Lyrical Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Muse, nae poet ever fand her,
Till by himsel' he learned to wander,
Adown some trotting burn's meander,
And no think lang;
O sweet to stray, and pensive ponder
The heart-felt sang! —
Burns.

Le bon Dieu me dit, chante,
Chante, pauvre petit! —
Beranger.

201

MY VOCATION.

Through life I went blundering on,
Trying this thing and that for employ;
But of trades and professions was none
Would suit such a cross-witted boy.
One day, when I strayed through the wood,
All dark and despairing of good,
I heard a sweet bird on the spray,
And thus it seemed chirping to say—
“Why don't you try to sing, sing,
Cheerily, cheerily, poor little thing?”

Of theology, warranted sound,
I made a devout navigation,
But the bigots soon ran me aground,
With sulphurous blasts of damnation.

202

Besides, I soon found that God's plan
Was too vast for the small wit of man;
So I took the sweet hint from the spray,
And my heart with the bird 'gan to say—
“Love man and his Maker, and sing, sing,
Piously, piously, poor little thing!”

I served with a lawyer some time,
And I used the lithe trick of the jaw,
But to me all their speeches sublime
Seemed very like thrashing of straw.
With words very deftly they wrangled,
But the sense in the scuffle was strangled;
So I went to the bird on the spray,
And my heart with its song seemed to say—
“Leave wrangling and jangling, and sing, sing,
Peacefully, peacefully, poor little thing!”

To combat the worst of our foes,
With the Doctors I then did embark;
The disease they were quick to expose,
But the cure was to guess in the dark.
So, being no friend of humbug,
I threw away lancet and drug;

203

And I went to the bird on the spray,
And my heart with its song seemed to say—
“The best of all cures is to sing, sing,
Hopefully, hopefully, poor little thing!”

And now I'm a minstrel by trade,
And though I don't gather much money,
Since the time when that bird I obeyed,
My heart is a flower full of honey.
From grim theological doctors,
From lawyers and drug-concoctors,
I'm free as a bird on the spray;
And a voice in my heart still doth say—
“Thy wisdom below is to sing, sing,
Fearlessly, fearlessly, poor little thing!”

204

MY WISH: AN IDYLL.

“Tell me thy wish!”—Though wishes are foolish, yet sometimes a friend may
Speak to a friend the thought, that in the back ground of his fancy
Floats serenely, remote from the urgent spur of the moment.
When my battle is fought—for I would live as a soldier,
Gallantly shaping my life to the type of a noble con-ception,
Fighting with faithless hearts, and brains of no specu-lation,
Meagre formalists, men who swear by statute and parchment,

205

Clogging with blocks from the past the glorious march of the future:—
But when my Malakoff falls—or I am maimed in the storming—
Then I know the spot, where I would build me a cot-tage,
Neat and trim, with lancet-windows quaint, and a bulging
Bow to the West, a porch to the South with stiff old ivy
Roofed, and flanked on each side by a trellised veran-dah, bound with
Roses and Traveller's Joy. Remote it lies in a mea-dow,
Where the river, the son of the mountain, before with the briny
Billow he mingles, around the base of the wooded enclosure
Rushes with circular sweep, and leaves a plain in the middle.
Silently then he gathers his strength, and sombrely winding
Through a deep, dark chasm, is lost in the eddies of ocean.

206

Here my cottage shall stand; and here, before my window,
Densely massed shall the sycamore spread its bountiful shadow
Over the daisied green, where the mill-stream winding clearly
Circles me round with peace, and the twin-spired hoary cathedral
Peeps through the trees. Here I, with my wife, my faithful companion,
Lovingly quick to my faults, and jealously keen for my honour,
Wisely would cherish the years that ripen the spirit for glory.
Here, with a bevy of bright-eyed boys—my own or my sister's—
I in the morning will rise, and sow the peas in the garden,
Trim the hedges, or bind the rasps, or dig the potatoes.
Here, in the heat of the day, my leisure shall know me, my study,
Painted with dancing Graces, Mercuries, Pans, and Apollos,

207

Shelved with books, and piled with papers of youthful remembrance.
O! the luxury then to take my Foulis' Homer,
Gift of Forbes, my friend, and spread before me its ample
Large-typed beautiful page, and spout the wrath of Achilles
Loud with rhythmical chaunt, as often in youthful fervour
I, on the breezy brow of Morven or mighty Muicdhui,
Shouted my Greek to the winds! or, should my humour be thoughtful,
Then in my ear shall sound the melodious wisdom of Plato,
Deep-mouthed, voicing the things that remain, when the pride of the Present
Passes, and God is felt, the centre of deathless Being:
Or, if the comical whim shall tickle my diaphragm, lightly
Thou, Aristophanes then, with lusty humour redundant,
Shaking thy blossoms of wit, like flowers in summer, shalt cheer me.

208

Thus I'll muse o'er my books, till the slanting beam in the window
Shows the sun half-way from his noon-day height to his setting.
Then my faithful companion, my wife, with loving inquiry,
Taps at my door, and a bevy of bright-eyed boys up-roarious
Rushes behind. Abroad we sally, and carelessly wander
Over the fields, or across the deep stream paddle the wherry:
Many a flower we pluck, and many a fern from the shaded
Root of the old grey crag, and with learned phrase botanical
Daisy and crow-foot baptize, and the crimp-leaved
blue-flowered speedwell;
Stamens and pistils we count, and talk of loves and marriages
Mystical-typed by God in the life of the leafy creation.
Then my faithful companion, my wife, with thoughts of affection,

209

Thinks of the poor and the sick. We visit the old schoolmaster,
Call on the gardener's widow, and talk of her son, who so bravely
Scaled the heights, and spiked the guns at glorious Alma;
Leave a book for Tommy, the learned son of the ploughman,
Who, his mother hath said, shall mount the pulpit, and, one day,
Stir the hearts of the people, and thunder, as Guthrie thunders.
Thus we roam till the westering sun with lengthening shadow
Falls; and then return to the sound of the gong for dinner.
Now to dinner we go—my dinner shall never be lonely—
Me the minister, clerk of the Church by law established,
Me the Dissenter shall know; one liberal board receives them.
Hock and Claret shall whelm the sectarian hate in their bosoms,

210

Drowned in mellow delight. Likewise the village physician
I to my table will call, and every man whom the parish
Honours, for virtue, or knowledge, or public spirit reputed.
We with various talk will season the generous flowing
Soul-discumbering wine—the battles of Tory and Whig men,
Church and State, the Russian's wile, and the Prussian's weakness,
Freedom down-trampled in France, and Popery nursled in Oxford:
Science, religion, and art, theology, heresy, schism,
Records of God in the rock, huge antediluvian reptiles,
Mummied in beds of stone, with fishes and crabs gigantic;
Maurice, and Lewis, and Kingsley, Macleod the jocund apostle,
Thackeray, Dickens, and Browning, and Carlyle, king of the Titans;
Hamilton, Hegel, and Kant, the Infinite and the Insoluble,
Harsh-grained bigots at home, and cloud-brained mystics in Deutschland.

211

Thus shall flow the discourse: the gentlemen then to the parlour
Ripely retire; and there, with the clatter of saucers and tea-cups,
Rattling dice, and thoughtful chess, and whist fourhanded,
Critical talk with the ladies of Tennyson's Idylls and Balder,
Adam Bede, and Miss Muloch, Macaulay, Massey, and Aytoun,
Sermons at home and abroad, the fiery bray of the unkempt
Gospelling Scot, and the smooth-lipped polish of gentleman priests, who
Guide with innocuous grace the Cockney's silken devotions,
Lightly the hour we beguile. Or, if the Squire's son, the lieutenant,
Fresh from India, gaping about for a wife and a fortune,
Deigns to know my roof, then he with the Doctor's daughter
Lightly shall wheel the graceful waltz, or through the mettlesome

212

Reel shall merrily tramp. Or Mary, the sunny-faced maiden,
Eldest born of the Free Church minister, beautiful Mary,
She at the landlord's call shall warble an old Scotch ballad,
Banks o' Doon, or Auld Langsyne, or Wandering Willie;
Or with a graver Muse shall lift the note of devotion,
Angels bright and fair, thy jubilant pæan, St Asaph,
Luther's hymn, or the prayer that Kœrner prayed in the battle.
Then my faithful companion, my wife, with godly remembrance,
Goes to the minister, clerk to the Church by law established,
Whispers a word, and brings from the shelf the big old Bible.
He unclaspeth the book, and gravely readeth a chapter,
Weighty with wisdom of love, and consolation, and warning.
Then he bendeth his knee, and prays to the mighty Creator;

213

We with him give thanks to the bountiful Giver of all things,
Gratefully reckon the joys of the day, and with pious assurance
Find in the fruits of the Past the germ that pledges the Future.

Here thou hast it, my friend: the wish of my heart is spoken;
Wish not uttered before, and scarcely thought: for, believe me,
Wishes belong not to man, but what God sends with a manly
Courage to welcome, and firmly to grasp the good of the moment.

214

THE WEE HERD LADDIE.

—The hero of this little descriptive song is Sir Andrew Halliday, a native of Annandale, to the poetical aspect of whose character I was introduced by Dr Carlyle, when hospitably entertained by him in his snug little cell near Ecclefechan. About Sir Andrew's youth, see particularly “Poems by John Johnstone. Edinburgh, 1857;” a little work containing some interesting notices of Scottish peasant life, in the latter half of the last century.

Little Andrew, lively Andrew,
Herding of the kine,
Looking 'neath thy curly locks
Wi' bright and merry eyne!
Stretched upon a furzy brae,
Wi' bonnet, plaid, and crook,
What should a wee herd laddie do
Wi' a Greek and Latin book?

There's mony a thought in Andrew's head;
His fancy freely wanders
North and South, and East and West,
And still he reads and ponders.
There's something brewing in his brain;
Beneath his plain grey plaidie,

215

Adventures beat in every vein
O' the wee bare-footed laddie.

And what's become of Andrew now?
I hear he's gone to college;
He saved a penny in the hills,
To pay his fees of knowledge.
And Andrew now is Doctor hight,
And now the leech is gone,
To serve their need who bravely bleed
In Spain with Wellington.

And Andrew's now a man of proof.
At sacred Duty's call
Brave Andrew never stands aloof;
On him hang great and small.
And now he's come from Waterloo,
Wi' the Duke that ruled the wars,
And they, who know his service true,
Have gemmed his breast wi' stars.

And now he's grown a belted knight,
The wee bare-footed laddie,
Wi' heart as pure and eye as bright
As when he wore the plaidie.

216

The mightiest Duke in a' the land
Who scorns a wee herd laddie,
Now shakes “Sir Andrew” by the hand—
The knight that wore the plaidie!

217

THE OLD SOLDIER OF THE GARELOCH HEAD.

I've wander'd east and west,
And a soldier I hae been;
The scars upon my breast
Tell the wars that I have seen.
But now I'm old and worn,
And my locks are thinly spread,
And I'm come to die in peace,
By the Gareloch Head.

When I was young and strong,
Oft a wandering I would go,
By the rough shores of Loch Long,
Up to lone Glencroe.
But now I'm fain to rest,
And my resting-place I've made,

218

On the green and gentle bosom
Of the Gareloch Head.

'Twas here my Jeanie grew,
Like a lamb amid the flocks,
With her eyes of bonnie blue,
And her gowden locks.
And here we often met,
When with lightsome foot we sped,
O'er the green and grassy knolls,
At the Gareloch Head.

'Twas here she pined and died—
O! the salt tear in my e'e
Forbids my heart to hide
What Jeanie was to me!
'Twas here my Jeanie died,
And they scoop'd her lowly bed,
'Neath the green and grassy turf,
At the Gareloch Head.

Like a leaf in leafy June,
From the leafy forest torn,
She fell; and I'll fall soon,
Like a sheaf of yellow corn.

219

For I'm sere and weary now,
And I soon shall make my bed
With my Jeanie, 'neath the turf
At the Gareloch Head.

220

MAY SONG.

O'er the brown heath far, by the steep red scaur,
Where the yellow furze bloom is glowing;
When the keen cold East, and the North hath ceased,
And the soft-winged South is blowing;
Away! away! away!
Where bright shines the May,
And the fields are green with growing!

Where the dark old pine, in the bright sunshine,
Its fresh green tips is trimming;
Where the light feathered throng, with the airy song
Of full-throated glee are brimming;
Away! away! away!
The lusty May
Let us with them be hymning!

221

Where the bright blue sky, on the pinnacle high
Of dark Lochnagar, rests clearly;
Where snows no more wreathe the frontlets hoar
Of bleak Ben-Awn so drearly;
Away! away! away!
Hymn the lusty May,
Where the streams are bickering cheerly!

Like a ruddy-faced boy, with a vagabond joy,
When the long school term is over;
Like a bright-haired girl, with a light-tossed curl,
When she runs to meet her lover;
Away! away! away!
So may the lusty May
Still find me a lusty rover!

Written as pronounced, but properly spelled Avon.

222

POUR FORTH THE WINE.

Pour forth the wine, the ruby wine!
And with thine eye look into mine,
Thou friend of olden days!
Heap up the blazing logs! Not here
On this grey ridge of granite drear,
Boon April spends her flowery cheer,
To wake the poet's lays.
The East wind through the ungenial day
Blows meagre, thin, and chill,
And laggard Winter's freezing ray
Gleams from the snow-patched hill.

Pour forth the wine, the ruby wine!
And with thine eye look into mine,
Thou friend of olden days!

223

Cheer me with love and truth: for I
Oft seek in vain, beneath the sky,
The true heart, from the open eye
That looks with guileless gaze.
A cold and caution-crusted race
Here fans few joys in me;
But when I see a clear, bright face,
I flourish, and am free!

Pour forth the wine, the ruby wine!
And with thine eye look into mine,
Thou friend of olden days!
Speak of devotion's fiery breath,
Friendship and love more strong than death,
And high resolve, and manly faith,
That walks in open ways.
Look as thou didst long years ago,
And read my heart with thine,
That love and truth may freely flow,
To bless the ruby wine!

224

A SONG OF GLEN LUI BEG.

With regard to the evils of the one-sided large farm system, and the wholesale expatriation of the Highlanders, I have seen no reason to change the opinions expressed by me in the Notes to my Lays and Legends, p. 360. The articles on this subject which appeared in the Edinburgh Review and elsewhere, merely played dexterously with the accidents of the question, and left the essence untouched. The impolicy of the large farm system is ad-mitted by a late practical writer, “Mackay on the Management of Landed Property in the Highlands of Scotland. Blackwood, 1858.”

O the rare old pines of Glen Lui!
With a shout I hailed them then,
When first to the high Muichdhui
I clomb, through the wild mountain glen.
But where be the men that should people the glen?
Where be the kilted brave Highlandmen?
The men, to their king and their country true,
Who stood like a wall at red Waterloo,
And, with firm-rooted spears,
Checked the mailed cuirassiers,
When thrice to the charge, like a tempest, they flew?
O where is the cot, with its smoke curling blue
Through the rare old pines of Glen Lui?

225

O the rare old pines of Glen Lui!
Right blithely I greeted them then,
When I whistled my way to Muichdhui,
Through the folds of the green-winding glen.
But where be the men that should people the glen?
Woe's me for the kilted brave Highlandmen!
Banished they live from their dear native shore,
Beyond the Atlantic's broad billowy roar;
For the Law hath a care
Of a stag and a hare,
And the red grouse that whirrs o'er the measureless moor;
But the cottar it drives to a far foreign shore,
From his home 'mid the pines of Glen Lui!

226

AUSTRALIAN EMIGRANT'S SONG.

[_]

(German Burschen Air—So nimmt ihn hin, etc.)

Then fare thee well, thou land of Whig and Tory,
Thou home of gold and glory,
Thou famous British land, farewell!
God knows the truth, I love thee well;
But, since thou hast no place for me,
I'll show no peevish face to thee;
I'll seek a home in New South Wales.

The world is wide: Hope is a gallant rider;
God is a good provider:
Faith's portion he appointeth sure.
Farewell, my Scottish mount and moor!

227

Where summer smiles more cheerily,
Nor winter frowns so drearily;
I'll find a home in New South Wales.

Farewell, dim nooks! ye dark and dingy gables!
Ye ancient inky tables,
Where many a peaking penman pines,
Where never blessed sun-light shines!
The bullock I'll be chasing now
Right stoutly I'll be racing now
O'er hill and dale, in New South Wales.

God save thee well, thou hectic and full-blooded,
With millions overflooded,
Where labour ill redeems from want,
And giant weeds in purple flaunt!
The healthy, brawny arm alone
Is king, work is the charm alone,
To bind the gods, in New South Wales.

God heal thy strifes, thou land of partisanship,
Of narrow caste and clanship,
Where Nature shrinks from Fashion's ban,
And all has rights, save only Man!

228

No close noblesse shall class me now,
No haughty Church harass me now,
Where life is free in New South Wales.

Then fare thee well, thou land of Whig and Tory!
Thou home of gold and glory!
Nor gold nor glory gav'st thou me;
Yet not with cursing leave I thee.
While here ye fight your quarrels out,
My soul its free song carols out
To wood and wold, in New South Wales.

229

WORK AWAY.

—The bird here referred to is one of the Caprimulgus or goatsucker tribe, well known to naturalists.

Ye toiled ones who sigh for the down and the roses,
While ye march to the beat of the drum,
And deem that, when life's measured drudgery closes,
A long taskless Sabbath shall come;
I tell ye, in vain
Ye sigh and complain,
The disease and the cure are both whims of the brain;
All things by deep labour are stirred;
Work away! Work away! Work away!
So cries the American bird.

The flower-bulb may rest when dull Winter it beareth,
But when Spring comes, and bright sunny sheen,
When the many-hued flower, and ripe fruit it prepareth,
It toils then unceasing, I ween.

230

For no rest Nature knows,
Where the heart warm glows,
And in mystical currents the strong tide flows;
With our labour our life is interred.
Work away! Work away! Work away!
So cries the American bird.

In vain would ye break, with a fretful revulsion,
The force that subdues soul to soul;
Each power on the other a kindly compulsion
Imposes, to perfect the whole.
In his march Old Time,
If you will not climb,
Will leave you to gather the fruit of your crime;
Whoso will not spur must be spurred.
Work away! Work away! Work away!
So cries the American bird.

Leave ease to the idols of old Epicurus;
Through danger, and doubt, and delay,
To the word of the truth with strong faith we will moor us,
And work, while 'tis called to-day;
For God no repose
In the wide world knows,

231

But working and weaving His wise Spirit goes,
And the voice of his preaching is heard,
Work away! Work away! Work away!
In the warning American bird.

232

POOR CROW.

As I came through the garden ground,
I met a little crow,
With short-clipt wing, in narrow bound,
Hobbling, hobbling low.
Who clipt thy wing, thou little crow?
I wish that wight may die!
'Tis seemly when worms creeping go,
But birds were made to fly,
Poor crow!

Who's like to thee?—A bard, whose thought
Once spanned the welkin wide,
But now he drags a heavy boat,
Against life's muddy tide.

233

Who's like to thee?—A king high-thron'd,
Who ruled from sea to sea,
But homeless now, an outcast thing,
He creeps o'er Earth like thee,
Poor crow!

Then take my pity for thy plight,
Thou poor misfortuned thing,
And love me, while I hate the wight
Who clipt thy venturous wing.
So long thou hoppest on my rood,
Thou hast a friend in me,
And while I feed on mortal food,
I'll keep a crumb for thee,
Poor crow!

234

THE CRICKET ON THE TREE.

The cricket on the tree is the Latin Cicada, Italian Cicala, and the old Greek τεττιξ. I heard it whirring away most musically in a very hot day in June, as I was wending up from the plain of Marathon, by the hill road, across to the Cephissus. It will be observed that all Greek words in κος—shortened into κο by the modern Greeks—have the full accent on the last syllable, like our word engineer; though the Oxonians, perversely pronounce such words with the Latin accent on the antepenult.

As I came up from Marathon,
To high Pentelico,
I heard a cricket on a tree
Singing just so:
Birry—birr—wirr—burr—wurr!
Cricket on a tree!
From morn to night, in sunny light,
With mirth and jollity!

Birry—birr—wirr—burr—wurr!
Cricket on a tree!
Burr—wurr—birr—wirr!
What could more happy be?

Quoth I, thou airy little thing,
I much would like to know,

235

Why from thy throat, or from thy wing,
The sweet song whirreth so?
Birry—birr—wirr—burr—wurr!
Cricket on a tree,
A merry spright, from morn to night,
Thou singest pleasantly.

Birry—birr—wirr, etc.

Then spake to me that airy thing,
Thou mortal, toiling low,
Who hath not heard, both beast and bird,
That man was born to woe?
Birry—birr—wirr—burr—wurr!
The truth I tell to thee,
I sing because I'm not a man,
But a cricket on a tree!

Birry—birr—wirr, etc.

Quoth I, thou cricket sage and sweet,
Men fret and fume, I know,
But I'm a minstrel to my trade,
And let contention go.
Birry—birr—wirr—burr—wurr!
Cricket on a tree!

236

There's one on earth that shares thy mirth,
The bard is kin to thee!

Birry—birr—wirr, etc.

The cricket spake—If thou art wise,
Above the human rabble,
I'll shelter thee, beneath my tree,
From each unholy squabble.
Birry—birr—wirr—burr—wurr!
Poet, turn and flee
From Church and State, in high debate,
And find thy home with me!

Birry—birr—wirr—burr—wurr!
Cricket on a tree!
The man is wise 'neath sunny skies
Who hums a song with thee!

237

JUMPING JANET.

Rein me now thy vagrant speed,
My bright-eyed girl, my sprightly Janet!
I'll pen a rhyme for thee to read,
Would these keen twinklers rest to scan it.
Thou art airy, light, elastic,
Ever moving, never stopping,
With a squirrel's deft gymnastic,
Ever springing, ever hopping.
'Tis well. Thou'rt nimble; so's a fly;
But, for woman's proper training,
Jumping Janet must apply
To her wits a little reining.
Nay, don't toss your head! 'tis fit,
If the race you will be gaining,
That your dancing blood submit,
Like the generous steed's, to training.

238

I am old and you are young,
My advice you should not scoff it;
Use your ears, and not your tongue,
Janet, if you wish to profit.
Every morning when you rise,
That's my rule, my sprightly Janet,
What to do before you lies,
Clearly mark, and wisely plan it.
Every hour its business knows,
In a well-schemed day, my Janet,
Like a watch that surely goes,
Like a steady-wheeling planet.
Map your hours, and with the clock,
For the portioned work be ready;
Like a limpet to a rock,
Cleaving to your purpose steady.
Work, as workmen work, indeed;
Labour hard, and struggle stoutly,
With a wisely-tempered speed,
With an earnest heart devoutly.
Would you know the trick to charm
Pleasure from each seeming sorrow,
Grasp thy task with lusty arm,
Let the thing you do be thorough.

239

And when idle fancies come—
Girlish heads are full of fancies—
Iridescent froth and scum,
Bubble bright that gaily dances;
Thoughts of things that will be soon,
Handsome men, and pretty faces,
Measured mountains in the moon,
Ginghams, muslins, gimps, and laces;
Balls and concerts, promenades,
Winter wear, and summer dresses,
Foppish youths, and prudish maids,
Eagle eyes, and sable tresses;
Horrid murders, Church and State,
Metaphysics, and cosmogony,
Granite slabs, and silver plate,
Crimson curtains, old mahogany;
Strange elopements, foolish marriages,
Melting tales of love romantic,
Sudden deaths, and sad miscarriages,
Drownings in the deep Atlantic;
Stupid sermons, pious novels,
Bruits of war among the nations,
Starving Celts in smoky hovels,
Cumming on the Revelations:

240

Such vain thoughts a motley train,
With a gaudy gay parading,
In a giddy-whirling brain,
Find a place for masquerading.
Such, when they shall hover nigh,
Though they twinkle ne'er so brightly,
Brush them from thee like a fly,
Then buckle to thy work more tightly.
Ban the spirits with the spell
Of a pious imprecation;
Ev'n as Luther banned them well,
When he worked at his translation.
Curb the whim, thy wit elastic
To the work before thee chaining;
Thou shalt know, by stern gymnastic,
Thus the perfect woman's training.
Hour by hour, and day by day,
If thou thus shalt wisely plan it;
When your work is done, you may
Sport with grace, my sprightly Janet!

241

STUDENT'S VACATION SONG.

Dear Thomas, I'm told
You're a student full bold,
And your looks the pale reader betray, my boy!
But I'm come now to call you,
Ere worse shall befall you,
To fling away books, and go play, my boy!

A dull, plodding youth,
A few grains of dry truth
May pick in this marrowless way, my boy!
But fresh feeling may never
Flow out, like a river,
From the parchment, so bloodless and grey, my boy!

242

Think you the old bard,
You are spelling so hard,
Found his lusty, fresh song in this way, my boy?
O no! his blithe spirit
Strong joy did inherit
From life, like the bird in the May, my boy!

The truth must be told,
You'll soon lie 'neath the mould,
If you don't give your body fair play, my boy!
What boots all your yearning
For old Heathen learning,
When you're down, with the worms, 'neath the clay, my boy!

I've a house on the hill,
With a loch and a rill,
Where the troutlings still glancingly play, my boy!
Come with me to Yarrow
And fish away sorrow,
Through the length of the bright summer day, my boy!

243

THE WORKING MAN'S SONG.

I am no gentleman, not I!
No bowing, scraping thing!
I bear my head more free and high
Than titled count or king.
I am no gentleman, not I!
No, no, no!
And only to one Lord on high
My head I bow.

I am no gentleman, not I!
No vain and varnished thing!
And from my heart without a die,
My honest thoughts I fling.

244

I am no gentleman, not I!
No, no, no!
Our stout John Knox was none—and why
Should I be so?

I am no gentleman, not I!
No mincing, modish thing!
In gay saloon a butterfly,
Some wax-doll Miss to wing.
I am no gentleman, not I!
No, no, no!
No moth, to sport in fashion's eye,
A Bond Street beau!

I am no gentleman, not I!
No bully, braggart thing!
With jockeys on the course to vie,
With bull-dogs in the ring.
I am no gentleman, not I!
No, no, no!
The working man might sooner die
Than sink so low!

I am no gentleman, not I!
No star-bedizened thing!

245

My fathers filched no dignity,
By fawning to a king.
I am no gentleman, not I!
No, no, no!
And to the wage of honesty
My rank I owe!

I am no gentleman, not I!
No bowing, scraping thing!
I bear my head more free and high
Than titled count or king.
I am no gentleman, not I!
No, no no!
And thank the blessed God on high,
Who made me so!

246

MAY SONG.

On Ettrick bank the primrose grows,
Where the stream is winding clearly O!
Though the ash be grey, the birch is green,
And the birds are chanting cheerly O!
Thou weary heart, why nurse the smart
Of a fruitless grief so drearily?
What should thee stay, to greet the May,
Like a bird on the wing, so cheerily?
Cuckoo, cuckoo, far in the wood!
Sweet mavis on gowany lea!
O show me the trick of thy blithe May mood,
And teach me to sing with thee!

247

Blow, softly, softly breezes blow!
For the wound is rankling greenly yet!
And for him who is gone, whom I fear to name,
The smart doth cut me keenly yet!
I laid him low, when in March the snow
O'er the sod was drifting drearily,
And how shall I sing, like a bird on the wing,
When the bright May sun shines cheerily?
Cuckoo, cuckoo, far in the wood!
Sweet mavis on gowany lea!
I love the sweet trick of thy blithe May mood,
But grief still dwells with me!

248

APRIL SONG.

[_]

(German Air.)

Hark! the birds are blithely hymning!
Leap, my heart! with glee be brimming!
Spring light-racing, dark days chasing,
Comes—God bless thee, gentle Spring!

Though the ling'ring East be blowing,
I can scent the power of growing.
Where thou treadest, life thou spreadest;
Bless thee, bless thee, gentle Spring!

Poplar sprouts, the hedge is green now,
Spiry larch in virgin sheen now,

249

Gently swinging to the singing
Of sweet mavis, greets the Spring.

Pine upon the hoary mountain
Greets thy coming; foamy fountain,
With blithe bicker, quick and quicker,
Ice-unshackled greets the Spring.

Violet blue, the green bank sprinkling,
Starry crow-flower golden twinkling,
Primrose clustered, thickly muster'd
Wind-flowers weave a wreath for Spring!

Ha! my soul with songs is flooding!
Teem glad thoughts in eager budding!
Thou hast brought me wings to float me;
Bless thee, bless thee, gentls Spring!

250

TO TORQUATUS.

[_]

(From Horace.)

Thawed is the frost and the snow, the fields with green are fresh-coated,
Green are the fresh-tufted trees;
Earth is renewing her changes, the streams, with lessening waters,
Gently are gliding along.
Gaily the Graces come forth; with the Nymphs in harmony twining,
Deftly their dances they lead.
“Hope Immortality not” the year declares, and the hour speaks,
Rapidly driving the day.
Winter doth yield to the Spring, the Spring to Summer, the Summer

251

Yieldeth to Autumn; and he,
When he hath scattered his fruitage, retreats; and dreariest Winter
Ruleth in dullness again.
Thus revolving it turns;—the Moon repaireth her losses
Speedily; we, when we go
Down to the Shades with pious Æneas, rich Tullus, and Ancus,
Dust and a shadow we are.
Who can tell if the gods the sum, which to-day we have numbered,
Will with to-morrow increase?
Greedily what thou hast left thy heir possesses; but he, too,
Quitteth how soon the bequest!
Once departed, when over thy head the merciless Minos
Solemnly passes his doom,
Then, Torquatus, for thee shall birth, shall eloquence vainly,
Vainly shall piety plead.
Vainly would Dian the chaste Hippolytus free from the darkness;

252

Chastely he sleeps with the dead.
Theseus prevails not to break the bonds of Pirithous; Hades
Stronger him holdeth than Love.

253

THE GLENS OF NITHSDALE.

O the bonnie, bonnie glens of Nithsdale,
Where the clear rock-water flows,
Where the light birch nods its fragrant plumes,
And the fair green breckan grows!
Glens, whose green folds were kind to hide
The prophets of the hill,
Then when the shepherd's arm defied
The monarch's godless will.
O the bonnie, bonnie glens of Nithsdale,
And O the bonnie green glens!

Soft o'er the hill I hear the note
O' the peaceful, mild cuckoo!
Not now as then, when o'er the muir
Came the trooper's harsh halloo,

254

Hunting the good and the godly men,
Who preached the truth of God,
Splashing with murder the bonnie green glen,
And drenching with blood the sod!
O the bonnie, bonnie glens o' Nithsdale,
And O the bonnie green glens!

O few are the houses that smoke on the hill,
And the heirs of the godly are few!
How rare in the glen are the sons of the men
Whose hand to their heart was true!
There's pride in a Duke, and there's pomp in a lord;
But the glory of brave Scottish men
Is the plaided cottar, who drew the sword
For his faith, in the bonnie green glen!
O the bonnie, bonnie glens o' Nithsdale,
And O the bonnie green glens!

255

DREAMING DAVIE.

Davie was a quiet boy,
Hating every boisterous joy,
Slow of tongue, of temper slow,
Never first a stone to throw.
On the moor would sit alone,
Brooding on an old grey stone,
Or, wandering with a drooping head,
Pluck butterworts from oozy bed;

Surely there is something odd,
All the people say, in Davie!
Dreaming Davie! dandering Davie!
What's in Davie we shall see.

Listless, sitting in the school
Master called him dreamy fool;
Flies and spiders, buzzing gnats,
Rabbits, ferrets, newts, and bats,

256

Twittering swallows, cawing rooks,
All had charms for him but books;
Greeks and Romans long since dead
Were never meant for Davie's head.

Surely there is something odd,
People say, about this Davie!
Dreaming Davie! dandering Davie!
What's in Davie we shall see.

Davie's left the school—and lo!
Davie roaming now will go;
Probes the nooks of every glen,
Scales the peaks of every Ben.
In the sunshine, in the shower,
Now a rock, and now a flower,
Peering round with knowing eyes,
Davie always finds a prize,

Surely this is very odd,
People say—Can this be Davie?
Once so dreaming, now so scheming,
Full of teeming plans is he.

Davie now has wandered far,
In lands beneath the burning star,

257

Dredged the floor of every sea,
Where strange finny monsters be,
Crossed, by airy bamboo bridge,
Clefts that part hoar Andes' ridge,
Scaled Mont Blanc, and tented high
On rosy snow, 'twixt Earth and sky.

Surely this is very odd,
People say—Can this be Davie?
Daring Davie! dauntless Davie!
Full of grand success is he.

In the list of men who know,
Europe now no name can show
Like to Davie's; Earth contains
Nought that's not in Davie's brains.
Prince Albert and the Queen, I'm told,
Hear Davie wisdom's stores unfold,
Though the master in the school
Called him little dreaming fool.

Now men say, 'tis nothing odd
He should have been a dreaming Davie!
Well done, Davie! just so, Davie!
Dreams beget great deeds, we see!

258

CONFESSION OF FAITH FOR ALL MEN.

What a sinful son of Adam
Should believe, and how,
In each heart 'tis graven, madam,
Read, and know it now.
'Tis a gospel old and new,
Tongues and tribes attest it true;
And who denies this creed
Is damned indeed!

Nothing comes from nothing truly;
God hath certainly
Wisely framed and ordered duly
All the things you see.

259

Look and learn, vain babbling spare,
Trace the true, and love the fair;
And who denies this creed
Is damned indeed!

Satan rules the air; this wisely
Doctors teach to spell,
But here or there, or where precisely,
Satan himself may tell.
Crush the fiend that lurks within,
Hydra-headed monster Sin;
And who denies this creed
Is damned indeed!

Learning is not wisdom; fainly
Doctors will dispute,
But plies on plies the million vainly
Vamp a mouldy boot.
Woo the breeze, court sunny skies,
Like a tree thy thought will rise;
And who denies this creed
Is damned indeed!

Whoso scatters words with sorrows
Sows an eager land;

260

Wing thy speech like cunning arrows,
Think with sword in hand.
Watch and wait in quiet snare,
Pluck, when it is ripe, the pear;
And who denies this creed
Is damned indeed!

Know your ground and keep your footing,
Battle not with air;
When you know what thing you're shooting,
Bravely do and dare.
Turn the screw and drive the wedge,
Every step the next will pledge;
And who denies this creed
Is damned indeed!

When you fall, remain not lying,
Luck has many ways;
Urge the hour, the chance be plying,
Death is in delays.
So Napoleon warred and won,
By strong will earth's topmost son;
And who denies this creed
Is damned indeed!

261

Greet the Devil when you fairly
Meet him in the face!
Scan him coolly o'er, and yarely
He will run and race.
Should he buckle for the fight,
Beat him quite, or die outright;
Whoso believes this creed
Is saved indeed!