Petition to the Deil :: :: University of Virginia Library

O thou, wham yet I'm sweer to name—
A kind o' Kaiser when at hame,
A spy abroad—but a' the same,
Withoot addition,
Deevil! I thy attention claim
To my petition.

I dinna o' your deeds approve,
Still less your character I loove;
An' then, ye ken, your horn an' hoove
Are bestial features;
Yet—one proposal I would move
For his puir creatures.

There's ane that would usurp your station—
A Kaiser o' a late creation;
He's made a bonnie conflagration!
But let him ken
He's workin' to his ain damnation
In your black den.

He's murderin', mittlin', burnin', rapin',
His course to every mischief shapin';
An', tho' nor wife nor wean's escapin'
His vandal claw,
Washes, wi' sanctimonious saipin',
His hands o't a'!

I tell your Hornèd Blackness fairly
That neither recent times nor early
(Except it was that hurly-burly
Ye had in heaven)
Raised sic a stour as this—which merely
Cowes a' descrievin'.

It canna be your deevil's natur'
To tak' that insolence fra the cratur'—
A vapourin', cantin', poachin' traitor!
Swith, roond him in!
It's kent ye mak' an unco hater
When ye begin.

Sawtan, ye deevil! if ye did it,
Man would approve, nor God forbid it;

'Twad be a service at your credit
In future barter;
A stroke o' policy—I've said it—
In a High Quarter!

Lure him alang the brunstane road,
Wi' broken touns an' treaties strow'd,
Doun to the yetts o' your abode,
An' let a' hell come,
Wi' bombs an' banners blazin' broad,
To gi'e him welcome!

Mak' it a holiday in hell,
Turn oot the toun-guard, ring the bell,
Drink, an' let every weasan' yell,
Lang live Mahoun!
Whyle tykes wi' tinnies at their tail
Flee thro' your toun!

Let every little deevil-boy
Let aff his cracker or pee-oy—
If in hell's wynds there's sic a toy;
An' fra the shouther
Your swedds will fire a few-de-joy
O'stinkin' pouther!

Then at the port, as in ye come,
You caperin', an' your captive glum,
It's first a bang! an' syne a bomb
Hell's concave teerin'!
An' then—the silence o' the tomb,
The want o' hearin'!

This for his Welcome. His Reward
Can for a season be defarr'd
Until his hearin's no' sae hard;
But grup his gravit!
Think what he did, an' what he dar'd—
An' lat him have it!

Seek oot a hetter hole in hell
Than ever yet ye kent yoursel',
An', as he shrinks wi' bristlin' fell
An' shudderin' skin,
Doun on him, Deevil, wi' a yell,
An' plunge him in!

See Paradise Lost, Book VI.

IN REPLY

To the Kaiser's Proclamation.

August 13, 1914.

Not that way! Not by the blind force
Of brutal arms shalt thou excel,
And, midmost of the nations, tell
To each its heaven-appointed course.

Thy plan is poison'd at the source;
For in thy heart, in secret, dwell
Ambition, the first-born of hell,
And Arrogance without Remorse.

The mask has fallen from thy face,
Thou greatest vandal of thy race!
Who held aloft the branch of peace,
And pray'd that war on earth would cease,
Grasping the while beneath thy robe
A thunder-bolt to blast the globe!

Now comes to thee thine evil hour:
Rise in thy wrath, thou justest Power
That ever ruled, and smite him down—
Him from his throne, and from his head the crown!

HACKING THEIR WAY THROUGH.

August 28, 1914.

“God with us!” is their cry, their creed;
God with them? was it once surmised
Their God was of a pagan breed,
A Moloch, like the Christ disguised?
This wrong to Belgium, faithless deed!
Reveals them, to a world surprised,
Vandals, inflamed with hate and greed—
Not Christians, no! nor civilized.

THE OLD CHARTER.

August 29, 1914.

I

In ancient days the grace of Heaven
To our Britannia gave
The right for which her sons had striven,
To rule the ocean wave.
And this same charter we will keep
That came by Heaven's decree,
Alike when storms assail the deep
And pirates vex the sea.

II

Never shall British heart forget
The pride of Nelson's name!
And there were ocean-warriors yet
Before his glory came;
And Drake and Blake like meteors burn;
But our particular star,
Still to whose blaze our spirits turn,
Shines over Tráfalgar!

III

There glows in every British breast
The fire their fathers knew,
And years to come shall still attest
The ancient kinship true.
Then let the Prussian tyrant rave,
Britannia's latest foe;
Her right remains to rule the wave,
And that Berlin shall know.

THE PHARISEE TURN'D PUBLICAN.

A Vision of the Future.

September 1, 1914.

I.

Shorn of his sceptre and his crown,
And to the dust of death bow'd down—
Lord! let me live until I see
Him suppliant on his bended knee,
Wailing aloud,
Conquer'd and cow'd,
“O God, be merciful to me!”

II.

Let this be he
That stood of old
Within Thy temple bold,
Confronting Thee!

III.

The pharisee!
Was not his prayer a boast?
“Glory is mine, and power, and gold,
And fleets, and armies manifold:
My empire shall command the sea,
My sword extend to every coast!
Let heaven and all its host
Behold and see
How great I am, how strong and good,
Subduing all and unsubdued—
But greater yet my name shall be!”

IV.

Speed, Retribution, swift and wide,
From east to west, from sea to sea,
And strike him from his place of pride,
And make him cry on humbled knee,
“O God, be merciful to me!”

EBB—AND FLOW.

At the Marne, September 6–14, 1914.

September 11, 1914.

I

The tide went back, the sands were gaining slow;
The tide went back—but now begins the flow!
Over those sands the thundering surge will go!

II

The sands are many—far and wide they spread;
The sands are heavy, but their power is lead—
Fore-doom'd to find their level, ocean's bed!

III

For ever o'er the sands shall roll the tide,
For ever Prussia in the depths abide,
For ever on the waves Britannia ride!

A HIGHLAND HAMLET.

Strathyre in September.

September 14, 1914.

Here in this Highland hamlet, far
From cities and the signs of war,
I view in peace the evening star
Shine on Ben Shian.

The heights with heather are aglow,
The river darkling dreams below,
And here and there white patches show
The clachan's harvest.

Young women in the doorways knit,
Old men upon the benches sit,
And children watch the swallows flit
Across the valley.

But where are they whose care should keep
The village when the snows lie deep?
Gone to the Belgian fields to reap
A different harvest!

With Angus, Neil, and Duncan gone,
A peace, that is not Autumn's own,
A deeper peace has fallen upon
The sadden'd village.

Who can in scenes like these believe,
At the sweet hour of peaceful eve,
Such woes exist as those that grieve
The Flemish hamlets?

Surely not here can ever come
The terror of the midnight drum,
The shrieking shell, the deafening bomb,
And devastation!

IN MEMORY OF LIEUT. JAMES LAIDLAW HUGGAN, R.A.M.C.

September 16, 1914.

[_]

For a particular account of the circumstances in which Dr. Huggan was killed by a shell while engaged in rescue work, the reader is referred to The First Seven Divisions, by Lord Ernest Hamilton, pp. 131, 132.

He sleeps beside the Aisne,
Where Death has closed his fair, young eyes;
The bugle's call, the shrapnel's rain,
Will waken him nowise.

Prompt from the peaceful scene
He rose and went at duty's call:
Vainly we think what might have been—
It was his fate to fall.

When will this battling cease?
O, suns will set and morns will rise,
But sounds of war or songs of peace
Will waken him nowise.

His duty simply done,
He rests beneath a foreign sod;
His memory in our hearts lives on,
His spirit is with God.

AN ADDRESS TO THE PRIME MINISTER

On His Appearance in Edinburgh,

September 18, 1914.

Thine is the place, and this the hour,
And thine, O Orator! the pow'r
To rouse to flame the smouldering fire
That burns beneath the nation's ire.

Who thought our sense of honour sick?
Who stung that honour to the quick
By the vile hint to stand aside
And see how well the Germans ride?

Who first devised the coward plan
To fight with women in their van?
Who shell'd the Red Cross? burn'd Louvain?
And slaughter'd children—and the slain?

Who sow'd across the trading lines
A murderous row of floating mines,
And fled, and thought to rule the seas
By fiendish tactics such as these?

Send forth, O Orator! the voice
That will inflame the nation's choice
For justice, liberty, and right
Against brutality and might.

THE AULD “RESERVE.”

September 21, 1914.

It was hervest-time,
An' the craps were prime
Up at John Tamson's toun:
Short-goun an' sark
Were hard at the wark,
Nickin' the barley doun.

Pipe-time cam',
An' there was Tam—
Tam wi' the scowl an' the scars!
Tam had spent
Years in the Tent'
Dandy dashin' Huzzars.

Tam the Reserve—
Think o' his nerve!
Auld an' rheumatic an' worn,
Strauchen'd his back,
An' burst on the crack
Wi'—“I'm aff to the wars the morn!”

Led by his “half,”
The women let aff
An angersome skirl o' scorn;
It wauken'd him up
Like the crack o' a whup
Or a toot on a trumpet-horn.

“Wha said I was auld?
I'm hale an' I'm bauld!”
But they lauch'd his announcement to scorn.
“Ye're far better here
Than a crock at the weir—
Ye're better at cuttin' the corn.”

He lap to his feet—
“Ye may lauch, but ye'll see't!
It's women's wark hackin' the corn!
I've the richt to be ca'd,
An' I'll gang tae, be-Gawd!
An' I howp for the summons the morn.”

John Tamson spak',
An' endit the crack—
“There's half o' my fields to be shorn;
I'll no' say ye're auld,
But the truth maun be tauld—
It's lang sin' the day ye was born!”

THE COLONEL'S ADDRESS.

September 28, 1914.

Soldiers! order'd to the front,
There to share the battle's brunt,
Let our ancient use-and-wont
Now sustain you!

There your fathers oft have stood,
Thrusting back the charging flood;
Let your bayonets prove your blood,
Show your kinship!

What is life? The hero's chance!
What is death? A parting glance!
But the glorious circumstance
Lives for ever!

Glorious if you stand or fall—
You obey'd your country's call;
Ever glorious most of all,
Nerved by justice.

Face the braggarts: are they more
Than their fathers were before?
Are ye less than yours of yore?
They were heroes!

Fight like lions turn'd to bay;
Ye are lions—what are they?
Prussian bandits out for prey—
Wolves and vultures!

Victory on your banners wait!
Every bullet wing'd with fate,
Every bayonet pointing straight,
Brave them! break them!

SONNET

Written in Expectation of the Downfall of Prussian Militarism.

October 13, 1914.

Like Hell's own palace in our Milton's dream,
Earth saw the fabric of this Prussian power
Rise like an exhalation, tower on tower,
And cast o'er Christendom its baneful gleam.

Or liker to that image it might seem,
That on the Plain of Dura for an hour
Threaten'd destruction that could not devour
Three recusants, who foil'd a madman's scheme.

But let the whole world mark! This Prussian pile,
That now begins to totter and to sway,
Shall crash upon its base of guilt and guile
Like that effigies of an earlier day
That in a despot's fancy flash'd awhile,
Then sank in ruin round its feet of clay.

NEBUCHADNEZZAR THE LITTLE.

October 19, 1914.

“Behold this Babylon that I have built,
High-tower'd, deep-founded, strong, to last for aye,
With bastion'd curtains stretching west away
To where the splendours of the sun are spilt,
And on to where again the hills are gilt
Under the morn! Meanwhile, let music play,
And let mine armies march in long array,
With drums, and guns, and banner'd staves atilt!”

So spoke the Kaiser, glorying in the might
Of military grandeur, with the joy
That he, the brave possessor, could affright
The peaceful neighbours round him—like a boy
Whose little heart is heaved up to the height
With the proud present of a pistol-toy.

THE CRY OF THE NATION.

October 30, 1914.

For those who fight, for those who keep
Long vigil on the lonely deep,
For those at home, who work or weep,
Our cry, O God, goes out to Thee.

To those who wait with idle hands,
Captive, or kept in foreign lands,
For those whom yet the King commands,
Our cry, O God, goes out to Thee.

For those who march to battle bold,
For those whom youth or years withhold,
For those by woman's tears controll'd,
Our cry, O God, goes out to Thee.

For those who from the battle-plain
Will never more return again,
For women weeping for the slain,
Our cry, O God, goes out to Thee.

For those whose duty keeps them here,
To bide unheard the heartless jeer,
For those who bravely volunteer,
Our cry, O God, goes out to Thee.

For those undaunted hearts that dare
The caverns of the sea and air,
For those in peril otherwhere,
Our cry, O God, goes out to Thee.

For those whose wounds have left them old,
For those whose wounds were never told,
For those the earth doth now enfold,
Our cry, O God, goes out to Thee.

Comfort us in the pains we bear,
The joys we lose, the griefs we share;
Strengthen our hearts against despair,
And fortify our faith in Thee.

Not with the pride of many lands,
And store of ships, and armèd bands,
But with pure heart, and with clean hands,
We dare thus to appeal to Thee.

Strong God of battle! hear us call;
Thou hast dominion over all;
By Thee the nations rise or fall:
Our cry for help goes out to Thee.

Be Thou our Captain in the fight:
We strive for reason and for right,
We war for liberty and light—
Command us, and we shall be free.

And when at last the war is o'er,
And tyrants vex the world no more,
May peace endure from shore to shore,
With all the nations at Thy knee!

ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON.

November 12, 1914.

[_]

St. George killing the Dragon is the badge of the Northumberland Fusiliers.

St. George is on his war-horse,
And grasping spear and shield:
What cause hath roused the Champion?
Who fronts him in the field?

Long years ago the Dragon
Was by his prowess slain:
Now of his seed a second breed
Cumbers the earth again.

On high the hated monster
Uprears his glittering spire,
His tongue with venom foaming,
His eyes ablaze with fire.

The fire that burns within him
Is hatred mixed with guile;
The foam that flies is venom'd lies,
That blister and defile.

Set on him, valorous Champion!
And pin him to the ground,
And let him feel thy horse's heel
Deep in the fiery wound!

The shield of Truth protects thee
From his envenom'd spring;
And spear and horse with righteous force
Shall strike to earth his sting.

KAISER, COUNT THE COST!

November 13, 1914.

Upon a calculated plan,
New in the history of man,
Three months ago this war began—
Now, Kaiser, count the cost!

You told your Huns to hack their way,
Whate'er it cost—burn, sack, and slay;
You shoot them if they disobey:
Kaiser, count the cost!

Your sword is on the little State,
Like Herod's of an ancient date;
But have you heard of Herod's fate?
Kaiser, count the cost!

You've bow'd poor Belgium to the dust,
Your ward—the victim of your lust;
Who now your faithless word would trust?
Kaiser, count the cost!

From Paris you've been hustled back,
Your Calais scheme begins to slack,
Russia will foil your fell attack:
Kaiser, count the cost!

You've set your murdering mines afloat,
You've founder'd many a merchant boat—
Does this recoup your Naval Vote?
Kaiser, count the cost!

You've lost a million men at least,
Your credit wanes, your debt's increased,
Your food grows scarce, your trade has ceased:
Kaiser, count the cost!

You've placed your trust in guns and spies,
In Krupp, hypocrisy, and lies:
Justice and Mercy you despise;
Kaiser, count the cost!

Now waxing old, you've earn'd a name
That brings you everlasting shame;
You've blasted all your country's fame.
Now, Kaiser, count the cost!
Are you winning? You have lost!

PADRE JOHN.

December 8, 1914.

John is (let the truth be told)
Neither young nor yet too old,
Neither sapless nor a saplin';
Round and rosy, hair just dapplin',
John commands us from the rear;
John is—well, we want him here!
John's our chaplain.

Doctor John's a man of peace,
Prays that wars may one day cease;
But he's keen on drills and shootin',
Wavin' flags, and drums, and tootin':
“Smack 'em! crack 'em!” is his cry,
“Smite 'em! smash 'em! hip and thigh,
But no lootin'!”

He's our Padre, and provides
Socks, and other things besides—
Belts and helmets, bibles, 'baccy;
Wears himself a suit of khaki,

Pulls a cutty, swigs a beer,
Like a sodger! John's a dear,
John's a ducky!

When a bullet finds its billet,
If beyond the surgeon's skill, it
Falls to John to bring salvation;
That's his proper occupation.
In our pleasures he is one of
Our own selves; in grief, a son of
Consolation!

EXTEMPORE LINES

On Reading the Kaiser's Telegram to the Berlin Chamber of Commerce.

January 6, 1915.

How did this hypocrite begin
His calculated course of sin?
With tawdry gifts of German tin,
Portraits, and watches.
How does the devil now appear
In the full flush of his career?
Burning and blasting far and near,
Murdering in batches!

How does he justify his course
Of selfish greed and brutal force
And cruelty without remorse
Before high Heaven?
It is by Prussian means to take
Earth's government from Heaven, and make
A better world for God's own sake
Than God has given!

A MOTHER'S PRAYER,

On her Two Sons going to the Wars.

January 12, 1915.

Lord, lift this weight of fear
That presses on my heart;
Teach me that there, as well as here,
In love and power Thou art!

They cannot wander where
Thy hand protective fails;
O'er all Thy children, wheresoe'er,
Thy providence prevails.

Fortune, and Fate, and Chance
Are messengers divine;
Thine is the gather'd circumstance,
The issue, too, is Thine.

Why should one doubt appear,
If life is order'd thus?
No interchange of hope and fear
Affects Thy care of us!

THE TWO TYRANNIES.

1815–1915.

June 19, 1915.

Not against France we fought at Waterloo,
But Tyranny—broad, cosmopolitan,
Incarnate in the little Corsican,
Who set a world-dominion in his view:
His soul no nation limitation knew—
He sought to hold all nations in his span;
Europe was but his stance: he was a Man!
And where his spirit flash'd his eagles flew!
But who is this before the footlights now,
That would the bold Napoleon rôle assume,
And has not strength to venture “but a pace”?
We know him by his non-imperial brow,
His whiskers and his scabbard, spurs and plume—
William the Would-Be, vainest of his race!

THE STRENGTH OF UNION.

An Appeal for Munitions.

June 28, 1915.

What is it that has paralysed the hands
Of mighty England? Is her heart not true?
Has she set sordid lucre in her view,
And turn'd a deaf ear to the high demands
Of Honour, Justice, Duty? Yet she stands
Idly, while despots to the death pursue
Her faithful ally, fighting bravely too,
And rallying in retreat her broken bands!

Arouse thee, England! ere the die be cast
That may decide thy doom! Union is strength
Not in the field alone—and there thou hast
Fail'd never yet: wilt thou then fail at length?

England is safe, and nought shall make her rue
If to herself at home she prove but true!

King John, v., vii.

JUSTICE THE ARBITER OF PEACE.

July 16, 1915.

I

Not yours, that broke the nations' peace,
Not yours to say that war shall cease,
Till other claims than just your pride
And cruel greed are satisfied.
Justice will say; and Truth and Right
Have stronger claims than Fraud and Might.

II

Peace! not till Justice with her sword,
In vengeance, for that crime abhorr'd
To Belgium done, has struck you down,
And brought you on your knees to own
Repentance of the foulest deed
That ever stained the Christian creed.

III

Not till Alsace and fair Lorraine,
Released, return to France again;
Not till the Turk (ungrateful brute
As ever fawn'd or lick'd a foot)
Is from the kennel, where we kept
The mongrel, kick'd to whence he crept.

IV

We think of those (can we forget
Their crimes, unexpiated yet?)
Who first devised the coward plan
To fight with women in their van,
Who shell'd the Red Cross, fired Louvain,
And wreak'd their anger on the slain.

V

Peace! yes; but not with fiends like these,
Poisoners on land, and on the seas
Pirates! who only dared to meet
The trader, or the fisher fleet,
And from safe bulwarks, looking down,
Gloated, and let their victims drown!

VI

Peace! not till Prussian pride is crush'd,
And your ambitious boasting hush'd!
Not while a God in heaven abides,
And Frightfulness o'er Freedom rides!
To such as you, thus saith the Lord,
Not peace, but an avenging sword!

VII

That sword of ten-times temper'd steel
Your inmost soul like fire shall feel,
Till, to its utmost limit urged,
Ambition from your blood is purged,
And earth for ever purified
Of German greed and Prussian pride!

THE KAISER'S APPEAL TO HISTORY.

August 3, 1915.

“I never will'd this war: I wanted peace:
No lust of empire turn'd my eyes astray
To conquest far or near; no one can say
Of other nations I desired increase.”

What whine is this? Has the wolf donn'd a fleece,
And would he now lie down beside his prey
And with the victims of his passion play
In friendly wise, if only war would cease?

Yes, this is he, the hypocrite, that speaks,
The Hun that knew neither remorse nor shame.
Now, like a coward caught, he vainly seeks
To hoodwink History. There is but one name
That History will brand on both his cheeks,
And Liar, in black letters, is that same.

THE OLD OFFICER TO HIS SON.

A Word at Parting.

August 23, 1915.

Hold on! faint never! let no doubt or fear
Of hope forlorn or danger near
Or thine own littleness unnerve thee now!
Maintain the value of thy vow:
What more has thy commander sworn than thou?

Thou marchest in the noblest cause that can
Inspire thy soul: thou art a man—
A living link, a portion of the chain
Of the world's hope, no drop of rain,
But part of many in the almighty main!

Thy singleness grown many, merged like these,
Swing forward with the force of seas!
Oh, in a nobler service yet, thou art
A drop of Britain's blood, a part
Of the great stream of life that warms her heart!

Rush to her arm! an arm now poised to smite
The snake, disclosed at last to sight,
That schemed through Christendom its slimy course,
And coils and stings without remorse:
Nerve now that arm to smite—thy Faith is Force!

ROUCHLE WILLIE.

A Recruiting Sang for the Ochil Braes.

August 28, 1915.

I mind it weel when I was young,
An' ran aboot the braes,
A sang that Rouchle Willie sung
Cam' ringin' owre the lays.
The sang set oot wi' meikle force,
An' sank in mournfu' strain—
Cheer up your hert, ye auld horse,
Ye'll never harrow here again!

Ae barefit laddie wat his lip
An' ettled at the tune;
It held his fancy in its grip
Throu' a' an efternune.
It cherm'd the prickles aff the gorse,
The cauldness aff the rain—
Cheer up your hert, ye auld horse,
Ye'll never harrow here again!

O Rouchle-Slap an' London-toun,
Ye're far apart, I ween;
Yet aye I hear that Ochil soun'
For a' the miles atween!
It haunts my head at Charing Corse,
Gangs soughin' throu' my brain—
Cheer up your hert, ye auld horse,
Ye'll never harrow here again!

I hear the burns, I hear the birds,
I shut my een an' see
The beardit mouth from which the words
Cam' ringin' wildly free.
I see him stoopin' doon the furs,
Or stridin' owre the plain—
Cheer up your hert, ye auld horse,
Ye'll never harrow here again!

Had Willie to thir times been spared,
Wi' a' his strength o' limb,
Whaur wuns the foe that would hae dared
A regiment o' him?
He would hae chairged the German force
An' roar'd his auld refrain—
Cheer up your hert, ye auld horse,
Ye'll never harrow here again!

O Rouchle Willie, dead an' gane!
Ye lived an' said your say;
Ye've left a cry that's heard abune
The clamours o' the day.
An' noo, for better or for worse,
There's nane o' us can ken—
At least ye're dune wi' drivin' horse,
Ye'll never harrow here again!

THE HARVEST BELLS.

Shincliffe, Durham.

September 7, 1915.

Sweet Sabbath bells of England,
That o'er the harvest chime,
Ye bring to mind the memories
Of many an autumn time.
Amid the rush of hustling years,
Now silently up-furl'd,
Ye brought the harmonies of heaven
To hush a jarring world.

No bells to-day in Belgium
Salute a peaceful morn;
No bells in Poland bless the land
Or consecrate the corn.
But rampant War usurps the fields
And desolates the plain;
The villages are burning,
The villagers are slain!

Thank God, we have a Navy
That keeps our island clear
Of German greed and Prussian pride,
That find no portion here!
And though the hands of age and youth
Are weak, and want of skill,
Our crops are duly garner'd,
Our bells are sounding still.

Sweet, peaceful bells of England,
That in a world of crime
Announce the Sabbath of the year
At this unhallow'd time;
I hear your voice predictive yet
Of universal peace,
When swords shall change to reaping-hooks,
And wars for ever cease.

When red Oppression in the sun
His arm no longer rears,
We yet shall share, with victory won,
A length of happy years.
Till then, afar in fields of war
Our harvesters must roam;
But we will ring our harvest bells
To bid them welcome home.

Set to music by J. S. Anderson, Mus. Bac.

CROXDALE-ON-THE-WEAR.

September 16, 1915.

Ere history yet had dawn'd on life
A Celtic rover came
And viewed from Croxdale, with his wife,
This scene—that's still the same;

A fair expanse of fertile haugh,
With oaks and osiers crown'd,
And Wear, by willow-weed and saugh,
In freedom winding round.

“And here,” he cried, “I make my claim:
We will no longer roam.”
And Croxdale, yet without a name,
Became the wanderer's home.

And silent years in centuries pass'd,
And more and more endear'd
The happy valley; but at last
The Roman casques appear'd.

And soon those Celtic pastures all,
By Roman ploughshares torn,
To feed old Adrian's length of wall,
Waved with abundant corn.

Then came an Anglian, stout of limb,
With yellow beard aflame;
This was the chosen spot for him,
And here he set his name.

Now speed in peace each changing year,
Range fortune as it will;
Croxdale will hold beside the Wear
An Anglian owner still!

No German here shall pace the ground,
Or gloat with greedy eye;
The land its rightful owner found
Long centuries gone by.

A great store for wheat was at Corstopitum, on the line of the Roman Wall.

THE DOOM OF PRUSSIA.

September 18, 1915.

This Cain among the nations—with the odds
That this time Abel shall approve his name—
Lift up thy trumpet, History! and proclaim
The doom appointed for him, man's and God's.
He struck at Belgium with relentless rods,
He will'd her death—let him endure the same;
No churchyard for his corse! shrouded in shame,
Sink it to Tophet! far from Earth's clean sods.

A purer, happier time shall then succeed;
A nobler human kingdom then shall come:
A brotherhood of nations, with the creed
Of ruth and righteousness to “all and some”;
And, cleansed for ever from that bestial breed,
Let Earth for ever of their name be dumb!

DURHAM BELLS.

An Autumn Memory.

September 25, 1915.

I

Whence can this music be? The air
Is fill'd with haunting sounds,
Elusive music everywhere,
In ever-widening bounds!
Is it a chant of spirits blest?
Of heavenly peace it tells,
Of morning calm, of Autumn rest:
It sounds like English bells.

II

I hear it chiming o'er the Braids,
In hollow and on hill;
By Lothian-burn and Swanston glades
It travels with me still.
It ceases, and begins again;
It sinks, and now it swells:
Is it, far-travel'd from their fane,
The sound of Durham bells?

III

Now whether from the deeps above
They call, or from below,
I seem to hear the sounds I love,
The sweetest bells I know.
They hang where Wear by Durham glides,
Where Peace with Autumn dwells:
Surely the peace of heaven abides
And sounds in Durham bells!

IV

Yes, Memory stirs, and wakes at last!
And Durham's river-plain
And Wear, in peace meandering past
As wishing to remain,
And all the peace that Autumn brings,
The peace that all excels,
Arise within my soul that rings
Response to Durham bells.

THE FATE OF SERBIA:

A Prophecy.

December 4, 1915.

Oh, who Heaven's mysteries can understand?
Who can this riddle to the nations read?
Fate to the Kaiser yielded her command,
And while he triumphs, Serbia must bleed!
And Heaven that saw withheld a saving hand,
And Justice tarries!—tarries but the deed!
Her hounds, alert, and straining at the band,
When once let slip, shall show no lack of speed!

Kaiser, behold your type in Herod! He
In a blind fury slaughter'd helpless babes
In hope to kill the Christ! Yours is that guilt,
And yours that folly! Serbia yet shall see
Your hated House, columns and architrabes,
Sink sapp'd and crashing in the blood you split!

THE NAKED HAND.

December 27, 1915.

Thou that did'st brandish in the face of Peace
A madman's mailèd fist, that overaw'd
And then uprous'd the nations, look abroad
And mark the mailèd fists how they increase!

These (dream not otherwise!) shall break the lease
Of thy usurping power, thou thing of fraud,
Greed, pride, and cruelty! Patience of God!
When, when shall Heaven decree thy reign shall cease!

Meanwhile, to fill thy dastard heart with fear,
Look nearer home: it is a starving land,
Befool'd and bankrupt by thy make-believe!
Closer than mailèd fists, a Hand is here
That wears no armour; 'tis a Naked Hand
That thrusts at throats, and wears a ragged sleeve!

THE LANG WHANG.

A Poacher's Wail from Flanders.

February 16, 1916.

I'm a miner lad, fra Mid-Calder braes,
In a bog i' the Laigh Countree,
An' I'm howkin' here, in a woman's claes,
Whaur I never aince thocht to be.

O there's naething here for your lugs to hear,
Nor a sicht for your een to see,
But a burstin' shell, wi' a stink like hell,
An' the pole o' a poplar tree.

Noo that's a thing that is ill to thole;
But it's better to fecht than flee,
An' I'll stick it here like a brock in a hole,
Since better it mayna be.

But the far-flung curve o' the Lang Whang Road,
Wi' the mune on the sky's eebree,
An' naething but me an' the wind abroad
Is the wuss that's hauntin' me.

It's a dream that lifts my hert abune
The swamp that's surroundin' me—
The Lang Whang Road an' the risin' mune
An' the nicht-wind wanderin' free!

I'm thinkin' lang, but I'm thinkin' o'd;
An' the howp that's uphauldin' me
Is a Setterday yet near the Boarstane Road,
Wi' a dog's nose nudgin' my knee!

O the witchin' line o' the Lang Whang Road
Is a sicht for an exile's ee—
At the gloamin' hour, wi' the winds abroad,
If the Lord wad favour me!

A SCHOLAR'S EPITAPH IN LEMNOS.

March 18, 1916.

In a small town far from this classic shore,
Whereof I read in Homer and in history,
Deeming its day of fame for ever o'er,
Half myth, half lapt in mystery—

In that small town I bore a scholar's name,
Though in the world were many much my betters;
But immortality is more than fame,
As life was more than letters.

ECONOMY ON THE OCHILS.

Cheery Optimism at Skriegh-Bare.

March 20, 1916.

Ye Lawland loons that sterve in touns,
There's this to cheer ye at your tyle—
Ye're better far than ithers are,
An' a' the Simmer's gawn to smile!

We've worn our brogues until they're throu',
Wi' corns an' chilblains a' the while;
We're looten doun to bare-fit noo—
But a' the Simmer's gawn to smile!

Our trews are torn, our kilts are worn,
We've neither bannet, caip, nor tile;
But what o' that? our hair's our hat—
An' a' the Simmer's gawn to smile!

We've naething noo to fire our mou'
In the gude auld Glentackit style;
There's no' a drap o' mountain dew—
But a' the Simmer's gawn to smile!

We've eaten aitmeal till we're tired,
We've broken oot in mony a byle;
We've gien up sugar, as required—
But a' the Simmer's gawn to smile!

We've neither coal nor cannel licht,
An' every crusie's wantin' ile;
The peats are dune, an' dark's the nicht—
But a' the Simmer's gawn to smile!

There's no' a gamie on the braes,
There's no' a poacher oot o' jyle,
But's aff disguised in khaki claes—
An' a' the Simmer's gawn to smile!

An' sae, ye loons wha live in touns,
There's this to sweeten a' your tyle—
Ye're maybe waur than what we are,
But a' the Simmer's gawn to smile!

MEMORIAL SONNET TO WILLIE.

April 5, 1916.

[_]

Captain William Robertson Houston, 12th Royal Scots (attached to the 1st Royal Scots Fusiliers), wounded in action in Flanders on the 27th, died of his wound on 28th March, 1916. He was buried, “with all the honours due to a gallant soldier at the Front,” in the little cemetery at Rémy, one and a half miles from Poperinghe, Belgium, and on the road to Boeschepe. Age 22. A native of Dunfermline; student of law at Edinburgh University; and my nephew.

O not for fame—that false light lured him not—
But to approve his manhood, and to show
His love of country as a true-born Scot,
And check the rapine of a ruthless foe.

When the call came, he answer'd on the spot—
I come! how can I stay when others go?
And is the patriotic past forgot?
And is the Kaiser to be conqueror? No!

Say not his life was wasted—say not so:
An unseen Hand directs the destined lot;
And life, that but commences here below,
Subserves a higher purpose than we wot.

Why, then, lament? There is no reason why;
To pass from earth to heaven is not to die.

THE DAY OF THE YOUNG MEN.

April 15, 1916.

I

When war broke out, the young men had their day;
Their numbers spoke, they were a brave array;
And he was nothing who was old and gray
When war broke out—
What could he do but by the fireside stay,
Or grouse about?

II

How rich in strength, how strong in hope were they!
And a long line of years before them lay
Wherein to toil, to triumph, and to play
And rest at length:
No force could daunt them and no fear dismay:
How rich in strength!

III

Their songs they sang along the public way;
They sang of Tipperary, and were gay—

They would return when ended was the fray:
Their songs they sung,
And merrily to war they march'd away,
When they were young.

IV

He that is old and was denied his day,
Whose eye is dim, whose hand is weak to slay—
He may not join the ranks, yet serve he may,
Though un-enroll'd;
He can advise, encourage, comfort, pray,
He that is old.

THE VOICE OF SHAKESPEARE.

A Tercentenary Tribute.

April 22, 1916.

One lately sang
In sweet Victorian verse to vacant days
Of those far-off “melodious bursts that fill'd
The spacious times of great Elizabeth
With sounds that echo still.” He sang amid
His own sweet music, hearing echoes only
Of grander music, listening to his own.

His own becomes an echo. But the Voice,
That earlier voice, lives on, rings louder; it
Was never dead, but, in such days as these,
Calls with commanding tone, thrilling the land!
It sounds like many waters, many-toned,
Strong, and melodious—filling not alone
A spacious time in England's glorious past,
But living, living still, fresh-rising ever,
Reverberant but passing not away!

No other voice is heard! and the great heart,
The heart of England beats, and her feet march
To Shakespeare's music! He is in the street,
The field, the farm, and on the battle-plain;
He sings on decks; and the high arch of heaven
Widens to spread his music!
He sings to patriots: his song sustains
The sense of righteous rule—still challenging
Chaotic rage in nature and in man.
He sings on decks above the sounding surge
Of storm and battle; on the battle-plain
Drums loudly; in the senate speaks, a guide
And a deliverer from the narrow bonds
Of time and fear; is heard o'er shrieking winds
And the swift crack of replicated thunder;
Yet dallies fondly with the summer grass
Where violets couch, and whispers to the trees
When night-winds gently kiss them.

Simple hearts
Still find in him a comrade and a friend.
To his soft pipe they cross a magic line,
And wondering walk in Elfland! or with him
Along the dusty path of daily life
Jog on beneath their pack, and never tire;

Or rest in Arden, no unhappy exiles,
Where, losing luxury, they find themselves—
Or, losing self, haply find Rosalind!

No ghostly voice is his, fading afar,
Which one may hear if he will pause and hearken;
Nor his the pipings of the passing hour
That die in echoes, having charm'd their day.
He sang when England's hopes were in their prime,
Not of that age alone, but “for all time!”

TO JOCK.

May 5, 1916.

The flow'rs that in sunshine their favours unfold
Are a picture quite handsome to see;
But the face that keeps smiling when Fortune blows cold
Is a sight more endearing to me.

And, Jock! I have found thee, again and again,
Let Fortune shift round as she will,
In winter and summer, in sunshine or rain,
The same old Unchangeable still.

Then here's to thee, lad, for the smile of thy face,
And thy heart that no winter-time knows;
A nature like thine is a joy in each place,
And a summer wherever it goes.

SOUND AND FURY AT VERDUN.

May 15, 1916.

Let the blind savage rage and smite—
The adamantine wall
That rises from Eternal Right
Was never doom'd to fall.
Ye sons of God! in patience wait;
It is the suicide of Hate!

Safe in the cave the prophet sat
While Chaos hurtled by;
The power of God was not in that,
Nor in the Whirlwind's cry;
But in “the still small voice,” which made
All things, and is by all obey'd!

GERMAN METHOD.

May 29, 1916.

Wha swell'd the German heid—till it grew thick
Wi' thochts o' Warld-Dominion? Tam Carlyle!
Wha cried up Fredrick an' the Proosian style
But him—the blind Apostle o' the Stick?

Nae doot we've met the mischief, i' the nick—
We micht hae miss'd it! But, wae's me the while!
Look at the price we're peyin' for the vile
Volcanic ootbursts o' his rhetoric!

Yet lives there Ane, within our midst, a bauld Ane,
The last thrawn izzat o' the Sartor clan,
Still to the winds his German faith unfauldin';
But is't conviction that constrains the Man?
Or is't throu' cussedness he's aye up-hauldin'
The German Method an' the Proosian Plan?

KITCHENER.

Perished in H.M.S. “Hampshire,” off the Coast of Orkney, Monday Evening, June 5, 1916.

Not on firm land, amid the call of guns
Quick'ning the heart and pulsing in the brain,
But on the lonely ocean's wavering plain,
Far from the noisy hatred of the Huns;
Not under African or Asian suns,
Where many a time he challenged death in vain,
But in cold waters of the northern main
Our silent Leader sank, engulf'd at once!

Rejoice not, you, our enemy! that the life
Which arm'd and led the Empire is o'erthrown.
There's not a private in these days of strife
But hath with Kitchener's sacrifice vow'd his own,
And fearlessly will front the lesser death,
Boldly embracing what he vanquisheth.

THE BRAMBLE KING.

December 25, 1916.

Better than ever lecture read
Is parable or fable;
An' proverbs find a fruitful bed
Where sermons are unable.

The warld, I think, gets better on
An' better likes the teachin'
O' Pilpay an' o' Solomon
Than a' the parsons' preachin'.

To bring this preface to amane—
Tak', for a sample o' them,
The very first—a first-rate ane!
That Parable o' Jotham.

Aince, when the wuds would wale a tree
To be their Lord an' Leader,
They lookit doun—an' didna see
Their fortune in the Cedar!

They tried the Olive—but he was
In sweet contentment plantit;
He tell't them they could search the shaws
An' find the thing they wantit!

They speer'd the Fig: they socht the Vine;
An', tirin' o' their ramble,
They lost baith hope an' heid, an' syne
Solicitit the Bramble!

A vulgar, vicious, thorny thing,
Withoot one kingly feature!
Hoo could they think to mak' a king
By crowning sic a creature?

PEACE WITHOUT VICTORY!

January 23, 1917.

What, Woodrow once again!
That Icicle among full-blooded men,
Who thrusts among the swords his pulseless pen!

Woodrow, that would placate
The Prussian bully in his broken state:
Hands off, and leave him to his well-earn'd fate!

Is this New England's voice?
Was it for this they made of him their choice?
Let Pacifism and all its brood rejoice!

Did the staunch-hearted North
Thus compromise with Slavery, sending forth
Its sugar'd texts of wisdom—little worth?

Leave us! You've left us long,
You stood aloof when Belgium had the wrong.
We know when Justice should be stern and strong!

PEACE AND VICTORY.

January 23, 1917.

(Hector speaks.)
Stay you! with olive trumpery deck
Your tent: I go with steel
Foe-ward, where Peace and Victory beck!
There's one or two shall feel
Its point—proud Ajax in the neck,
Achilles on the heel!

A SONG OF THE FIELDS.

Slow wears the day when weary hands are garr'd,
And the lang dreels are dreich, an' the work hard;
But cheer ye up! there's rest and a reward—
Ye've dune your bit!

So passes life for most of us away,
With a long row to hoe, and a short pay;
Yet rest is sweet after the toils of day—
We've done our bit!

A GOOD WORD FOR “THE WEED.”

(In Reply to Will H. Ogilvie's fine Poem, “The Dinted Helm.”)

“Now say, ye poor, pale scorners,
Ye wasted waifs an' wan,
What weed of your street corners
Could deal a dint like yon?”
—The Scotsman, of December 27, 1913.

What voice is this from the Border
That fills the Borderside
With a call to rapine an' murder
In the peaceful Christmas-tide?

Is it Christie o' the Clint Hill,
New-risen fra his grave,
Wi' helm an' jack on head an' back?
The rude swash-buckler knave!

Thief Christie o' the Clint Hill,
Cow-riever o' the night?
Wi' a torch thrust under your lintel,
An' the dark an' a horse for flight!

Is he pursued? Does he turn to bay?
He wi' the cruel spear
For an unarm'd fermer, auld an' gray,
Yet game to recover his gear!

In spite o' his jack an' his basnet black
An' his cuisser to aid his flight,
An Ochil lad wi' a bare ox-gad
Would match him in a fight!

O, a lounderin' lick on a helm wi' a stick
May raise your admirin' cry;
It would raise but a laugh in a penny gaff
On a Saturday's nicht in the High.

A lounderin' lick on the head wi' a stick
Fa's licht on an armour'd croon,
But a tunic o' serge to a bayonet charge—
That's war wi' a different soun'!

It's no' a' braves on the Borderside
An' it's no' a' weeds i' the toun;
An' there's mony a weed as guid at need
As ever was Border loon!

An' dinna ye measure the spirit's worth
By the wecht o' the outer man:
There was mony a weed o' Auld Reekie's breed
A hero at Inkerman!

AT BALQUHIDDER.

Here the Macgregor dwelt—
The dauntless and the deathless man,
The living spirit of his clan,
The later glory of the Celt!
Among these rocks, where he hath been,
His vigour animates the scene,
And in the breeze his breath is felt.

Untamed, he wander'd free,
Owning no arrogated rule
Of tyrant, pedant, rogue, or fool:
Law-giver to himself was he!
The right of common sense he saw,
Great Nature's broad unwritten law,
Which all acknowledge when they see.

He practised what he spoke;
Spread his broad shoulders to the sun,
Claim'd the same right for every one,
And stood unbent by curb or yoke.
Not otherwise the forest tree
Stands with its nurslings round its knee,
And woods spring from the parent oak.

I see him in his sons:
The dauntless look, the step that springs,
The shoulders, carried like a king's,
Bespeak them of his race at once!
On hill, in glen, in croft, or cot,
Hunter or herdsman, or what not—
No servile blood within them runs.

O not for crops of corn;
Not for its herds, the wild, the tame,
Its springing fish, its feather'd game,
This tract with pride confronts the morn;
But for its nobler breed of men,
The human rent of rock and glen
From Leny to the Land of Lorn.

There is the Border breed,
Bold and resourceful, stubborn, true,
The Lowlander, the Islesman too,
Undaunted, staunch, and good at need:
His place and due to every man—
The Highlander's is in the van:
Follow who list, the Celt must lead!

THE COCK O' JOHN TAMSON'S TOUN.

An Allegorical Eclogue of the Poultry-Yard.

May 29, 1913.

[_]

These prophetic verses were written more than a year before the outbreak of the German War of Aggression. They symbolize the British Empire under the figure of a farm town, leased by John Tamson. The Cock represents military power. The fifteen Hens are the German States—a fuller enumeration gives twenty-five. Auld Sawturn is a combination of Saturn and Satan, in the Roman and Hebrew mythologies respectively.

A cock cam into the yaird
Up at John Tamson's toun,
An' he liftit a claw in the air like a paw
An' keekit cannily roun':
“There's no a cock i' the toun!”
An' he pat his fit bauldly doun,
Then he stude up to blaw, an' he blew a great craw,
An' the hens they cam bustlin' roun'.

It was a bauld thing he had dar'd.
Far better he never had crewn!
Fifteen hens his affection shar'd,
Yet he cam to John Tamson's toun!

The black, an' the white, an' the broun,
They keckl'd an' skirl'd at the soun';
An' the gallant was proud at the sicht o' the croud—
He had wauken'd John Tamson's toun!
He stude on the tips o' his taes,
An' he blew as he never had blewn;
He blew wi' sic strength, an' he crew at sic length,
His revelry rang i' the toun!

Noo, the Cock o' John Tamson's toun,
Fra his roost i' the rafters aboon,
As sune as he heard the row i' the yaird,
He flew like Auld Sawturn doun.
On the tips o' his wings an' his taes
He flew as he never had flewn;
He cam wi' a force an' a fire roun' the closs,
An' he dang the adventurer doun!

The gallant was siller-an'-black
That ventur'd to enter the toun,
But the Cock o' John Tamson had wecht and had fecht,
An' his colours were sulfur-an'-broun.

There was fire in the glint o' his ee,
There was wrath in the kaim o' his croun,
An' he ran in a raize wi' his beard in a blaze,
An' he dang the adventurer doun!

He gied him a dab an' a stab,
An' curst as he kickit him doun;
When he rase i' the air he counter'd him there,
An' the yaird wi' his feathers was strewn!

Noo, this fecht was a terrible fecht!
The hens flew abeigh at the soun';
But the Cock o' John Tamson had sherpness an' wecht,
An' he ca'd the invader doun.
He lay on his back in a swoon;
He gaspit, but never cam roun'!
An' that was the last o' the cock an' his blast
That wauken'd John Tamson's toun.

The hen-wife was deaf, but she heard,
An' she cam to the door at the soun';
An' there lay the siller-an'-black on his back,
An' there stude the sulfur-an'-broun!

Noo, the fifteen fools aforesaid,
They murn'd i' the neiborin' toun;
But auld John Tamson feastit an' fed,
An' leugh as he lickit his spoon.

L'Envoie.

Now whether you're Kaiser or caird,
A German cock-laird or a loon,
I warnis ye a', tak tent to my saw—
Bide aff o' John Tamson's toun!

THE CALL OF THE SEA.

1913.

The roaring of this inland wood
Sounds like the roaring sea;
And thoughts that will not be subdued,
Old thoughts, arise in me;

Dim thoughts, whate'er their source may be,
That deep in memory dwell—
Like moanings of its parent sea
Within the stranded shell;

Ancestral thoughts! that bring to mind
The vast, vague Long Ago,
When rude forefathers of my kind
Wander'd by wick and voe.

Their dwelling was the weem or cave
In the dark pinewood hill;
Or, homeless, on the lifting wave
Their course was onward still.

Lifelong they wander'd, strove and fought,
Till death brought dark release;
Yet sometimes, vainly, may have thought
Or dreamt that heaven was peace.

Now that their heaven this new world shares
Of peaceful year on year,
I almost wish (true son of theirs!)
Ancestral times were here—

As, answering to the roaring wood
Its old call of the sea,
Ancestral echoes of the blood
Vainly arise in me!

WORLD'S LOSS.

Pleasure and Wealth, and High Esteem
Are much by men regarded;
For them we strive, o' them we dream,
And how are we rewarded?
The cup o' pleasure at the ee—
It's seldom that we taste o't;
We lose, whate'er our joys may be,
And pleasure's loss the least o't!

Pleasure, and Wealth, and High Esteem
Are much by men regarded;
For them we serve, for them we scheme,
And how are we rewarded?
O, glittering gold high up the brae!
The glitter's oft the maist o't;
We lose, whatever luck we hae,
And loss o' wealth the least o't!

Pleasure, and Wealth, and High Esteem
Are much by men regarded;
For them we wake, o' them we dream,
And how are we rewarded?

Oh, fame is fitful as the wind,
And we outlive the haste o't;
We lose, whatever fame we find—
And loss o' fame the least o't!

But Faith and Friendship, Love and Truth
We lightly have regarded;
We left them as the toys o' youth;
And how are we rewarded?
Ah, what we should have treasured up,
We made a sinful waste o't;
We've lost, whate'er the gains we grup,
And World's loss is the least o't!