Kitobni o'qish: «New Collected Rhymes»

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 they
Abide 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 Donatum

 
Dear 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 brook
Through 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 stood
Like a steed of bronze by the Holy Rood!
 
 
Then I saw the Maiden mount and ride,
With a good steel sperthe that swung by her side,
And girt with the sword of the Heavenly Bride,
That is sained with crosses five for a sign,
The mystical sword of St. Catherine.
And the lily banner was blowing wide,
With the flowers of France on the field of fame
And, blent with the blossoms, the Holy Name!
And the Maiden’s 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 knew
And the Highland hearts were true
To the bonny, the brave, the dear,
   The royal, the hunted head.
 

An Old Song

1750

 
Oh, it’s hame, hame, hame,
   And it’s hame I wadna be,
Till the Lord calls King James
   To his ain countrie,
Bids the wind blaw frae France,
   Till the Firth keps the faem,
And Loch Garry and Lochiel
   Bring Prince Charlie hame.
 
 
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. ¹
 

Jacobite “Auld Lang Syne.”

Lochiel’s Regiment, 1747

 
Though 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.