slew thee, France
Sent not one word, one lance,
One coin to rescue or to ransom thee.
And still thy Church unto the Maid denies
The halo and the palms, the Beatific prize.
70
But yet thy people calls
Within the rescued walls
Of Orleans; and makes its prayer to thee;
What though the Church hath chidden
These orisons forbidden,
Yet art thou with this earth's immortal Three,
With him in Athens, that of hemlock died,
And with thy Master dear whom the world crucified.
Within the rescued walls
Of Orleans; and makes its prayer to thee;
What though the Church hath chidden
These orisons forbidden,
Yet art thou with this earth's immortal Three,
With him in Athens, that of hemlock died,
And with thy Master dear whom the world crucified.
71
Jeanne d'Arc
The honour of a loyal boy,
The courage of a paladin,
With maiden's mirth, the soul of joy,
These dwelt her happy breast within.
From shame, from doubt, from fear, from sin,
As God's own angels was she free;
Old worlds shall end and new begin
To be,
The courage of a paladin,
With maiden's mirth, the soul of joy,
These dwelt her happy breast within.
From shame, from doubt, from fear, from sin,
As God's own angels was she free;
Old worlds shall end and new begin
To be,
Ere any come like her who fought
For France, for freedom, for the King;
Who counsel of redemption brought
Whence even the armed Archangel's wing
Might weary sore in voyaging;
Who heard her Voices cry ‘Be free!’
Such Maid no later human spring
Shall see!
For France, for freedom, for the King;
Who counsel of redemption brought
Whence even the armed Archangel's wing
Might weary sore in voyaging;
Who heard her Voices cry ‘Be free!’
Such Maid no later human spring
Shall see!
Saints Michael, Catherine, Margaret,
Who sowed the seed that thou must reap,
If eyes of angels may be wet,
And if the Saints have leave to weep,
In Paradise one pain they keep,
Maiden! one mortal memory,
One sorrow that can never sleep,
For thee!
Who sowed the seed that thou must reap,
If eyes of angels may be wet,
And if the Saints have leave to weep,
In Paradise one pain they keep,
Maiden! one mortal memory,
One sorrow that can never sleep,
For thee!
72
How the Maid marched from Blois
The Maiden called for her great destrier,
But he lashed like a fiend when the Maid drew near:
‘Lead him forth to the Cross!’ she cried, and he stood
Like a steed of bronze by the Holy Rood!
But he lashed like a fiend when the Maid drew near:
‘Lead him forth to the Cross!’ she cried, and he stood
Like a steed of bronze by the Holy Rood!
Then I saw the Maiden mount and ride,
With a good steel sperthe that swung by her side,
And girt with the sword of the Heavenly Bride,
That is sained with crosses five for a sign,
The mystical sword of St. Catherine.
And the lily banner was blowing wide,
With the flowers of France on the field of fame,
And, blent with the blossoms, the Holy Name!
And the Maiden's bearings were shown on a shield,
Argent, a dove, on an azure field;
That banner was wrought by his hand, ye see,
For the love of the Maid and chivalry.
Her banner was borne by a page of grace,
With hair of gold, and a lady's face;
And behind it the ranks of her men were dressed—
Never a man but was clean confessed,
Jackman and archer, lord and knight,
Their souls were clean and their hearts were light:
There was never an oath, there was never a laugh,
And La Hire swore soft by his leading staff!
Had we died in that hour we had won the skies,
And the Maiden had marched us through Paradise!
With a good steel sperthe that swung by her side,
And girt with the sword of the Heavenly Bride,
That is sained with crosses five for a sign,
The mystical sword of St. Catherine.
And the lily banner was blowing wide,
With the flowers of France on the field of fame,
And, blent with the blossoms, the Holy Name!
And the Maiden's bearings were shown on a shield,
Argent, a dove, on an azure field;
That banner was wrought by his hand, ye see,
For the love of the Maid and chivalry.
73
With hair of gold, and a lady's face;
And behind it the ranks of her men were dressed—
Never a man but was clean confessed,
Jackman and archer, lord and knight,
Their souls were clean and their hearts were light:
There was never an oath, there was never a laugh,
And La Hire swore soft by his leading staff!
Had we died in that hour we had won the skies,
And the Maiden had marched us through Paradise!
A moment she turned to the people there,
Who had come to gaze on the Maiden fair;
A moment she glanced at the ring she wore,
She murmured the Holy Name it bore,
Then, ‘For France and the King, good people pray!’
She spoke, and she cried to us, ‘On and away!’
And the shouts broke forth, and the flowers rained down,
And the Maiden led us to Orleans town.
Who had come to gaze on the Maiden fair;
A moment she glanced at the ring she wore,
She murmured the Holy Name it bore,
Then, ‘For France and the King, good people pray!’
She spoke, and she cried to us, ‘On and away!’
And the shouts broke forth, and the flowers rained down,
And the Maiden led us to Orleans town.
76
DEEDS OF MEN
77
Seekers for a City
‘Believe me, if that blissful, that beautiful place, were set on a hill
visible to all the world, I should long ago have journeyed thither . . .
But the number and variety of the ways! For you know, There is but one
road that leads to Corinth.’—
Hermotimus (Mr. Pater's Version).
‘The Poet says dear city of Cecrops, and wilt thou not say, dear city of
Zeus?’—M. Antoninus.
To
Corinth leads one road, you say:
Is there a Corinth, or a way?
Each bland or blatant preacher hath
His painful or his primrose path,
And not a soul of all of these
But knows the city 'twixt the seas,
Her fair unnumbered homes and all
Her gleaming amethystine wall!
Is there a Corinth, or a way?
Each bland or blatant preacher hath
His painful or his primrose path,
And not a soul of all of these
But knows the city 'twixt the seas,
Her fair unnumbered homes and all
Her gleaming amethystine wall!
Blind are the guides who know the way,
The guides who write, and preach, and pray;
I watch their lives, and I divine
They differ not from yours and mine!
One man we knew, and only one,
Whose seeking for a city's done,
For what he greatly sought he found,
A city girt with fire around,
A city in an empty land
Between the wastes of sky and sand,
A city on a river-side,
Where by the folk he loved, he died.
The guides who write, and preach, and pray;
I watch their lives, and I divine
They differ not from yours and mine!
One man we knew, and only one,
Whose seeking for a city's done,
For what he greatly sought he found,
A city girt with fire around,
78
Between the wastes of sky and sand,
A city on a river-side,
Where by the folk he loved, he died.
Alas! it is not ours to tread
That path wherein his life he led,
Not ours his heart to dare and feel,
Keen as the fragrant Syrian steel;
Yet are we not quite city-less,
Not wholly left in our distress—
Is it not said by One of old,
Sheep have I of another fold?
Ah! faint of heart, and weak of will,
For us there is a city still!
That path wherein his life he led,
Not ours his heart to dare and feel,
Keen as the fragrant Syrian steel;
Yet are we not quite city-less,
Not wholly left in our distress—
Is it not said by One of old,
Sheep have I of another fold?
Ah! faint of heart, and weak of will,
For us there is a city still!
Dear city of Zeus, the Stoic says,
The Voice from Rome's imperial days,
In Thee meet all things, and disperse,
In Thee, for Thee, O Universe!
To me all's fruit thy seasons bring,
Alike thy summer and thy spring;
The winds that wail, the suns that burn,
From Thee proceed, to Thee return.
The Voice from Rome's imperial days,
In Thee meet all things, and disperse,
In Thee, for Thee, O Universe!
To me all's fruit thy seasons bring,
Alike thy summer and thy spring;
The winds that wail, the suns that burn,
From Thee proceed, to Thee return.
79
Dear city of Zeus, shall we not say,
Home to which none can lose the way?
Born in that city's flaming bound,
We do not find her, but are found.
Within her wide and viewless wall
The Universe is girdled all.
All joys and pains, all wealth and dearth,
All things that travail on the earth,
God's will they work, if God there be,
If not, what is my life to me?
Home to which none can lose the way?
Born in that city's flaming bound,
We do not find her, but are found.
Within her wide and viewless wall
The Universe is girdled all.
All joys and pains, all wealth and dearth,
All things that travail on the earth,
God's will they work, if God there be,
If not, what is my life to me?
Seek we no further, but abide
Within this city great and wide.
In her and for her living, we
Have no less joy than to be free;
Nor death nor grief can quite appal
The folk that dwell within her wall,
Nor aught but with our will befall!
Within this city great and wide.
In her and for her living, we
Have no less joy than to be free;
Nor death nor grief can quite appal
The folk that dwell within her wall,
Nor aught but with our will befall!
80
The White Pacha
Vain is the dream! However hope may rave,He perished with the folk he could not save;
And though none surely told us he is dead,
And though perchance another in his stead—
Another, not less brave, when all was done,
Had fled unto the southward and the sun,
Had urged a way by force, or won by guile
To streams remotest of the secret Nile,
Had raised an army of the desert men,
And, waiting for his hour, had turned again
And fallen on that False Prophet, yet we know
Gordon is dead, and these things are not so!
Nay, not for England's cause, nor to restore
Her trampled flag—for he loved honour more—
Nay, not for life, revenge, or victory,
Would he have fled, whose hour had dawned to die.
He will not come again, whate'er our need;
He will not come, who is happy, being freed
From the deathly flesh and perishable things,
And lies of statesmen and rewards of kings.
81
He sleeps like those who shall return no more,
No more return for all the prayers of men—
Arthur and Charles—they never come again!
They shall not wake, though fair the vision seem,
Whate'er sick hope may whisper, vain the dream!
82
Midnight, January 25, 1886
To-morrow is a year since Gordon died!
A year ago to-night, the desert still
Crouched on the spring, and panted for its fill
Of lust and blood. Their old art statesmen plied,
And paltered, and evaded, and denied;
Guiltless as yet, except for feeble will,
And craven heart, and calculated skill
In long delays, of their great homicide.
A year ago to-night, the desert still
Crouched on the spring, and panted for its fill
Of lust and blood. Their old art statesmen plied,
And paltered, and evaded, and denied;
Guiltless as yet, except for feeble will,
And craven heart, and calculated skill
In long delays, of their great homicide.
A year ago to-night 'twas not too late.
The thought comes through our mirth—again, again;
Methinks I hear the halting foot of fate
Approaching and approaching us; and then
Comes cackle of the House, and the debate!
Enough; he is forgotten amongst men.
The thought comes through our mirth—again, again;
Methinks I hear the halting foot of fate
Approaching and approaching us; and then
Comes cackle of the House, and the debate!
Enough; he is forgotten amongst men.
83
England
‘We are rather disposed to laugh when poets or orators try to conjure
with the name of England.’—Professor Seeley.
When Nelson's sudden signal came
Men's hearts leaped up the word to hail:
Not vainly with his England's name
He ‘conjured’, but to some avail!
When o'er the Birkenhead her fate
Closed, and our men arose to die,
The name of England yet was great,
And yet upheld their hearts on high.
Men's hearts leaped up the word to hail:
Not vainly with his England's name
He ‘conjured’, but to some avail!
When o'er the Birkenhead her fate
Closed, and our men arose to die,
The name of England yet was great,
And yet upheld their hearts on high.
For England's honour Gordon chose,
When England would not guard her own,
Serene amidst a world of foes,
Alone to live, to die alone.
But that great name, to Milton dear,
Of England's ocean-circled isle,
The voters greet it with a jeer,
The witling sniffs it with a smile.
When England would not guard her own,
Serene amidst a world of foes,
Alone to live, to die alone.
But that great name, to Milton dear,
Of England's ocean-circled isle,
The voters greet it with a jeer,
The witling sniffs it with a smile.
84
Well, if indeed that name no more
Must, like a trumpet, stir the blood;
Of all our fathers wrought and bore
For England, on the field and flood;
If naught endures, if all must pass,
Then speed the hour when we shall be,
Unmoved, unshamed beneath the grass,
Deaf to the mountains and the sea!
Must, like a trumpet, stir the blood;
Of all our fathers wrought and bore
For England, on the field and flood;
If naught endures, if all must pass,
Then speed the hour when we shall be,
Unmoved, unshamed beneath the grass,
Deaf to the mountains and the sea!
Deaf to the voices Wordsworth heard
Reverberant from height and deep;
Dull to the sights and sounds that stirred
Our fathers; heedless and asleep.
For so, at least, we shall nor hear
The noises from the Meetings borne,
Where England's children, with a sneer,
Hail ‘England’ as a word of scorn.
Reverberant from height and deep;
Dull to the sights and sounds that stirred
Our fathers; heedless and asleep.
For so, at least, we shall nor hear
The noises from the Meetings borne,
Where England's children, with a sneer,
Hail ‘England’ as a word of scorn.
85
Advance, Australia
ON THE OFFER OF HELP FROM THE AUSTRALIANS AFTER THE FALL OF KHARTOUM.
Sons of the giant ocean isle,
In sport our friendly foes for long,
Well England loves you, and we smile
When you outmatch us many a while,
So fleet you are, so keen and strong.
In sport our friendly foes for long,
Well England loves you, and we smile
When you outmatch us many a while,
So fleet you are, so keen and strong.
You, like that fairy people set
Of old in their enchanted sea
Far off from men, might well forget
An elder nation's toil and fret,
Might heed not aught but game and glee.
Of old in their enchanted sea
Far off from men, might well forget
An elder nation's toil and fret,
Might heed not aught but game and glee.
But what your fathers were—you are
In lands the fathers never knew,
'Neath skies of alien sign and star
You rally to the English war;
Your hearts are English, kind and true.
In lands the fathers never knew,
'Neath skies of alien sign and star
You rally to the English war;
Your hearts are English, kind and true.
86
And now, when first on England falls
The shadow of a darkening fate,
You hear the Mother ere she calls,
You leave your ocean-girdled walls,
And face her foemen in the gate.
The shadow of a darkening fate,
You hear the Mother ere she calls,
You leave your ocean-girdled walls,
And face her foemen in the gate.
87
Colonel Burnaby
συ δ' εν στροφαλιγγι χονιης
χεισο μεγαΣ μεγαλωστι, λελασμενος ιπποσυναων.
Thou that on every field of earth and sky
Didst hunt for death, who seemed to flee and fear—
How great and greatly fallen dost thou lie
Slain in the desert by some wandering spear:
‘Not here, alas!’ may England say, ‘not here,
Nor in this quarrel was it meet to die,
But in that dreadful battle drawing nigh
To thunder through the Afghan passes sheer,
Didst hunt for death, who seemed to flee and fear—
How great and greatly fallen dost thou lie
Slain in the desert by some wandering spear:
‘Not here, alas!’ may England say, ‘not here,
Nor in this quarrel was it meet to die,
But in that dreadful battle drawing nigh
To thunder through the Afghan passes sheer,
Like Aias by the ships shouldst thou have stood,
And in some glen have stayed the stream of flight,
The bulwark of thy people and their shield,
When Indus or when Helmund ran with blood;
Till back into the northland and the night
The smitten eagle scattered from the field.’
And in some glen have stayed the stream of flight,
The bulwark of thy people and their shield,
When Indus or when Helmund ran with blood;
Till back into the northland and the night
The smitten eagle scattered from the field.’
88
Melville and Coghill
(The Place of the Little Hand)
Dead, with their eyes to the foe;
Dead, with the foe at their feet,
Under the sky laid low
Truly their slumber is sweet,
Though the wind from the Camp of the Slain Men blow,
And the rain on the wilderness beat.
Dead, with the foe at their feet,
Under the sky laid low
Truly their slumber is sweet,
Though the wind from the Camp of the Slain Men blow,
And the rain on the wilderness beat.
Dead, for they chose to die
When that wild race was run;
Dead, for they would not fly,
Deeming their work undone,
Nor cared to look on the face of the sky,
Nor loved the light of the sun.
When that wild race was run;
Dead, for they would not fly,
Deeming their work undone,
Nor cared to look on the face of the sky,
Nor loved the light of the sun.
Honour we give them and tears,
And the flag they died to save,
Rent from the rain of the spears,
Wet from the war and the wave,
Shall waft men's thoughts through the dust of the years,
Back to their lonely grave!
And the flag they died to save,
Rent from the rain of the spears,
Wet from the war and the wave,
Shall waft men's thoughts through the dust of the years,
Back to their lonely grave!
89
To Colonel Ian Hamilton
To you, who know the face of war,You, that for England wander far,
You, that have seen the Ghazis fly
From English lads not sworn to die;
You, that have lain where, deadly chill,
The mist crept o'er the Shameful Hill;
You that have conquered, mile by mile,
The currents of unfriendly Nile,
And cheered the march, and eased the strain
When politics made valour vain,
Ian, to you, from banks of Ken,
We send our lays of Englishmen!
| The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang | |