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.

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.

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!”

(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.

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,
   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.

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!

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.

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 North
Upon 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 delight
Fled “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.

(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 white
Shine 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!

When shall the joy bells ring?
   When shall the hours unite
The right with the might of my King,
   And my heart with my heart’s delight;
   In the dawn, in the day, in the night?

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 bring
The lord of the leal white roses,
   The face of the rightful King?

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.

1746.

There’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.

      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.

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!”

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 be
To Christ’s ain Kirk and Covenant,
   Or the King that’s o’er the sea.

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.

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.”

December 31, 1787.

Here’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!

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 be

Ere any come like her who fought
   For France, for freedom, for the King;
Who counsel of redemption brought
   Whence even the armed Archangel’s wing
Might weary sore in voyaging;
   Who heard her Voices cry “Be free!”
Such Maid no later human spring
            Shall see!

(After seeing her bowl with her usual success.)

St. Leonard’s Hall.

Helen, 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!

Envoy.

Prince, 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!”

After Emerson.

If 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.

In The Grosvenor Gallery.

They 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!

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 look
When 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.

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 bore
Received 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?

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!

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.”

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.

(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.”

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 embargo
Restrains 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”?

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.

(“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 Eurydice.

Why 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:

“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!

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!

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.

Had cigarettes no ashes,
   And roses ne’er a thorn,
No man would be a funker
Of whin, or burn, or bunker.
There were no need for mashies,
   The turf would ne’er be torn,
Had cigarettes no ashes,
   And roses ne’er a thorn.

Had cigarettes no ashes,
   And roses ne’er a thorn,
The big trout would not ever
Escape into the river.
No gut the salmon smashes
   Would leave us all forlorn,
Had cigarettes no ashes,
   And roses ne’er a thorn.

(Matrimony—Advertiser would like to hear from well-educated Protestant lady, under thirty, fair, with view to above, who would have no objection to work Remington type-writer, at home.  Enclose photo.  T. 99.  This Office.  Cork newspaper.)

T. 99 would gladly hear
   From one whose years are few,
A maid whose doctrines are severe,
   Of Presbyterian blue,
Also—with view to the above—
   Her photo he would see,
And trusts that she may live and love
   His Protestant to be!
But ere the sacred rites are done
   (And by no Priest of Rome)
He’d ask, if she a Remington
   Type-writer works—at home?

In Memory of Thomas Tod Stoddart.

An angler to an angler here,
   To one who longed not for the bays,
I bring a little gift and dear,
   A line of love, a word of praise,
A common memory of the ways,
   By Elibank and Yair that lead;
Of all the burns, from all the braes,
   That yield their tribute to the Tweed.

His boyhood found the waters clean,
   His age deplored them, foul with dye;
But purple hills, and copses green,
   And these old towers he wandered by,
Still to the simple strains reply
   Of his pure unrepining reed,
Who lies where he was fain to lie,
   Like Scott, within the sound of Tweed.

The Angler hath a jolly life
   Who by the rail runs down,
And leaves his business and his wife,
   And all the din of town.
The wind down stream is blowing straight,
   And nowhere cast can he:
Then lo, he doth but sit and wait
   In kindly company.

The miller turns the water off,
   Or folk be cutting weed,
While he doth at misfortune scoff,
   From every trouble freed.
Or else he waiteth for a rise,
   And ne’er a rise may see;
For why, there are not any flies
   To bear him company.

“I’m of my game,” the golfer said,
   And shook his locks in woe;
“My putter never lays me dead,
   My drives will never go;
Howe’er I swing, howe’er I stand,
   Results are still the same,
I’m in the burn, I’m in the sand—
   I’m off my game!

“Oh, would that such mishaps might fall
   On Laidlay or Macfie,
That they might toe or heel the ball,
   And sclaff along like me!
Men hurry from me in the street,
   And execrate my name,
Old partners shun me when we meet—
   I’m off my game!

“I hate the sight of all my set,
   I grow morose as Byron;
I never loved a brassey yet,
   And now I hate an iron.
My cleek seems merely made to top,
   My putting’s wild or tame;
It’s really time for me to stop—
   I’m off my game!”

Oh blessed be the cart that takes
   Away my books, my curse, my clog,
Blessed the auctioneer who makes
   Their inefficient catalogue.

Blessed the purchasers who pay
   However little—less were fit—
Blessed the rooms, the rainy day,
   The knock-out and the end of it.

For I am weary of the sport,
   That seemed a while agone so sweet,
Of Elzevirs an inch too short,
   And First Editions—incomplete.

Weary of crests and coats of arms,
   “Attributed to Padeloup”
The sham Deromes have lost their charms,
   The things Le Gascon did not do.

Large paper surely cannot hide
   Their grammar, nor excuse their rhyme,
The anecdotes that they provide
   Are older than the dawn of time.

Ye bores, of every shape and size,
   Who make a tedium of delight,
Good-bye, the last of my good-byes.
   Good night, to all your clan good night!

* * * *

Thus in a sullen fit we swore,
   But on mature reflection,
Went on collecting more and more,
   And kept our old collection!

Who suddenly calls to our ken
   The knowledge that should not be there;
Who charms Mr. Stead with the pen,
   Of the Prince of the Powers of the Air;
Who makes Physiologists stare—
   Is he ghost, is he demon, or elf,
Who fashions the dream of the fair?
   It is just the Subconscious Self.

He’s the ally of Medicine Men
   Who consult the Australian bear,
And ’tis he, with his lights on the fen,
   Who helps Jack o’ Lanthorn to snare
The peasants of Devon, who swear
   Under Commonwealth, Stuart, or Guelph,
That they never had half such a scare—
   It is just the Subconscious Self.

Prince, each of us all is a pair—
   The Conscious, who labours for pelf,
And the other, who charmed Mr. Blair,
   It is just the Subconscious Self.

Heed not the folk who sing or say
   In sonnet sad or sermon chill,
“Alas, alack, and well-a-day,
   This round world’s but a bitter pill.”
Poor porcupines of fretful quill!
   Sometimes we quarrel with our lot:
We, too, are sad and careful; still
   We’d rather be alive than not.

What though we wish the cats at play
   Would some one else’s garden till;
Though Sophonisba drop the tray
   And all our worshipped Worcester spill,
Though neighbours “practise” loud and shrill,
   Though May be cold and June be hot,
Though April freeze and August grill,
   We’d rather be alive than not.

Pistol, with oaths didst thou fulfil
   The task thy braggart tongue begot,
We eat our leek with better will,
   We’d rather be alive than not.

(The ruined Gold Cities of Rhodesia.  The Ophir of Scripture.)

Into the darkness whence they came,
   They passed, their country knoweth none,
They and their gods without a name
   Partake the same oblivion.
Their work they did, their work is done,
   Whose gold, it may be, shone like fire
About the brows of Solomon,
   And in the House of God’s Desire.

Hence came the altar all of gold,
   The hinges of the Holy Place,
The censer with the fragrance rolled
   Skyward to seek Jehovah’s face;
The golden Ark that did encase
   The Law within Jerusalem,
The lilies and the rings to grace
   The High Priest’s robe and diadem.

[The author (if he can be so styled) awoke from a restless sleep, with the first stanza of the following piece in his mind.  He has no memory of composing it, either awake or asleep.  He had long known the perhaps Pythagorean fable of the bean-juice, but certainly never thought of applying it to an amorous correspondence!  The remaining verses are the contribution of his Conscious Self!]

Elle.

I cannot write, I may not write,
   I dare not write to thee,
But look on the face of the moon by night,
   And my letters shalt thou see.
For every letter that lovers write,
   By their loves on the moon is seen,
If they pen their thought on the paper white,
   With the magic juice of the bean!

Lui.

Elle.

“Oh, every thought that your heart has thought,
   Since the world came us between,
The birds of the air to my heart have brought,
   With no word heard or seen.”
’Twas thus in a dream we spoke and said
   Myself and my love unseen,
But I woke and sighed on my weary bed,
   For the spell of the juice of the bean!