A spray of lilac, and other poems and songs

Aroun’ my bit bieldie the cauld win’ is soughing,
The dull rain is patt’ring amang the deid leaves,
The mist-wreaths are swirling about the grey mountains,
The wee drookit birds huddle close ’neath the eaves.

Alang the bleak shore the lane sea gangs a sobbin’
Like some wander’d bairnie that fain wad win hame,
Aye seekin’ an’ seekin’, an’ never yet findin’,—
Sure man, in his pilgrimage here, is the same.

The sky has nae promise, the earth hauds nae pleesure.
I look north an’ south, an’ I look east an’ west,
An’ I envy the folk i’ the kirk-yaird out yonder,
For there, ’mang the mools, there is rest—there is rest!

THE REASON WHY

I ken the lassie’s winsome,
An’ blithe as she is braw;
But ’tis not worth nor beauty aye
That steal the heart awa’.

Her cheek is like the wild-rose,
Her lips are like the haw;
But neither ane nor t’ither ’twas
That stole my heart awa’.

Her locks are black as midnight,
Her brow like driven snaw;
And yet it was na’ these I vow
That stole my heart awa ’.

Her smile is like the sunshine,
’Twad gar an iceberg thaw;
But ’twas na’ this by my guid-faith
That stole my heart awa’.

Ilk lad’s lass the fairest is,
For Beauty kens nae law;
(Though some folk maun be easy pleased
Wha’s hearts are stown awa’!)

Ah weel! maybe the pearl I’ve foun’
Is no wi’out a flaw!
But just because she’s her ain sel’
She stole my heart awa’.

DOWN BY THE SEA

O, mighty organ of a thousand keys,
O’er which the Master’s fingers ever stray!
I, listening, hear a myriad melodies
Played in the space of one short summer day.

The long, low plash of little languid waves,
The sweet, sad dirge of softly dying swell,
The deep, delicious gurglings in the caves,
Hold music that this soul of mine loves well.

Full as the human heart of mysteries,
Like it responsive to His touch alone,
For only He can wake the harmonies
Which sleep within thy bosom and mine own.

A VENTURE

Her mouth looks like a scarlet flower
And I feel like a hungry bee,
I long to dart straight to its heart,
But—what would be the fate of me?

The bravest ’tis should win the prize,
And yet I dare not risk her scorn,
And who but knows the reddest rose
May hide the very sharpest thorn?

Yet who can tell but she might yield
Its sweetness up in one long kiss?
So I, who dare not risk her scorn,
Can risk still less to lose such bliss.

And when she feels my parchèd lips
Athirst with long long years of drouth,
She will forgive me, that I sought
That dewy chalice, her sweet mouth.

WATER LILIES

A fleet of fairy vessels
All freighted with pure gold,
The lilies lie at anchor
On the lake’s breast, calm and cold.

Their soft, white sails, seem waiting
The zephyr’s first faint kiss
To waft them to another world,
More bright and fair than this.

Methinks, it were no marvel,
If I should find, one day,
They’d drifted from their moorings,
And in silence sailed away.

THE SENTINEL

“Tick! tick! tick!” goes the old clock in the hall;
The merry hours, the mournful hours
Alike he counts them all
As he stands erect at his post,
Time’s solemn Sentinel.

All that he hath to say he saith,
And on, with never a pause for breath,
He hurries us nearer the day of death.
Though his warning voice is ofttimes drowned
In the whirr, as the wheels of life run round,
Yet, whether or no we hear the sound,—

“Tick! tick! tick!” goes the old clock in the hall;
The merry hours, the mournful hours
Alike he counts them all,
As he stands erect at his post,
Time’s solemn Sentinel.

A LOVE SONG

Upon a bosom snowy white
A little dimpled chin drops down,
While trembling shy lids hide the light
Of love, new born in eyes dark brown.

A tiny timorous hand seeks mine
For shelter, fluttering like a dove;
And with a rapture half divine
I burn my kisses through its glove.

June’s rosy treasures sweetly blend
Upon her cheek and modest brow,
But only Cupid’s self could lend
The crimson stealing o’er them now.

Her voice makes music of my name,
A heaven of love is in her smile,
Her pure mind, like an altar-flame,
Burns clear and steady all the while.

AUTUMN

Red as blood is Autumn’s gown,
And a flaming fire her crown.

And her fingers sere and scorch,
Each one a destroying torch.

Fever follows in her wake,
Nor the dews her thirst can slake.

In her kisses there is death,
And decay in every breath.

She makes tombs of what were bowers,
Strewn with corses of dead flowers.

To the loftiest leaves that wave
She but whispers of a grave.

A QUAKER MAID

Just a pair of green-grey eyes,
With a knack of changing
Like the sea, when shine and shower
O’er its breast are ranging.

Just a pair of green-grey eyes
Each one a heart-breaker,
Who would think that they belonged
To a little Quaker?

Prim her bonnet, drab her gown,
And she walks sedately,
With a sort of lily-mien—
Drooping, and yet stately.

And her voice sounds, oh, so meek!
“Thou” and “thee” and “thying,”
Yet the while those grey-green eyes
Seem to be belying.

All these airs of calm repose,—
This sad suit and sober,
Why should Spring’s young sapling be
Brown-leaved like October?

Gown her in the lilies’ white!
Crown her curls with roses!
Wreath her neck with daisy-chains!
Fill her hands with posies!

Laughter-loving green-grey eyes,
Young limbs girt with gladness,
How they mock this dismal drab
Livery of sadness!

“THE TIME, THE PLACE, THE BELOVED.”

You and I among the roses—
You and I and love and June—
All without and all within us
Set to one sweet happy tune!

You and I among the roses!
Drowsy bees go blundering by;
’Mid the tresses on your temples
Little breezes swoon and die.

You and I among the roses!
Overhead a sapphire dome;
’Neath our feet a sea of emerald,
Flecked with daisies for its foam.

You and I among the roses—
’Tis for love the time and place!
What a world of rapture can be
Crowded into one small space.

DAY-DREAMS

I am dreaming of you, belovèd,
In my home among the hills;
Your eyes meet mine in every flower;
Above the highest height you tower,
Yet the glamour of your presence
The lowest valley fills.

I hear your voice in the river
That sings on its way to the sea;
And when the wind sweeps over
The low beds of the clover,
’Tis the breath of my belovèd
Its wide wings bear to me.

I am dreaming of you, belovèd,
But though sweet these day-dreams be,
’Tis the deeper dreams of sleeping
That restore you to my keeping,
And so the world of shadows
Is the dearest world to me.

SONG OF THE SEASONS

Sing, oh sing, ’tis summer time!
Sing it ’mong the roses,—
Sing it till each sleeping bud,
Dewy-eyed, uncloses.

Sing it through the woodlands, till
All the song-birds hear it!
Sing,—till every blade of grass
Finds a voice to cheer it.

* * * *

Sigh, oh sigh, ’tis winter drear!
Sigh it through the flowing
Shroud that over earth’s dead breast
Falls in time of snowing.

Sigh it through the bare brown stems
That once held the roses!
Sigh it round the grave, that o’er
Summer’s glory closes.

ONE SUMMER DAY

The sky stretched blue above us,
The sea slept at our feet,
As still, as if its mighty heart
Had almost ceased to beat.

A trembling hush seemed slowly
Across the earth to steal,
As when after benediction
The priest and people kneel.

It was as though God’s finger
Lay on the pulse of life,
And stilled, for one brief moment,
Its tumult and its strife.

THE INSCRUTABLE

A glad young girl amid the sunshine flitting,
Like a bright bird let loose from Paradise—
A weary woman, in the shadow, sitting
With haggard face and dry despairing eyes.

* * * * * *

The one in death’s dark chamber now is lying,
Stricken to marble her warm pulsing breast:
And God denies the luxury of dying
To the sad soul whose one cry is for rest.

DELILAH

Why comest thou with those grand eyes of thine
To lure me as the cruel light the moth,
To my destruction.—Long ago my wrath
Cooled its white heat in pity’s depths divine.

There was a time when full of bitter hate
I could have crushed thee—but that time is past,
And tho’ I needs must love thee to the last,
Tempt me not now—it is too late, too late.

Apart for evermore our paths must lie,
Such love as thine can only bring a curse.
I would be better for my love, not worse,
So go while I have strength to say “Good-bye.”

A BABY’S GRAVE

I could not lay her down to sleep
In a death-crowded place,
With grim black yews to keep God’s sun
From shining on her face.

With softest greenest moss I lined
For her a little nest;
No crushing marble slab I laid
Upon her tender breast.

Nor iron rails like prison-bars
Her sacred form enclose,
The sternest guardian of her grave
Is just a fragile rose.

A CHILD’S FAVOURITE

Only an old wooden dolly,
With an arm and a leg a-missing,
The point of her nose rubbed off, I suppose,
Through too much washing or kissing.

In a frock of faded satin,
With tinsel lace tarnished and tattered;
Her “coal-scuttle” bonnet holds, alas!
A head that’s a trifle battered.

Oh, no, she has not lost her locks,
She never had curls black or golden;
A doll’s wig was safely painted on
In the days that you call “olden.”

You laugh, and think her “too funny;”
Yet once she was just as much cherished
As your dolly is—by a wee girl
Whose dolly-days long ago perished.

RICH OR POOR?

Only a string of cold white pearls,
Or diamond drops, like frozen tears,
Has clasped my lady’s slender neck
Through all the barren empty years.

Only wee warm white baby arms
Have clasped my neck thro’ the sweet years;
Yet she is rich and I am poor—
Or so it to the world appears.

DOLLY’S GARDEN

This is Dolly’s garden,
All her “very own,”
Every flower that’s in it
By her hand was sown—
Never out of Eden
Were such blossoms blown.

Like her eyes those pansies,
Deep and dark and blue—
As her soul those lilies,
Pure and white and true;
Frail earth-flowers and fading—
Dolly’s fading too.

This was Dolly’s garden,
Here I stand alone,
Dolly’s tending blossoms
Near the Great White Throne:
Dolly now has heaven
For her “very own.”

IN A DREAM-SHIP

She sailed away one summer day
In a ship of shining shell:
Her cloak was a butterfly’s gauzy wing,
Her bonnet a big blue-bell,
Her bed was a lady’s slipper,
Her blankets the leaves of a rose,
And a cushion of thistledown had she,
Just to rest her tiny toes.

With golden oars from the earth’s dark shores
She was borne o’er a silver sea;
And she never feared as the captain steered
For the land where she wished to be.

And this was the song,
As they drifted along,
That she sang from the ship of shell —
“Oh, we are bound
For enchanted ground;
It’s there that the fairies dwell.”

But a storm swept over the silver sea,
And the little maid awoke
As against the side of the fair frail barque
A cruel billow broke;
And she rubbed her eyes, and she pinched her arm,
And fearfully peeped around;
But instead of a ship “for fairyland”
She had boarded a “homeward-bound.”

THE FLOWER-QUEEN’S FALL

A rebel rose climbed to the top of the hedge,
And watched the people go up and down
The winding highway, dusty and grey,
That stretched from the village away to the town.

And an anger surged in her passionate heart,
’Gainst the humble garden where she was born,
And her red lips curled at the old flower world,
And she cast around her such looks of scorn

That the lilies drooped ’neath her withering glance,
And the pansies huddled together with fear,
And the poor pinks paled, and each daisy quailed,
And dropped from her lashes a big round tear.

For of the flower-kingdom this rose was queen,
And never were subjects more loyal than they—
And they fondly dreamed she was good as she seemed,
And because they had loved they were proud to obey.

But lo! as she towered in haughty disdain
High over their heads, with an angry gust
The wind swooped down and tore off her crown,
And its jewels went whirling away with the dust.

A VETERAN

In his niche in the hall, the old clock stands,
But hushed is his voice, and still are his hands.
He ceased from his labours long years ago,
And he’s only a “pensioner” now, you know.

He did his duty as long as he could,
For a brave heart beat in his breast of wood,
And you could depend on all he said
Till age, at last, turned him queer in the head.

With a visor of glass o’er his grim old face,
In his armour,—a straight, stiff, oaken case,
He “stands at ease” in his sentry box,
And leaves time-telling to younger clocks.

TO A BUTTERFLY

Butterfly, O butterfly,
With gaily-jewelled wings,
You make me think of fairy folk
And of enchanted things.

You once were held a prisoner
In a castle grim and grey—
A “chrysalis” folk called it—
But you escaped away.

And now you flutter ’mong the flowers,
A restless roving elf,
Or fold your wings and lie so still—
A very flower yourself.

Or hoisting high two gauzy sails,
You softly float away,
Just like a tiny fairy barque
Bound for a fairy bay.

The bees must work, the birds must sing,
The flowers yield perfumes rare;
But you were born a trifler,
Frail thing of light and air!

WHEN AND WHERE

I wonder “when” and I wonder “where”
The Angel of Death will come,
And, laying a finger on lids and lips,
Will strike me blind and dumb.

I wonder “when” and I wonder “where”!
Like the skeleton at the feast,
’Mid laughter and mirth this thought finds birth
Where it is welcome least.

I wonder “when” and I wonder “where”—
In my prime or old age hoar,
At home, with my loved ones round my bed,
Or alone on an alien shore.

I wonder “when” and I wonder “where!”
Is God not over all?
He knows the time and He knows the place
Who marks a sparrow’s fall.

WHEN LOVE IS YOUNG

The red and russet of Autumn die,
In the lap of winter their ashes lie,
And the earth is wan and grey the sky.

But the noon of a wondrous joy is mine,
And my pulses thrill with the glowing wine
That flows from the grape of Love’s deathless vine.

What care have I that the brown stems bear
Nor leaf nor bloom, and the mad winds tear
The last poor tatters the forests wear?

Is not the heart in mine own glad breast
A garden of roses, a haven of rest,
A bird that has builded a warm love-nest?

A CHARACTER SKETCH

Womanly-sweet in all her ways,
Slow to condemn, and swift to praise;
Ready to help in hour of need,
Generous in thought as well as deed.

Pitiful, tender, yet firm and strong
To uphold the right and put down wrong;
Never a thought of self or gain,
Proud of her God-given gifts—not vain.

Laughter-loving, and fond of fun,
When the “daily round” and task are done;
Modest and maidenly, yet no prude;
Perfect enough, but not “too good.”

Half an angel, yet wholly human;
No ideal—a living woman.

FRIENDS

We are such friends, my little girl and I,
That, though her summers number scarcely nine
I need none other, as I go my ways
With her small fingers closely clasping mine.

A little world we two make of our own,
And people it with all things fair and sweet;
The stars that twinkle overhead at night
Drop down at dawn in daisies at our feet.

My smiles are hers;—my tears are all my own,
I keep my sighs and give her all my song,
Because she is so trusting and so weak
I feel that I can suffer and be strong.

The while I try to keep the narrow way,
’Tis wide enough for both. And my white dove,
With untried wings, knows little love but this,
That “Mother” is another name for “Love.”

BED-TIME

The sleepy daisies have said “Good night,”
And tied up their wee frilled nightcaps tight.
The summer day’s been hot and long
And daisies, although they are so strong,
Are always tired and ready for bed
Ere the stars, heaven’s daisies, awake o’erhead.

The roses have rocked themselves to sleep.
Awake they could no longer keep—
They’ve been astir since the dawn of day,
Sighing their sweet perfume away,
And feeding the hungry beggar bees
That never say “thanks” nor “if you please!”

And, baby darling, ’tis time that you
Had shut your drowsy eyes of blue—
Wee busy hands, wee busy feet
Must rest sometime, you know, my sweet—
The flower-bells all have chimed “Good night.”
They’ll ring to wake you with the light.

A spray of lilac, and other poems and songs

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