New Collected Rhymes
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PREFACE
This poor little flutter of rhymes would not have been let down the wind: the project would have been abandoned but for the too flattering encouragement of a responsible friend. I trust that he may not “live to rue the day,” like Keith of Craigentolly in the ballad.
The “Loyal Lyrics” on Charles and James and the White Rose must not be understood as implying a rebellious desire for the subversion of the present illustrious dynasty.
“These are but symbols that I sing,These names of Prince, and rose, and King;Types of things dear that do not die,But reign in loyal memory.Across the water surely theyAbide their twenty-ninth of May;And we shall hail their happy reign,When Life comes to his own again,” —over the water that divides us from the voices and faces of our desires and dreams.
Of the ballads, The Young Ruthven and The Queen of Spain were written in competition with the street minstrels of the close of the sixteenth century. The legend on which The Young Ruthven is based is well known; The Queen of Spain is the story of the Florencia, a ship of the Spanish Armada, wrecked in Tobermory Bay, as it was told to me by a mariner in the Sound of Mull. In Keith of Craigentolly the family and territorial names of the hero or villain are purposely altered, so as to avoid injuring susceptibilities and arousing unavailing regrets.
DEDICATORY
In Augustinum Dobson
Jam Rude DonatumDear Poet, now turned out to grass (Like him who reigned in Babylon), Forget the seasons overlaid By business and the Board of Trade:And sing of old-world lad and lass As in the summers that are gone.Back to the golden prime of Anne! When you ambassador had been, And brought o’er sea the King again, Beatrix Esmond in his train,Ah, happy bard to hold her fan, And happy land with such a Queen!We live too early, or too late, You should have shared the pint of Pope, And taught, well pleased, the shining shell To murmur of the fair Lepel,And changed the stars of St. John’s fate To some more happy horoscope.By duchesses with roses crowned, And fed with chicken and champagne, Urbane and witty, and too wary To risk the feud of Lady Mary,You should have walked the courtly ground Of times that cannot come again.Bring back these years in verse or prose, (I very much prefer your verse!) As on some Twenty-Ninth of May Restore the splendour and the sway,Forget the sins, the wars, the woes — The joys alone must you rehearse.Forget the dunces (there is none So stupid as to snarl at you); So may your years with pen and book Run pleasant as an English brookThrough meadows floral in the sun, And shadows fragrant of the dew.And thus at ending of your span — As all must end – the world shall say, “His best he gave: he left us not A line that saints could wish to blot,For he was blameless, though a man, And though the poet, he was gay!”LOYAL LYRICS
How the Maid Marched from Blois
(Supposed to be narrated by James Power, or Polwarth, her Scottish banner-painter.)
The Maiden called for her great destrier,But he lashed like a fiend when the Maid drew near:“Lead him forth to the Cross!” she cried, and he stoodLike a steed of bronze by the Holy Rood!Then I saw the Maiden mount and ride,With a good steel sperthe that swung by her side,And girt with the sword of the Heavenly Bride,That is sained with crosses five for a sign,The mystical sword of St. Catherine.And the lily banner was blowing wide,With the flowers of France on the field of fameAnd, blent with the blossoms, the Holy Name!And the Maiden’s blazon was shown on a shield,Argent, a dove, on an azure field;That banner was wrought by this hand, ye see,For the love of the Maid and chivalry.Her banner was borne by a page of grace,With hair of gold, and a lady’s face;And behind it the ranks of her men were dressed —Never a man but was clean confessed,Jackman and archer, lord and knight,Their souls were clean and their hearts were light:There was never an oath, there was never a laugh,And La Hire swore soft by his leading staff!Had we died in that hour we had won the skies,And the Maiden had marched us through Paradise!A moment she turned to the people there,Who had come to gaze on the Maiden fair;A moment she glanced at the ring she wore,She murmured the Holy Name it bore,Then, “For France and the King, good people pray!”She spoke, and she cried to us, “On and away!”And the shouts broke forth, and the flowers rained down,And the Maiden led us to Orleans town.Lone Places of the Deer
Lone places of the deer, Corrie, and Loch, and Ben,Fount that wells in the cave,Voice of the burn and the wave,Softly you sing and clear Of Charlie and his men!Here has he lurked, and here The heather has been his bed,The wastes of the islands knewAnd the Highland hearts were trueTo the bonny, the brave, the dear, The royal, the hunted head.An Old Song
1750Oh, it’s hame, hame, hame, And it’s hame I wadna be,Till the Lord calls King James To his ain countrie,Bids the wind blaw frae France, Till the Firth keps the faem,And Loch Garry and Lochiel Bring Prince Charlie hame.May the lads Prince Charlie led That were hard on Willie’s track,When frae Laffen field he fled, Wi’ the claymore at his back,May they stand on Scottish soil When the White Rose bears the gree,And the Lord calls the King To his ain countrie!Bid the seas arise and stand Like walls on ilka side,Till our Highland lad pass through With Jehovah for his guide.Dry up the River Forth, As Thou didst the Red Sea,When Israel cam hame To his ain countrie. 1Jacobite “Auld Lang Syne.”
Lochiel’s Regiment, 1747Though now we take King Lewie’s fee And drink King Lewie’s wine,We’ll bring the King frae ower the sea, As in auld lang syne.For, he that did proud Pharaoh crush, And save auld Jacob’s line,Will speak to Charlie in the Bush, Like Moses, lang syne.For oft we’ve garred the red coats run, Frae Garry to the Rhine,Frae Baugé brig to Falkirk moor, No that lang syne.The Duke may with the Devil drink, And wi’ the deil may dine,But Charlie’s dine in Holyrood, As in auld lang syne.For he who did proud Pharaoh crush, To save auld Jacob’s line,Shall speak to Charlie in the Bush, Like Moses, lang syne.The Prince’s Birthday
Rome, 31st December, 1721(A new-born star shone, which is figured on an early Medal of Prince Charles.)
A wonderful star shone forth From the frozen skies of the NorthUpon Rome, for an Old Year’s night: And a flower on the dear white Rose Broke, in the season of snows,To bloom for a day’s delight. Lost is the star in the night, And the Rose of a day’s delightFled “where the roses go”: But the fragrance and light from afar, Born of the Rose and the Star,Breathe o’er the years and the snow.The Tenth of June, 1715
(Being a Song writ for a lady born on June 10th, the birthday of his Most Sacred Majesty King James III. and VIII.)
Day of the King and the flower! And the girl of my heart’s delight,The blackbird sings in the bower, And the nightingale sings in the night A song to the roses white.Day of the flower and the King! When shall the sails of whiteShine on the seas and bring In the day, in the dawn, in the night, The King to his land and his right?Day of my love and my may, After the long years’ flight,Born on the King’s birthday, Born for my heart’s delight, With the dawn of the roses white!Black as the blackbird’s wing Is her hair, and her brow as whiteAs the white rose blossoming, And her eyes as the falcon’s bright And her heart is leal to the right.When shall the joy bells ring? When shall the hours uniteThe right with the might of my King, And my heart with my heart’s delight; In the dawn, in the day, in the night?White Rose Day
June 10, 1688’Twas a day of faith and flowers, Of honour that could not die,Of Hope that counted the hours, Of sorrowing Loyalty:And the Blackbird sang in the closes, The Blackbird piped in the spring,For the day of the dawn of the Roses, The dawn of the day of the King!White roses over the heather, And down by the Lowland lea,And far in the faint blue weather, A white sail guessed on the sea!But the deep night gathers and closes, Shall ever a morning bringThe lord of the leal white roses, The face of the rightful King?Red and White Roses
Red roses under the sun For the King who is lord of land;But he dies when his day is done,For his memory careth none When the glass runs empty of sand.White roses under the moon For the King without lands to give;But he reigns with the reign of June,With the rose and the Blackbird’s tune, And he lives while Faith shall live.Red roses for beef and beer; Red roses for wine and gold;But they drank of the water clear,In exile and sorry cheer, To the kings of our sires of old.Red roses for wealth and might; White roses for hopes that flee;And the dreams of the day and the night,For the Lord of our heart’s delight — For the King that is o’er the sea.The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond
1746There’s an ending o’ the dance, and fair Morag’s safe in France,And the Clans they hae paid the lawing,And the wuddy has her ain, and we twa are left alane,Free o’ Carlisle gaol in the dawing. So ye’ll tak the high road, and I’ll tak the laigh road, An’ I’ll be in Scotland before ye: But me and my true love will never meet again, By the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond.For my love’s heart brake in twa, when she kenned the Cause’s fa’,And she sleeps where there’s never nane shall waken,Where the glen lies a’ in wrack, wi’ the houses toom and black,And her father’s ha’s forsaken.While there’s heather on the hill shall my vengeance ne’er be still,While a bush hides the glint o’ a gun, lad;Wi’ the men o’ Sergeant Môr shall I work to pay the score,Till I wither on the wuddy in the sun, lad! So ye’ll tak the high road, and I’ll tak the laigh road, An’ I’ll be in Scotland before ye: But me and my true love will never meet again, By the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond.Kenmure
1715“The heather’s in a blaze, Willie, The White Rose decks the tree,The Fiery Cross is on the braes, And the King is on the sea!“Remember great Montrose, Willie, Remember fair Dundee,And strike one stroke at the foreign foes Of the King that’s on the sea.“There’s Gordons in the North, Willie, Are rising frank and free,Shall a Kenmure Gordon not go forth For the King that’s on the sea?“A trusty sword to draw, Willie, A comely weird to dree,For the Royal Rose that’s like the snaw, And the King that’s on the sea!”He cast ae look across his lands, Looked over loch and lea,He took his fortune in his hands, For the King was on the sea.Kenmures have fought in Galloway For Kirk and Presbyt’rie,This Kenmure faced his dying day, For King James across the sea.It little skills what faith men vaunt, If loyal men they beTo Christ’s ain Kirk and Covenant, Or the King that’s o’er the sea.Culloden
Dark, dark was the day when we looked on Culloden And chill was the mist drop that clung to the tree,The oats of the harvest hung heavy and sodden, No light on the land and no wind on the sea.There was wind, there was rain, there was fire on their faces, When the clans broke the bayonets and died on the guns,And ’tis Honour that watches the desolate places Where they sleep through the change of the snows and the suns.Unfed and unmarshalled, outworn and outnumbered, All hopeless and fearless, as fiercely they fought,As when Falkirk with heaps of the fallen was cumbered, As when Gledsmuir was red with the havoc they wrought.Ah, woe worth you, Sleat, and the faith that you vowed, Ah, woe worth you, Lovat, Traquair, and Mackay;And woe on the false fairy flag of Macleod, And the fat squires who drank, but who dared not to die!Where the graves of Clan Chattan are clustered together, Where Macgillavray died by the Well of the Dead,We stooped to the moorland and plucked the pale heather That blooms where the hope of the Stuart was sped.And a whisper awoke on the wilderness, sighing, Like the voice of the heroes who battled in vain,“Not for Tearlach alone the red claymore was plying, But to bring back the old life that comes not again.”The Last of the Leal
December 31, 1787Here’s a health to every man Bore the brunt of wind and weather;Winnowed sore by Fortune’s fan,Faded faith of chief and clan: Nairne and Caryl stand together;Here’s a health to every man Bore the brunt of wind and weather!Oh, round Charlie many ran, When his foot was on the heather,When his sword shone in the van.Now at ending of his span, Gask and Caryl stand together!Ne’er a hope from plot or plan, Ne’er a hope from rose or heather;Ay, the King’s a broken man;Few will bless, and most will ban. Nairne and Caryl stand together!Help is none from Crown or clan, France is false, a fluttered feather;But Kings are not made by man,Till God end what God began, Nairne and Caryl stand together, Gask and Caryl stand together;Here’s a health to every man Bore the brunt of wind and weather!Jeanne d’Arc
The honour of a loyal boy, The courage of a paladin,With maiden’s mirth, the soul of joy, These dwelt her happy breast within.From shame, from doubt, from fear, from sin, As God’s own angels was she free;Old worlds shall end, and new begin To beEre any come like her who fought For France, for freedom, for the King;Who counsel of redemption brought Whence even the armed Archangel’s wingMight weary sore in voyaging; Who heard her Voices cry “Be free!”Such Maid no later human spring Shall see!Saints Michael, Catherine, Margaret, Who sowed the seed that Thou must reap,If eyes of angels may be wet, And if the Saints have leave to weep,In Paradise one pain they keep, Maiden! one mortal memory,One sorrow that can never sleep, For Thee!CRICKET RHYMES
To Helen
(After seeing her bowl with her usual success.)St. Leonard’s HallHelen, thy bowling is to me Like that wise Alfred Shaw’s of yore,Which gently broke the wickets three: From Alfred few could smack a four: Most difficult to score!The music of the moaning sea, The rattle of the flying bails,The grey sad spires, the tawny sails — What memories they bring to me, Beholding thee!Upon our old monastic pitch, How sportsmanlike I see thee stand!The leather in thy lily hand, Oh, Helen of the yorkers, which Are nobly planned!Ballade of Dead Cricketers
Ah, where be Beldham now, and Brett, Barker, and Hogsflesh, where be they?Brett, of all bowlers fleetest yet That drove the bails in disarray?And Small that would, like Orpheus, play Till wild bulls followed his minstrelsy? 2Booker, and Quiddington, and May? Beneath the daisies, there they lie!And where is Lambert, that would get The stumps with balls that broke astray?And Mann, whose balls would ricochet In almost an unholy way(So do baseballers “pitch” to-day) George Lear, that seldom let a bye,And Richard Nyren, grave and gray? Beneath the daisies, there they lie!Tom Sueter, too, the ladies’ pet, Brown that would bravest hearts affray;Walker, invincible when set, (Tom, of the spider limbs and splay);Think ye that we could match them, pray, These heroes of Broad-halfpenny,With Buck to hit, and Small to stay? Beneath the daisies, there they lie!EnvoyPrince, canst thou moralise the lay? How all things change below the sky!Of Fry and Grace shall mortals say, “Beneath the daisies, there they lie!”Brahma
After EmersonIf the wild bowler thinks he bowls, Or if the batsman thinks he’s bowled,They know not, poor misguided souls, They too shall perish unconsoled.I am the batsman and the bat, I am the bowler and the ball,The umpire, the pavilion cat, The roller, pitch, and stumps, and all.CRITICAL OF LIFE, ART, AND LITERATURE
Gainsborough Ghosts
In The Grosvenor GalleryThey smile upon the western wall, The lips that laughed an age agone,The fops, the dukes, the beauties all, Le Brun that sang, and Carr that shone.We gaze with idle eyes: we con The faces of an elder time —Alas! and ours is flitting on; Oh, moral for an empty rhyme!Think, when the tumult and the crowd Have left the solemn rooms and chill,When dilettanti are not loud, When lady critics are not shrill —Ah, think how strange upon the still Dim air may sound these voices faint;Once more may Johnson talk his fill And fair Dalrymple charm the Saint!Of us they speak as we of them, Like us, perchance, they criticise:Our wit, they vote, is Brummagem; Our beauty – dim to Devon’s eyes!Their silks and lace our cloth despise, Their pumps – our boots that pad the mud,What modern fop with Walpole vies? With St. Leger what modern blood?Ah, true, we lack the charm, the wit, Our very greatest, sure, are small;And Mr. Gladstone is not Pitt, And Garrick comes not when we call.Yet – pass an age – and, after all, Even we may please the folk that lookWhen we are faces on the wall, And voices in a history book!In Art the statesman yet shall live, With collars keen, with Roman nose;To Beauty yet shall Millais give The roses that outlast the rose:The lords of verse, the slaves of prose, On canvas yet shall seem alive,And charm the mob that comes and goes, And lives – in 1985.A Remonstrance with the Fair
There are thoughts that the mind cannot fathom, The mind of the animal male;But woman abundantly hath ’em, And mostly her notions prevail.And why ladies read what they do read Is a thing that no man may explain,And if any one asks for a true rede He asketh in vain.Ah, why is each “passing depression” Of stories that gloomily boreReceived as the subtle expression Of almost unspeakable lore?In the dreary, the sickly, the grimy Say, why do our women delight,And wherefore so constantly ply me With Ships in the Night?Dear ladies, in vain you approach us, With books to your taste in your hands;For, alas! though you offer to coach us, Yet the soul of no man understandsWhy the grubby is always the moral, Why the nasty’s preferred to the nice,While you keep up a secular quarrel With a gay little Vice;Yes, a Vice with her lips full of laughter, A Vice with a rose in her hair,You condemn in the present and after, To darkness of utter despair:But a sin, if no rapture redeem it, But a passion that’s pale and played out,Or in surgical hands – you esteem it Worth scribbling about!What is sauce for the goose, for the gander Is sauce, ye inconsequent fair!It is better to laugh than to maunder, And better is mirth than despair;And though Life’s not all beer and all skittles, Yet the Sun, on occasion, can shine,And, mon Dieu! he’s a fool who belittles This cosmos of Thine!There are cakes, there is ale – ay, and ginger Shall be hot in the mouth, as of old:And a villain, with cloak and with whinger, And a hero, in armour of gold,And a maid with a face like a lily, With a heart that is stainless and gay,Make a tale worth a world of the silly Sad trash of to-day!Rhyme of Rhymes
Wild on the mountain peak the wind Repeats its old refrain,Like ghosts of mortals who have sinned, And fain would sin again.For “wind” I do not rhyme to “mind,” Like many mortal men,“Again” (when one reflects) ’twere kind To rhyme as if “agen.”I never met a single soul Who spoke of “wind” as “wined,”And yet we use it, on the whole, To rhyme to “find” and “blind.”We say, “Now don’t do that agen,” When people give us pain;In poetry, nine times in ten, It rhymes to “Spain” or “Dane.”Oh, which are wrong or which are right? Oh, which are right or wrong?The sounds in prose familiar, quite, Or those we meet in song?To hold that “love” can rhyme to “prove” Requires some force of will,Yet in the ancient lyric groove We meet them rhyming still.This was our learned fathers’ wont In prehistoric times,We follow it, or if we don’t, We oft run short of rhymes.Rhyme of Oxford Cockney Rhymes
(Exhibited in the Oxford Magazine.)Though Keats rhymed “ear” to “Cytherea,” And Morris “dawn” to “morn,”A worse example, it is clear, By Oxford Dons is “shorn.”G – y, of Magdalen, goes beyond These puny Cockneys far,And to “Magrath” rhymes – Muse despond! — “Magrath” he rhymes to “star”!Another poet, X. Y. Z., Employs the word “researcher,”And then, – his blood be on his head, — He makes it rhyme to “nurture.”Ah, never was the English tongue So flayed, and racked, and tortured,Since one I love (who should be hung) Made “tortured” rhyme to “orchard.”Unkindly G – y’s raging pen Next craves a rhyme to “sooner;”Rejecting “Spooner,” (best of men,) He fastens on lacuna(r).Nay, worse, in his infatuate mind He ends a line “explainer,”Nor any rhyme can G – y find Until he reaches Jena(r).Yes, G – y shines the worst of all, He needs to rhyme “embargo;”The man had “Margot” at his call, He had the good ship Argo;Largo he had; yet doth he seek Further, and no embargoRestrains him from the odious, weak, And Cockney rhyme, “Chicago”!Ye Oxford Dons that Cockneys be, Among your gardens tidy,If you would ask a maid to tea, D’ye call the girl “a lydy”?And if you’d sing of Mr. Fry, And need a rhyme to “swiper,”Are you so cruel as to try To fill the blank with “paper”?Oh, Hoxford was a pleasant plice To many a poet dear,And Saccharissa had the grice In Hoxford to appear.But Waller, if to Cytherea He prayed at any time,Did not implore “her friendly ear,” And think he had a rhyme.Now, if you ask to what are due The horrors which I mention,I think we owe them to the U- Niversity extension.From Hoxton and from Poplar come The ’Arriets and ’Arries,And so the Oxford Muse is dumb, Or, when she sings, miscarries.Rococo
(“My name is also named ‘Played Out.’”)When first we heard Rossetti sing, We twanged the melancholy lyre,We sang like this, like anything, When first we heard Rossetti sing.And all our song was faded Spring, And dead delight and dark desire,When first we heard Rossetti sing, We twanged the melancholy lyre.(And this is how we twanged it) —
The New Orpheus to his EurydiceWhy wilt thou woo, ah, strange Eurydice, A languid laurell’d Orpheus in the shades, For here is company of shadowy maids,Hero, and Helen and Psamathoë:And life is like the blossom on the tree, And never tumult of the world invades, The low light wanes and waxes, flowers and fades,And sleep is sweet, and dreams suffice for me;“Go back, and seek the sunlight,” as of old, The wise ghost-mother of Odysseus said,Here am I half content, and scarce a-cold, But one light fits the living, one the dead;Good-bye, be glad, forget! thou canst not hold In thy kind arms, alas! this powerless head. When first we heard Rossetti sing, We also wrote this kind of thing!The Food of Fiction
To breakfast, dinner, or to lunch My steps are languid, once so speedy;E’en though, like the old gent in Punch, “Not hungry, but, thank goodness! greedy.”I gaze upon the well-spread board, And have to own – oh, contradiction!Though every dainty it afford, There’s nothing like the food of fiction.“The better half” – how good the sound! Of Scott’s or Ainsworth’s “venison pasty,”In cups of old Canary drowned, (Which probably was very nasty).The beefsteak pudding made by Ruth To cheer Tom Pinch in his affliction,Ah me, in all the world of truth, There’s nothing like the food of fiction!The cakes and ham and buttered toast That graced the board of Gabriel Varden,In Bracebridge Hall the Christmas roast, Fruits from the Goblin Market Garden.And if you’d eat of luscious sweets And yet escape from gout’s infliction,Just read “St. Agnes’ Eve” by Keats — There’s nothing like the food of fiction.What cups of tea were ever brewed Like Sairey Gamp’s – the dear old sinner?What savoury mess was ever stewed Like that for Short’s and Codlin’s dinner?What was the flavour of that “poy” — To use the Fotheringay’s own diction —Pendennis ate, the love-sick boy? There’s nothing like the food of fiction.Prince, you are young – but you will find After life’s years of fret and friction,That hunger wanes – but never mind! There’s nothing like the food of fiction.