 | Poems and Songs |  |
1
Out among the Oaks of Cadzow.
THE BALLAD-MAKERS.
Yonder is the noble river,
Shimmering through the forest thin;
Listen to its song of welcome,
Murmur'd with a laugh-like din:
Bright as April, when the summer
Comes before sweet May has come,
When the sloes with bloom are snowy,
And the bees about them hum.
Shimmering through the forest thin;
Listen to its song of welcome,
Murmur'd with a laugh-like din:
Bright as April, when the summer
Comes before sweet May has come,
When the sloes with bloom are snowy,
And the bees about them hum.
Here in Avon's gleam reclining
In the beeches' shadow wide,
While the warder-firs salute us,
Bowing from the further side;
While the tassell'd larches, whispering,
Of a stranger's presence tell,
And the startled roebuck, bounding,
Bears the tidings down the dell.
In the beeches' shadow wide,
While the warder-firs salute us,
Bowing from the further side;
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Of a stranger's presence tell,
And the startled roebuck, bounding,
Bears the tidings down the dell.
After flasks and pipes refresh us,
Who's our chosen bard to-day?
His the choice of song or story,
Ours to bear it as we may;
But with Avon's self to listen,
And its birds the leaves among,
Surely ne'er were fitter audience;
Is it ballad, bard, or song?
Who's our chosen bard to-day?
His the choice of song or story,
Ours to bear it as we may;
But with Avon's self to listen,
And its birds the leaves among,
Surely ne'er were fitter audience;
Is it ballad, bard, or song?
THE BALLAD.
Once upon a time a lady,
Fair as life when Love's new born,
Left her proud impatient palfrey
Bound to yonder hoary thorn:
Not the forest flowers to gather,
Not the forest merles to hear,
Nor the tale of favour'd wooer,
Murmur'd in a willing ear.
Fair as life when Love's new born,
Left her proud impatient palfrey
Bound to yonder hoary thorn:
Not the forest flowers to gather,
Not the forest merles to hear,
Nor the tale of favour'd wooer,
Murmur'd in a willing ear.
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See among the bushes yonder,
By the weedy wagon-way,
Low among the broken brackens,
Sits a woman old and grey.
Desolate she seems and crazy,
Thin as death and rheumy-eyed,
And the fair and noble lady
Whispers, bending at her side:
By the weedy wagon-way,
Low among the broken brackens,
Sits a woman old and grey.
Desolate she seems and crazy,
Thin as death and rheumy-eyed,
And the fair and noble lady
Whispers, bending at her side:
“Mother—let me call you mother,
Since you are so old and frail—
Wherefore are you here so often,
Sitting lonely thus and pale?
I am in the forest riding
Morn and e'en and every day,
And I never fail to meet you,
Mourning, somewhere on my way.
Since you are so old and frail—
Wherefore are you here so often,
Sitting lonely thus and pale?
I am in the forest riding
Morn and e'en and every day,
And I never fail to meet you,
Mourning, somewhere on my way.
“Even at home your presence haunts me,
In my slumbers you are there;
In the evening dance you mingle,
Mourning, mourning everywhere.
“Oh, if you would only trust me,
I, a prying girl that seem,
May be more an angel coming
Unaware than you can deem.
In my slumbers you are there;
In the evening dance you mingle,
Mourning, mourning everywhere.
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I, a prying girl that seem,
May be more an angel coming
Unaware than you can deem.
“Haply in the river's babble,
Mother, you some solace find;
For the voice of running water
Soothes, they say, a weary mind.
But it is a wayward river,
Changing oft from smiles to wrath;
And to dare its strength resembles
Sitting in the lightning's path.
Mother, you some solace find;
For the voice of running water
Soothes, they say, a weary mind.
But it is a wayward river,
Changing oft from smiles to wrath;
And to dare its strength resembles
Sitting in the lightning's path.
‘You have heard its reckless rushing,
When its sources send it down
Like a sea-wave, tempest driven,
Thunder torrents thick and brown;
While its boulders roll'd before it,
And its hazels dripp'd with spray;
Long the thunder has been booming,
Mother, up the strath to-day.
When its sources send it down
Like a sea-wave, tempest driven,
Thunder torrents thick and brown;
While its boulders roll'd before it,
And its hazels dripp'd with spray;
Long the thunder has been booming,
Mother, up the strath to-day.
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“Nay, if 'tis a secret sorrow,
Still from me let it be so,
Sacred in your bosom keep it;
Wherefore should a stranger know?
But the setting sunbeams faintly
Gilds the trees on yonder hill,
And the river-mist is rising,
And the air is growing chill;
Still from me let it be so,
Sacred in your bosom keep it;
Wherefore should a stranger know?
But the setting sunbeams faintly
Gilds the trees on yonder hill,
And the river-mist is rising,
And the air is growing chill;
“Therefore, let me urge you, mother,
Though unkind it seems and rude
Thus to teaze you with my presence,
Let me help you from the wood.
Cold and cramp will else assail you,
For at night they linger here;
And the burden of your sorrow
Surely is enough to bear.”
Though unkind it seems and rude
Thus to teaze you with my presence,
Let me help you from the wood.
Cold and cramp will else assail you,
For at night they linger here;
And the burden of your sorrow
Surely is enough to bear.”
“Gin ye be sae aften ridin’”
(Thus the mourner) “down the glen,
Maybe, leddy, ye can tell me,
A' that lang I've socht to ken;
“Hae ye ever seen my Athur?—
He was rosy as yoursel'.
Hae ye ever seen him, leddy,
Doon aboot in glade or dell?
(Thus the mourner) “down the glen,
Maybe, leddy, ye can tell me,
A' that lang I've socht to ken;
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He was rosy as yoursel'.
Hae ye ever seen him, leddy,
Doon aboot in glade or dell?
“Athur's lost, the neebors tell me—
Lost an' gane this mony a day;
An' they think his mither's crazy,
When she trows nae what they say.
Think ye God wad let a mither
Sae her only callan tyne?
Nae! the thocht but wrangs oor Maker—
Yet he's ne'er been hame sinsyne.
Lost an' gane this mony a day;
An' they think his mither's crazy,
When she trows nae what they say.
Think ye God wad let a mither
Sae her only callan tyne?
Nae! the thocht but wrangs oor Maker—
Yet he's ne'er been hame sinsyne.
“Ne'er sinsyne I've seen him, leddy;
Oh, a cruel thing it seems!
But he wadnae aye be comin'
Lauchin' to me in my dreams—
Heaven would ne'er wi' leein' visions
Mock a mournin' heart like mine,
Gin my laddie werenae leevin'—
But he's ne'er been hame sinsyne.
Oh, a cruel thing it seems!
But he wadnae aye be comin'
Lauchin' to me in my dreams—
Heaven would ne'er wi' leein' visions
Mock a mournin' heart like mine,
Gin my laddie werenae leevin'—
But he's ne'er been hame sinsyne.
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“Dootless ye hae heard the story?
Wha but's heard it? Wha but's been
Peerin' in the darkness yonder
Whare there's naething to be seen?
There, they say, his ghaist is hauntin',
Benward aye it seems to glide;
But the ghaist is nane o' Willie's,
Else frae me it wadnae hide.
Wha but's heard it? Wha but's been
Peerin' in the darkness yonder
Whare there's naething to be seen?
There, they say, his ghaist is hauntin',
Benward aye it seems to glide;
But the ghaist is nane o' Willie's,
Else frae me it wadnae hide.
“Gin I could but trow my laddie
'Neath the braes is lyin' yet,
Then I michtnae doot his speerit
In aboot the mines micht flit.
Maybe watchin' owre his body
Till a prayer aboon't be sain,
Or, at least, a kin'ly finger
On his sichtless een be lain.
'Neath the braes is lyin' yet,
Then I michtnae doot his speerit
In aboot the mines micht flit.
Maybe watchin' owre his body
Till a prayer aboon't be sain,
Or, at least, a kin'ly finger
On his sichtless een be lain.
“Mony a weary year sin', leddy,
While the shearers swat and sang,
Word cam' to the field that something
Doon aboot the pit was wrang—
“‘Athur Aedie wannert someway,’
That was a' they seem'd to ken;
‘Athur Aedie wannert someway,’
Has been whisper'd aye since then.
While the shearers swat and sang,
Word cam' to the field that something
Doon aboot the pit was wrang—
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That was a' they seem'd to ken;
‘Athur Aedie wannert someway,’
Has been whisper'd aye since then.
“Dootless ye hae heard the story,
Hoo for weeks an' weeks they socht,
Days an' sleepless nichts, unwearit—
But their toilin' naething brocht.
Aye for langer search cam' reasons,
Better reasons aye again,
But o' wannert Athur Aedie
Trace or tidings gat they nane.
Hoo for weeks an' weeks they socht,
Days an' sleepless nichts, unwearit—
But their toilin' naething brocht.
Aye for langer search cam' reasons,
Better reasons aye again,
But o' wannert Athur Aedie
Trace or tidings gat they nane.
“Then the searchers sicken'd, weary,
An' they took the bluid hounds in,
As if they wi' Doom were playin',
An' the game had sworn to win.
Muckle frae the hounds they houpit—
Mair than they could houp to hae;
Could the feet o' Athur Aedie,
Guide a filthy beast o' prey?
An' they took the bluid hounds in,
As if they wi' Doom were playin',
An' the game had sworn to win.
Muckle frae the hounds they houpit—
Mair than they could houp to hae;
Could the feet o' Athur Aedie,
Guide a filthy beast o' prey?
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“Then the river pools they raiket,
A' the shallows waded syne,
Then they dared unheard o' dangers,
Turnin' fa's within the mine.
Clyde they socht, and Cadzow's ruins,
Doon the cradled well an' a',
But I never thocht it likely
Athur in the well would fa'.
A' the shallows waded syne,
Then they dared unheard o' dangers,
Turnin' fa's within the mine.
Clyde they socht, and Cadzow's ruins,
Doon the cradled well an' a',
But I never thocht it likely
Athur in the well would fa'.
“Through the oaks, their clefts and hollows
Searchin', days an' nichts they ran;
E'en the wildest thocht was welcome—
Wisdom seem'd in every plan.
Aye the search grew wide an' wider—
Weariness ne'er cost a care;
But the mair they search'd the louder
Croak'd the raven o' Despair.
Searchin', days an' nichts they ran;
E'en the wildest thocht was welcome—
Wisdom seem'd in every plan.
Aye the search grew wide an' wider—
Weariness ne'er cost a care;
But the mair they search'd the louder
Croak'd the raven o' Despair.
“But they never saw him, leddy,
Athur Aedie wasna there;
Heaven—ye maunna think I haver—
Heaven had Athur in its care.
“An' although it keeps him hidden,
Aft it seems a sin to fret,
When sae mony blithesome visions
Tell me aye he's leevin' yet.
Athur Aedie wasna there;
Heaven—ye maunna think I haver—
Heaven had Athur in its care.
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Aft it seems a sin to fret,
When sae mony blithesome visions
Tell me aye he's leevin' yet.
“Dootless ye hae heard about it,
They've been tellin't far an' near:
Ah! but I hae things to tell o',
That abroad ye canna hear;
Whiles its like an auld-warld story,
That I only trow has been;
Whiles it seems my rosy callan
Only gaed awa' yestreen.
They've been tellin't far an' near:
Ah! but I hae things to tell o',
That abroad ye canna hear;
Whiles its like an auld-warld story,
That I only trow has been;
Whiles it seems my rosy callan
Only gaed awa' yestreen.
“Mony a nicht his faither's wi' me,
And sae life-like does he seem,
That I kenna if I'm dreamin',
Or but waukent frae a dream.
Owre again we hear oor callan,
By the eastlin' winnock gaun,
Or the sneck we hear him liftin',
Aye whene'er we lay us doon.
And sae life-like does he seem,
That I kenna if I'm dreamin',
Or but waukent frae a dream.
Owre again we hear oor callan,
By the eastlin' winnock gaun,
Or the sneck we hear him liftin',
Aye whene'er we lay us doon.
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“Owre again his faither seeks him,
Roun' an' roun' the toun at e'en,
Thinkin' he was maybe hidin',
Feart yet willin' to be seen.
Owre again he seems, when wildly
Roars the win' an' pours the rain,
Careless o' himsel' to seek him,
Oot an' in an' oot again.
Roun' an' roun' the toun at e'en,
Thinkin' he was maybe hidin',
Feart yet willin' to be seen.
Owre again he seems, when wildly
Roars the win' an' pours the rain,
Careless o' himsel' to seek him,
Oot an' in an' oot again.
“Owre again at nicht we linger,
Till the lamp is glimmerin' dim,
Waitin' for the foot that never
Enters bringin' news o' him.
Or the fire we hear him chappin',
Noo, as then, we thocht we heard;
Or about the loan we hear him
Liltin' like a mornin' bird.
Till the lamp is glimmerin' dim,
Waitin' for the foot that never
Enters bringin' news o' him.
Or the fire we hear him chappin',
Noo, as then, we thocht we heard;
Or about the loan we hear him
Liltin' like a mornin' bird.
“Oh! gin I were only dreamin'!
Thin his faither grew an' wan,
Then to speak o' meetin' Athur
'Mang the angels he began;
“Then he laid him doon an' waited
Patient till the word was sain;
Then the neebours in the mornin'
Cam', and my gudeman was gane.
Thin his faither grew an' wan,
Then to speak o' meetin' Athur
'Mang the angels he began;
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Patient till the word was sain;
Then the neebours in the mornin'
Cam', and my gudeman was gane.
“Oh! but its an unco' story,
An' there's muckle mair to tell,
Dreams o' sorrow born, owre awfu'
E'en to think o' by mysel'.
Grief, they say, the tongue will lowsen,
An' it may be true in pairt,
But the deepest sorrow silent
Sits an' gnaws awa' the heart.
An' there's muckle mair to tell,
Dreams o' sorrow born, owre awfu'
E'en to think o' by mysel'.
Grief, they say, the tongue will lowsen,
An' it may be true in pairt,
But the deepest sorrow silent
Sits an' gnaws awa' the heart.
“Leddy, let us kneel thegither,
Oh, but ye are unco kin',
Pray for tidin's o' my Athur,
An' my thochts wi' yours will join:
Say his mither's heart is breakin',
Say that Death 's been near her gaun
Mony a day, an' aye in pity
Hauds his aften-lifted haun'.
Oh, but ye are unco kin',
Pray for tidin's o' my Athur,
An' my thochts wi' yours will join:
Say his mither's heart is breakin',
Say that Death 's been near her gaun
Mony a day, an' aye in pity
Hauds his aften-lifted haun'.
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“Tell Him o' her unco yearnin'
Day an' nicht an' morn an' e'en;
Why He lets the King o' Terrors
Spare her say ye canna ween.
Speir if it be but to bless her
Wi' her bairn's return again;
Spier if it be but to show her
Houp was never born in vain.
Day an' nicht an' morn an' e'en;
Why He lets the King o' Terrors
Spare her say ye canna ween.
Speir if it be but to bless her
Wi' her bairn's return again;
Spier if it be but to show her
Houp was never born in vain.
“Beg o' Him a sign, kin' leddy—
Signs we maybe shouldna seek,
But the King o' Heaven nae langer
Deigns wi' folk on earth to speak.
Beg ye then a sign, sweet leddy,
Sic as Heaven alane can gie;
Wherefore should He keep me waitin'
When a sign would set me free?
Signs we maybe shouldna seek,
But the King o' Heaven nae langer
Deigns wi' folk on earth to speak.
Beg ye then a sign, sweet leddy,
Sic as Heaven alane can gie;
Wherefore should He keep me waitin'
When a sign would set me free?
“Thrice let Athur pass before us,
An' if he be dead an' gane,
Let him be a callan smilin'
In his mither's face fu' fain.
“Thrice, if he be leevin', let him
Pass a broon an' bearded man,
Ploddin' hame to tell his faither
Hoo, an' why, and whare he ran.
An' if he be dead an' gane,
Let him be a callan smilin'
In his mither's face fu' fain.
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Pass a broon an' bearded man,
Ploddin' hame to tell his faither
Hoo, an' why, and whare he ran.
“Wait awee wi' patience, leddy,
Fauld your hau 's an' wait awee;
Bearded man or smilin' callan
Dootless we, belyve, will see;
Gin there be an ear aboon us,
That can hear us when we pray,
Gin there be a God to answer,
Leddy, we'll an answer hae.
Fauld your hau 's an' wait awee;
Bearded man or smilin' callan
Dootless we, belyve, will see;
Gin there be an ear aboon us,
That can hear us when we pray,
Gin there be a God to answer,
Leddy, we'll an answer hae.
“Oh! but I am unco dizzy—
Aften I am dizzy noo,
Aften I hae stoons like burnin'
Arrows dartin' through my broo;
Aften I am blin' a weeock,
An' a glimmerin' fills my een,
Like the skinkle o' the moonbeams
On the frozen snaw that's seen.
Aften I am dizzy noo,
Aften I hae stoons like burnin'
Arrows dartin' through my broo;
Aften I am blin' a weeock,
An' a glimmerin' fills my een,
Like the skinkle o' the moonbeams
On the frozen snaw that's seen.
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“Neither man nor callan passes!
Leddy, ye hae pray'd in vain;
What ava's the guid o' prayin'
If to answer there be nane?
Nocht's for me but weary waitin';
Ah! but frettin's wrang in me—
Maybe I am keepit waitin'
Just to kiss him or I dee.
Leddy, ye hae pray'd in vain;
What ava's the guid o' prayin'
If to answer there be nane?
Nocht's for me but weary waitin';
Ah! but frettin's wrang in me—
Maybe I am keepit waitin'
Just to kiss him or I dee.
“Fare-ye-weel! forget me, leddy;
Whyles my words are wrang I fear;
Leddies shouldna hear o' troubles
That may gar them drap a tear.
Dinna ye wi' thinkin' o' me
Darken ither glens an streams;
Drive me frae your thochts an', maybe,
God will keep me frae your dreams.”
Whyles my words are wrang I fear;
Leddies shouldna hear o' troubles
That may gar them drap a tear.
Dinna ye wi' thinkin' o' me
Darken ither glens an streams;
Drive me frae your thochts an', maybe,
God will keep me frae your dreams.”
Then, a path among the bushes
Choosing, up the braes she wound,
Ever searchin', ever searchin',
Searchin' with a faith profound;
Never fancy's fond assurance
Yieldin' wholly to despair,
But a melancholy pleasure
Findin' in her constant care.
Choosing, up the braes she wound,
Ever searchin', ever searchin',
Searchin' with a faith profound;
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Yieldin' wholly to despair,
But a melancholy pleasure
Findin' in her constant care.
At the Milken well she linger'd,
Listening to its murmur low,
Listening to the tale it told her
Of the summers long ago:
Of the happy, sunny summers,
Yet so like a pleasant dream,
When her rosy callan, daily,
Came to its unfailing stream.
Listening to its murmur low,
Listening to the tale it told her
Of the summers long ago:
Of the happy, sunny summers,
Yet so like a pleasant dream,
When her rosy callan, daily,
Came to its unfailing stream.
Thus they parted; but the purling
Of the Milken well shall cease,
And no more for ever, Avon,
Sing its summer song of peace;
And the stillness of the olden
Times to Quarter come again,
Ere the fate of Athur Aedie
Cease a wonder to remain.
Of the Milken well shall cease,
And no more for ever, Avon,
Sing its summer song of peace;
And the stillness of the olden
Times to Quarter come again,
Ere the fate of Athur Aedie
Cease a wonder to remain.
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“Wha but has some Athur Aedie?”
Thus we said when closed the tale;
“Wha but has some Athur Aedie
O' the fancy to bewail?—
Something ever bright and distant
Lov'd and vainly long'd for still,
Like a gem unpriced that sparkles
On a high and pathless hill.”
Thus we said when closed the tale;
“Wha but has some Athur Aedie
O' the fancy to bewail?—
Something ever bright and distant
Lov'd and vainly long'd for still,
Like a gem unpriced that sparkles
On a high and pathless hill.”
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