Transcribed from the 1894 Longmans, Green and Co. edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

Ban and Arrière Ban

A RALLY OF FUGITIVE RHYMES

BY ANDREW LANG

LONDON
LONGMANS, GREEN & CO.
AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16TH STREET
1894

Edinburgh: T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty

TO
ELEANOR CHARLOTTE SELLAR

‘Ban and Arrière Ban!’ a host
Broken, beaten, all unled,
They return as doth a ghost
From the dead.

Sad or glad my rallied rhymes,
Sought our dusty papers through,
For the sake of other times
Come to you.

Times and places new we know,
Faces fresh and seasons strange
But the friends of long ago
Do not change.

Many of the verses in this collection have appeared in Magazines: ‘How they held the Bass’ was in ‘Blackwood’s Magazine’; the ‘Ballad of the Philanthropist’ in ‘Punch’; ‘Calais Sands’ in ‘The Magazine of Art’ (Messrs. Cassell and Co.); and others are recaptured from ‘Longman’s Magazine,’ ‘Scribner’s,’ ‘The Illustrated London News,’ ‘The English Illustrated Magazine,’ ‘Wit and Wisdom’ (lines from Omar Khayyam), ‘The St. James’s Gazette,’ and possibly other serials. Some pieces are from commendatory verses for books, as for Mr. Jacobs’s ‘Æsop’; some are from Mr. Rider Haggard’s ‘World’s Desire,’ and ‘Cleopatra,’ two are from Kirk’s ‘Secret Commonwealth’ (Nutt, 1893), and ‘Neiges d’Antan,’ are from the author’s ‘Ballads and Lyrics of Old France,’ now long out of print.

	PAGE
A Scot to Jeanne d’Arc	1
How they held the Bass for King James—1691–1693	4
Three portraits of Prince Charles	11
From Omar Khayyam	14
Æsop	16
Les Roses de Sâdi	18
The Haunted Tower	19
Boat-song	22
Lost Love	24
The Promise of Helen	26
The Restoration of Romance	27
Central American Antiquities	30
On Calais Sands	32
Ballade of Yule	34
Poscimur	36
On his Dead Sea-Mew	38
From Meleager	39
On the Garland Sent to Rhodocleia	40
A Galloway Garland	41
Celia’s Eyes	43
Britannia	44
Gallia	45
The Fairy Minister	46
To Robert Louis Stevenson	48
For Mark Twain’s Jubilee	50
Poems Written under the Influence of Wordsworth
Mist	55
Lines	56
Lines	58
Ode to Golf	60
Freshman’s Term	62
A Toast	64
Death in June	66
To Correspondents	68
Ballade of Difficult Rhymes	70
Ballant o’ Ballantrae	72
Song by the Sub-Conscious Self	74
The Haunted Homes of England	75
The Disappointment	77
To the Gentle Reader	80
The Sonnet	84
The Tournay of the Heroes	85
Ballad of the Philanthropist	91
Neiges d’Antan
In Ercildoune	97
For a Rose’s Sake	100
The Brigand’s Grave	102
The New-Liveried Year	104
More Strong than Death	105
Silentia Lunae	107
His Lady’s Tomb	108
The Poet’s Apology	109
Notes	115

ERRATUM

Reader, a blot hath escaped the watchfulness of the setter forth: if thou wilt thou mayst amend it. The sonnet on the forty-fourth page, against all right Italianate laws, hath but thirteen lines withal: add another to thy liking, if thou art a Maker; or, if thou art none, even be content with what is set before thee. If it be scant measure, be sure it is choicely good.

A SCOT TO JEANNE D’ARC

      Dark Lily without blame,
      Not upon us the shame,
Whose sires were to the Auld Alliance true,
      They, by the Maiden’s side,
      Victorious fought and died,
One stood by thee that fiery torment through,
   Till the White Dove from thy pure lips had passed,
And thou wert with thine own St. Catherine at the last.

      Once only didst thou see
      In artist’s imagery,
Thine own face painted, and that precious thing
      Was in an Archer’s hand
      From the leal Northern land.
Alas, what price would not thy people bring
   To win that portrait of the ruinous
Gulf of devouring years that hide the Maid from us!

      Born of a lowly line,
      Noteless as once was thine,
One of that name I would were kin to me,
      Who, in the Scottish Guard
      Won this for his reward,
To fight for France, and memory of thee:
   Not upon us, dark Lily without blame,
Not on the North may fall the shadow of that shame.

      On France and England both
      The shame of broken troth,
Of coward hate and treason black must be;
      If England slew thee, France
      Sent not one word, one lance,
One coin to rescue or to ransom thee.
   And still thy Church unto the Maid denies
The halo and the palms, the Beatific prize.

      But yet thy people calls
      Within the rescued walls
Of Orleans; and makes its prayer to thee;
      What though the Church have chidden
      These orisons forbidden,
Yet art thou with this earth’s immortal Three,
   With him in Athens that of hemlock died,
And with thy Master dear whom the world crucified.

HOW THEY HELD THE BASS FOR KING JAMES—1691–1693

Time of Narrating—1743

Ye hae heard Whigs crack o’ the Saints in the Bass, my faith, a gruesome tale;
How the Remnant paid at a tippeny rate, for a quart o’ ha’penny ale!
But I’ll tell ye anither tale o’ the Bass, that’ll hearten ye up to hear,
Sae I pledge ye to Middleton first in a glass, and a health to the Young Chevalier!

The Bass stands frae North Berwick Law a league or less to sea,
About its feet the breakers beat, abune the sea-maws flee,
There’s castle stark and dungeon dark, wherein the godly lay,
That made their rant for the Covenant through mony a weary day.
For twal’ years lang the caverns rang wi’ preaching, prayer, and psalm,
Ye’d think the winds were soughing wild, when a’ the winds were calm,
There wad they preach, each Saint to each, and glower as the soldiers pass,
And Peden wared his malison on a bonny leaguer lass,
As she stood and daffed, while the warders laughed, and wha sae blithe as she,
But a wind o’ ill worked his warlock will, and flang her out to sea.
Then wha sae bright as the Saints that night, and an angel came, say they,
And sang in the cell where the Righteous dwell, but he took na a Saint away.
There yet might they be, for nane could flee, and nane daur’d break the jail,
And still the sobbing o’ the sea might mix wi’ their warlock wail,
But then came in black echty-echt, and bluidy echty-nine,
Wi’ Cess, and Press, and Presbytery, and a’ the dule sin’ syne,
The Saints won free wi’ the power o’ the key, and cavaliers maun pine!
It was Halyburton, Middleton, and Roy and young Dunbar,
That Livingstone took on Cromdale haughs, in the last fight of the war:
And they were warded in the Bass, till the time they should be slain,
Where bluidy Mitchell, and Blackader, and Earlston lang had lain;
Four lads alone, ’gainst a garrison, but Glory crowns their names,
For they brought it to pass that they took the Bass, and they held it for King James!

It isna by preaching half the night, ye’ll burst a dungeon door,
It wasna by dint o’ psalmody they broke the hold, they four,
For lang years three that rock in the sea bade Wullie Wanbeard gae swing,
And England and Scotland fause may be, but the Bass Rock stands for the King!

There’s but ae pass gangs up the Bass, it’s guarded wi’ strong gates four,
And still as the soldiers went to the sea, they steikit them, door by door,
And this did they do when they helped a crew that brought their coals on shore.
Thither all had gone, save three men alone: then Middleton gripped his man,
Halyburton felled the sergeant lad, Dunbar seized the gunner, Swan;
Roy bound their hands, in hempen bands, and the Cavaliers were free.
And they trained the guns on the soldier loons that were down wi’ the boat by the sea!
Then Middleton cried frae the high cliff-side, and his voice garr’d the auld rocks ring,
‘Will ye stand or flee by the land or sea, for I hold the Bass for the King?’

They had nae desire to face the fire; it was mair than men might do,
So they e’en sailed back in the auld coal-smack, a sorry and shame-faced crew,
And they hirpled doun to Edinburgh toun, wi’ the story of their shames,
How the prisoners bold had broken hold, and kept the Bass for King James.

King James he has sent them guns and men, and the Whigs they guard the Bass,
But they never could catch the Cavaliers, who took toll of ships that pass,
They fared wild and free as the birds o’ the sea, and at night they went on the wing,
And they lifted the kye o’ Whigs far and nigh, and they revelled and drank to the King.

Then Wullie Wanbeard sends his ships to siege the Bass in form,
And first shall they break the fortress down, and syne the Rock they’ll storm.
After twa days’ fight they fled in the night, and glad eneuch to go,
With their rigging rent, and their powder spent, and many a man laid low.

So for lang years three did they sweep the sea, but a closer watch was set,
Till nae food had they, but twa ounce a day o’ meal was the maist they’d get.
And men fight but tame on an empty wame, so they sent a flag o’ truce,
And blithe were the Privy Council then, when the Whigs had heard that news.
Twa Lords they sent wi’ a strang intent to be dour on each Cavalier,
But wi’ French cakes fine, and his last drap o’ wine, did Middleton make them cheer,
On the muzzles o’ guns he put coats and caps, and he set them aboot the wa’s,
And the Whigs thocht then he had food and men to stand for the Rightfu’ Cause.
So he got a’ he craved, and his men were saved, and nane might say them nay,
Wi’ sword by side, and flag o’ pride, free men might they gang their way,
They might fare to France, they might bide at hame, and the better their grace to buy,
Wullie Wanbeard’s purse maun pay the keep o’ the men that did him defy!

Men never hae gotten sic terms o’ peace since first men went to war,
As got Halyburton, and Middleton, and Roy, and the young Dunbar.
Sae I drink to ye here, To the Young Chevalier! I hae said ye an auld man’s say,
And there may hae been mightier deeds of arms, but there never was nane sae gay!

THREE PORTRAITS OF PRINCE CHARLES

1731

Beautiful face of a child,
Lighted with laughter and glee,
Mirthful, and tender, and wild,
My heart is heavy for thee!

1744

Beautiful face of a youth,
   As an eagle poised to fly forth,
To the old land loyal of truth,
   To the hills and the sounds of the North:
Fair face, daring and proud,
   Lo! the shadow of doom, even now,
The fate of thy line, like a cloud,
   Rests on the grace of thy brow!

1773

Cruel and angry face,
Hateful and heavy with wine,
Where are the gladness, the grace,
The beauty, the mirth that were thine?

Ah, my Prince, it were well,—
   Hadst thou to the gods been dear,—
To have fallen where Keppoch fell,
   With the war-pipe loud in thine ear!
To have died with never a stain
   On the fair White Rose of Renown,
To have fallen, fighting in vain,
   For thy father, thy faith, and thy crown!
More than thy marble pile,
   With its women weeping for thee,
Were to dream in thine ancient isle,
   To the endless dirge of the sea!
But the Fates deemed otherwise,
   Far thou sleepest from home,
From the tears of the Northern skies,
   In the secular dust of Rome.

* * *

A city of death and the dead,
   But thither a pilgrim came,
Wearing on weary head
   The crowns of years and fame:
Little the Lucrine lake
   Or Tivoli said to him,
Scarce did the memories wake
   Of the far-off years and dim.
For he stood by Avernus’ shore,
   But he dreamed of a Northern glen
And he murmured, over and o’er,
   ‘For Charlie and his men:’
And his feet, to death that went,
   Crept forth to St. Peter’s shrine,
And the latest Minstrel bent
   O’er the last of the Stuart line.

FROM OMAR KHAYYAM

RHYMED FROM THE PROSE VERSION OF
MR. JUSTIN HUNTLY M‘CARTHY

The Paradise they bid us fast to win
Hath Wine and Women; is it then a sin
To live as we shall live in Paradise,
And make a Heaven of Earth, ere Heaven begin?

The wise may search the world from end to end,
From dusty nook to dusty nook, my friend,
And nothing better find than girls and wine,
Of all the things they neither make nor mend.

Nay, listen thou who, walking on Life’s way,
Hast seen no lovelock of thy love’s grow grey
Listen, and love thy life, and let the Wheel
Of Heaven go spinning its own wilful way.

Man is a flagon, and his soul the wine,
Man is a lamp, wherein the Soul doth shine,
Man is a shaken reed, wherein that wind,
The Soul, doth ever rustle and repine.

Each morn I say, to-night I will repent,
Repent! and each night go the way I went—
The way of Wine; but now that reigns the rose,
Lord of Repentance, rage not, but relent.

I wish to drink of wine—so deep, so deep—
The scent of wine my sepulchre shall steep,
And they, the revellers by Omar’s tomb,
Shall breathe it, and in Wine shall fall asleep.

Before the rent walls of a ruined town
Lay the King’s skull, whereby a bird flew down
‘And where,’ he sang, ‘is all thy clash of arms?
Where the sonorous trumps of thy renown?’

ÆSOP

He sat among the woods, he heard
The sylvan merriment: he saw
The pranks of butterfly and bird,
The humours of the ape, the daw.

And in the lion or the frog—
In all the life of moor and fen,
In ass and peacock, stork and dog,
He read similitudes of men.

‘Of these, from those,’ he cried, ‘we come,
Our hearts, our brains descend from these.’
And lo! the Beasts no more were dumb,
But answered out of brakes and trees:

‘Not ours,’ they cried; ‘Degenerate,
If ours at all,’ they cried again,
‘Ye fools, who war with God and Fate,
Who strive and toil: strange race of men.

‘For we are neither bond nor free,
For we have neither slaves nor kings,
But near to Nature’s heart are we,
And conscious of her secret things.

‘Content are we to fall asleep,
And well content to wake no more,
We do not laugh, we do not weep,
Nor look behind us and before;

‘But were there cause for moan or mirth,
’Tis we, not you, should sigh or scorn,
Oh, latest children of the Earth,
Most childish children Earth has borne.’

* * *

They spoke, but that misshapen slave
Told never of the thing he heard,
And unto men their portraits gave,
In likenesses of beast and bird!

LES ROSES DE SÂDI

This morning I vowed I would bring thee my Roses,
They were thrust in the band that my bodice encloses,
But the breast-knots were broken, the Roses went free.
The breast-knots were broken; the Roses together
Floated forth on the wings of the wind and the weather,
And they drifted afar down the streams of the sea.

And the sea was as red as when sunset uncloses,
But my raiment is sweet from the scent of the Roses,
Thou shalt know, Love, how fragrant a memory can be.

THE HAUNTED TOWER

SUGGESTED BY A POEM OF THÉOPHILE GAUTIER

In front he saw the donjon tall
   Deep in the woods, and stayed to scan
The guards that slept along the wall,
   Or dozed upon the bartizan.
He marked the drowsy flag that hung
   Unwaved by wind, unfrayed by shower,
He listened to the birds that sung
   Go forth and win the haunted tower!
The tangled brake made way for him,
   The twisted brambles bent aside;
And lo, he pierced the forest dim,
   And lo, he won the fairy bride!
For he was young, but ah! we find,
   All we, whose beards are flecked with grey,
Our fairy castle’s far behind,
   We watch it from the darkling way:
’Twas ours, that palace, in our youth,
   We revelled there in happy cheer:
Who scarce dare visit now in sooth,
   Le Vieux Château de Souvenir!
For not the boughs of forest green
   Begird that castle far away,
There is a mist where we have been
   That weeps about it, cold and grey.
And if we seek to travel back
   ’Tis through a thicket dim and sere,
With many a grave beside the track,
   And many a haunting form of fear.
Dead leaves are wet among the moss,
   With weed and thistle overgrown—
A ruined barge within the fosse,
   A castle built of crumbling stone!
The drawbridge drops from rusty chains,
   There comes no challenge from the hold;
No squire, nor dame, nor knight remains,
   Of all who dwelt with us of old.
And there is silence in the hall
   No sound of songs, no ray of fire;
But gloom where all was glad, and all
   Is darkened with a vain desire.
And every picture’s fading fast,
   Of fair Jehanne, or Cydalise.
Lo, the white shadows hurrying past,
   Below the boughs of dripping trees!

* * *

Ah rise, and march, and look not back,
Now the long way has brought us here;
We may not turn and seek the track
To the old Château de Souvenir!

BOAT-SONG

Adrift, with starlit skies above,
   With starlit seas below,
We move with all the suns that move,
   With all the seas that flow:
For, bond or free, earth, sky, and sea,
   Wheel with one central will,
And thy heart drifteth on to me,
   And only Time stands still.

Between two shores of death we drift,
   Behind are things forgot,
Before, the tide is racing swift
   To shores man knoweth not.
Above, the sky is far and cold,
   Below, the moaning sea
Sweeps o’er the loves that were of old,
   But thou, Love, love thou me.

Ah, lonely are the ocean ways,
   And dangerous the deep,
And frail the fairy barque that strays
   Above the seas asleep.
Ah, toil no more with helm or oar,
   We drift, or bond or free,
On yon far shore the breakers roar,
   But thou, Love, love thou me!

LOST LOVE

Who wins his Love shall lose her,
   Who loses her shall gain,
For still the spirit woos her,
   A soul without a stain;
And Memory still pursues her
   With longings not in vain!

He loses her who gains her,
   Who watches day by day
The dust of time that stains her,
   The griefs that leave her grey,
The flesh that yet enchains her
   Whose grace hath passed away!

Oh, happier he who gains not
   The Love some seem to gain:
The joy that custom stains not
   Shall still with him remain,
The loveliness that wanes not,
   The Love that ne’er can wane.

In dreams she grows not older
   The lands of Dream among,
Though all the world wax colder,
   Though all the songs be sung,
In dreams doth he behold her
   Still fair and kind and young.

THE PROMISE OF HELEN

Whom hast thou longed for most,
True love of mine?
Whom hast thou loved and lost?
Lo, she is thine!

She that another wed
Breaks from her vow;
She that hath long been dead
Wakes for thee now.

Dreams haunt the hapless bed,
Ghosts haunt the night,
Life crowns her living head,
Love and Delight.

Nay, not a dream nor ghost,
Nay, but Divine,
She that was loved and lost
Waits to be thine!

THE RESTORATION OF ROMANCE.

TO H. R. H., R. L. S., A. C. D., AND S. W.

King Romance was wounded deep,
   All his knights were dead and gone,
All his court was fallen on sleep,
   In a vale of Avalon!
Nay, men said, he will not come,
   Any night or any morn.
Nay, his puissant voice is dumb,
   Silent his enchanted horn!

King Romance was forfeited,
   Banished from his Royal home,
With a price upon his head,
   Driven with sylvan folk to roam.
King Romance is fallen, banned,
   Cried his foemen overbold,
Broken is the wizard wand,
   All the stories have been told!

Then you came from South and North,
   From Tugela, from the Tweed,
Blazoned his achievements forth,
   King Romance is come indeed!
All his foes are overthrown,
   All their wares cast out in scorn,
King Romance hath won his own,
   And the lands where he was born!

Marsac at adventure rides,
   Felon men meet felon scathe,
Micah Clarke is taking sides
   For King Monmouth and the Faith;
For a Cause or for a lass
   Men are willing to be slain,
And the dungeons of the Bass
   Hold a prisoner again.

King Romance with wand of gold
   Sways the realms he ruled of yore.
Hills Dalgetty roamed of old,
   Valleys of enchanted Kôr:
Waves his sceptre o’er the isles,
   Claims the pirates’ treasuries,
Through innumerable miles
   Of the siren-haunted seas!

Elfin folk of coast and cave,
   Laud him in the woven dance,
All the tribes of wold and wave
   Bow the knee to King Romance!
Wand’ring voices Chaucer knew
   On the mountain and the main,
Cry the haunted forest through,
   King Romance has come again!

CENTRAL AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES

IN SOUTH KENSINGTON MUSEUM

‘Youth and crabbed age
Cannot live together;’
So they say.

On this little page
See you when and whether
That they may.

Age was very old—
Stones from Chichimec
Hardly wrung;

Youth had hair of gold
Knotted on her neck—
Fair and young!

Age was carved with odd
Slaves, and priests that slew them—
God and Beast;

Man and Beast and God—
There she sat and drew them,
King and Priest!

There she sat and drew
Many a monstrous head
And antique;

Horrors from Peru,
Huacas doubly dead,
Dead cacique!

Ere Pizarro came
These were lords of men
Long ago;

Gods without a name,
Born or how or when,
None may know!

Now from Yucatan
These doth Science bear
Over seas;

And methinks a man
Finds youth doubly fair,
Sketching these!

ON CALAIS SANDS

On Calais Sands the grey began,
   Then rosy red above the grey,
The morn with many a scarlet van
   Leap’d, and the world was glad with May!
The little waves along the bay
   Broke white upon the shelving strands;
The sea-mews flitted white as they
            On Calais Sands!

On Calais Sands must man with man
   Wash honour clean in blood to-day;
On spaces wet from waters wan
   How white the flashing rapiers play,
Parry, riposte! and lunge! The fray
   Shifts for a while, then mournful stands
The Victor: life ebbs fast away
            On Calais Sands!

On Calais Sands a little space
   Of silence, then the plash and spray,
The sound of eager waves that ran
   To kiss the perfumed locks astray,
To touch these lips that ne’er said ‘Nay,’
   To dally with the helpless hands;
Till the deep sea in silence lay
            On Calais Sands!

Between the lilac and the may
She waits her love from alien lands;
Her love is colder than the clay
On Calais Sands!

BALLADE OF YULE

This life’s most jolly, Amiens said,
   Heigh-ho, the Holly! So sang he.
As the good Duke was comforted
   In forest exile, so may we!
The years may darken as they flee,
   And Christmas bring his melancholy:
But round the old mahogany tree
   We drink, we sing Heigh-ho, the Holly!

Though some are dead and some are fled
   To lands of summer over sea,
The holly berry keeps his red,
   The merry children keep their glee;
They hoard with artless secresy
   This gift for Maude, and that for Molly,
And Santa Claus he turns the key
   On Christmas Eve, Heigh-ho, the Holly!

Amid the snow the birds are fed,
   The snow lies deep on lawn and lea,
The skies are shining overhead,
   The robin’s tame that was so free.
Far North, at home, the ‘barley bree’
   They brew; they give the hour to folly,
How ‘Rab and Allan cam to pree,’
   They sing, we sing Heigh-ho, the Holly!

ENVOI

Friend, let us pay the wonted fee,
The yearly tithe of mirth: be jolly!
It is a duty so to be,
Though half we sigh, Heigh-ho, the Holly!

POSCIMUR

FROM HORACE

Hush, for they call! If in the shade,
My lute, we twain have idly strayed,
And song for many a season made,
Once more reply;
Once more we’ll play as we have played,
My lute and I!

Roman the song: the strain you know,
The Lesbian wrought it long ago.
Now singing as he charged the foe,
Now in the bay,
Where safe in the shore-water’s flow
His galleys lay.

So sang he Bacchus and the Nine,
And Venus and her boy divine,
And Lycus of the dusky eyne,
The dusky hair;
So shalt thou sing, ah, Lute of mine,
Of all things fair;

Apollo’s glory! Sounding shell,
Thou lute, to Jove desirable,
When soft thine accents sigh and swell
At festival—
Delight more dear than words can tell,
Attend my call!

ON HIS DEAD SEA-MEW

FROM THE GREEK

I

Bird of the graces, dear sea-mew, whose note
Was like the halcyon’s song,
In death thy wings and thy sweet spirit float
Still paths of the night along!

II
THE SAILOR’S GRAVE

Tomb of a shipwrecked seafarer am I,
But thou, sail on!
For homeward safe did other vessels fly,
Though we were gone.

FROM MELEAGER

I love not the wine-cup, but if thou art fain
   I should drink, do thou taste it, and bring it to me;
If it touch but thy lips it were hard to refrain,
   It were hard from the sweet maid who bears it to flee;
For the cup ferries over the kisses, and plain
   Does it speak of the grace that was given it by thee.

ON THE GARLAND SENT TO RHODOCLEIA

RUFINUS

GOLDEN EYES

‘Ah, Golden Eyes, to win you yet,
I bring mine April coronet,
The lovely blossoms of the spring,
For you I weave, to you I bring
These roses with the lilies set,
The dewy dark-eyed violet,
Narcissus, and the wind-flower wet:
Wilt thou disdain mine offering?
Ah, Golden Eyes!

Crowned with thy lover’s flowers, forget
The pride wherein thy heart is set,
For thou, like these or anything,
Has but a moment of thy spring,
Thy spring, and then—the long regret!
Ah, Golden Eyes!’

A GALLOWAY GARLAND

We know not, on these hills of ours,
   The fabled asphodel of Greece,
That filleth with immortal flowers
   Fields where the heroes are at peace!
   Not ours are myrtle buds like these
That breathe o’er isles where memories dwell
   Of Sappho, in enchanted seas!

We meet not, on our upland moor,
   The singing Maid of Helicon,
You may not hear her music pure
   Float on the mountain meres withdrawn;
   The Muse of Greece, the Muse is gone!
But we have songs that please us well
   And flowers we love to look upon.

More sweet than Southern myrtles far
   The bruised Marsh-myrtle breatheth keen;
Parnassus names the flower, the star,
   That shines among the well-heads green
   The bright Marsh-asphodels between—
Marsh-myrtle and Marsh-asphodel
   May crown the Northern Muse a queen

CELIA’S EYES

PASTICHE

Tell me not that babies dwell
   In the deeps of Celia’s eyes;
Cupid in each hazel well
   Scans his beauties with surprise,
      And would, like Narcissus, drown
      In my Celia’s eyes of brown.

Tell me not that any goes
   Safe by that enchanted place;
Eros dwells with Anteros
   In the garden of her Face,
      Where like friends who late were foes
      Meet the white and crimson Rose.

BRITANNIA

FROM JULES LEMAÎTRE

Thy mouth is fresh as cherries on the bough,
   Red cherries in the dawning, and more white
Than milk or white camellias is thy brow;
   And as the golden corn thy hair is bright,
The corn that drinks the Sun’s less fair than thou;
While through thine eyes the child-soul gazeth now—
   Eyes like the flower that was Rousseau’s delight.

Sister of sad Ophelia, say, shall these
Thy pearly teeth grow like piano keys
Yellow and long; while thou, all skin and bone,
Angles and morals, in a sky-blue veil,
Shalt hosts of children to the sermon hale,
Blare hymns, read chapters, backbite, and intone?

GALLIA

Lady, lady neat
   Of the roguish eye,
   Wherefore dost thou hie,
Stealthy, down the street,
On well-booted feet?
   From French novels I
   Gather that you fly,
Guy or Jules to meet.

Furtive dost thou range,
Oft thy cab dost change;
So, at least, ’tis said:
Oh, the sad old tale
Passionately stale,
We’ve so often read!

THE FAIRY MINISTER

The Rev. Mr. Kirk of Aberfoyle was carried away by the Fairies in 1692.

People of Peace! a peaceful man,
   Well worthy of your love was he,
Who, while the roaring Garry ran
   Red with the life-blood of Dundee,
While coats were turning, crowns were falling,
   Wandered along his valley still,
And heard your mystic voices calling
   From fairy knowe and haunted hill.
He heard, he saw, he knew too well
   The secrets of your fairy clan;
You stole him from the haunted dell,
   Who never more was seen of man.
Now far from heaven, and safe from hell,
   Unknown of earth, he wanders free.
Would that he might return and tell
   Of his mysterious Company!
For we have tired the Folk of Peace;
   No more they tax our corn and oil;
Their dances on the moorland cease,
   The Brownie stints his wonted toil.
No more shall any shepherd meet
   The ladies of the fairy clan,
Nor are their deathly kisses sweet
   On lips of any earthly man.
And half I envy him who now,
   Clothed in her Court’s enchanted green,
By moonlit loch or mountain’s brow
   Is Chaplain to the Fairy Queen.

TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

WITH KIRK’S ‘SECRET COMMONWEALTH’

O Louis! you that like them maist,
Ye’re far frae kelpie, wraith, and ghaist,
And fairy dames, no unco chaste,
And haunted cell.
Among a heathen clan ye’re placed,
That kensna hell!

Ye hae nae heather, peat, nor birks,
Nae trout in a’ yer burnies lurks,
There are nae bonny U.P. kirks,
An awfu’ place!
Nane kens the Covenant o’ Works
Frae that o’ Grace!

But whiles, maybe, to them ye’ll read
Blads o’ the Covenanting creed,
And whiles their pagan wames ye’ll feed
On halesome parritch;
And syne ye’ll gar them learn a screed
O’ the Shorter Carritch.

Yet thae uncovenanted shavers
Hae rowth, ye say, o’ clash and clavers
O’ gods and etins—auld wives’ havers,
But their delight;
The voice o’ him that tells them quavers
Just wi’ fair fright.

And ye might tell, ayont the faem,
Thae Hieland clashes o’ our hame
To speak the truth, I takna shame
To half believe them;
And, stamped wi’ Tusitala’s name,
They’ll a’ receive them.

And folk to come ayont the sea
May hear the yowl o’ the Banshie,
And frae the water-kelpie flee,
Ere a’ things cease,
And island bairns may stolen be
By the Folk o’ Peace.

FOR MARK TWAIN’S JUBILEE

To brave Mark Twain, across the sea,
The years have brought his jubilee;
One hears it half with pain,
That fifty years have passed and gone
Since danced the merry star that shone
Above the babe, Mark Twain!

How many and many a weary day,
When sad enough were we, ‘Mark’s way’
(Unlike the Laureate’s Mark’s)
Has made us laugh until we cried,
And, sinking back exhausted, sighed,
Like Gargery, Wot larx!

We turn his pages, and we see
The Mississippi flowing free;
We turn again, and grin
O’er all Tom Sawyer did and planned,
With him of the Ensanguined Hand,
With Huckleberry Finn!

Spirit of mirth, whose chime of bells
Shakes on his cap, and sweetly swells
Across the Atlantic main,
Grant that Mark’s laughter never die,
That men, through many a century,
May chuckle o’er Mark Twain!

III
POEMS
WRITTEN UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF WORDSWORTH

MIST

Mist, though I love thee not, who puttest down
   Trout in the Lochs, (they feed not, as a rule,
   At least on fly, in mere or river-pool
When fogs have fallen, and the air is lown,
And on each Ben, a pillow not a crown,
   The fat folds rest,) thou, Mist, hast power to cool
   The blatant declamations of the fool
Who raves reciting through the heather brown.

Much do I bar the matron, man, or lass
   Who cries ‘How lovely!’ and who does not spare
When light and shadow on the mountain pass,—
   Shadow and light, and gleams exceeding fair,
O’er rock, and glade, and glen,—to shout, the Ass,
   To me, to me the Poet, ‘Oh, look there!’

LINES

Written under the influence of Wordsworth, with a slate-pencil on a window of the dining-room at the Lowood Hotel, Windermere, while waiting for tea, after being present at the Grasmere Sports on a very wet day, and in consequence of a recent perusal of Belinda, a Novel, by Miss Broughton, whose absence is regretted.

How solemn is the front of this Hotel,
   When now the hills are swathed in modest mist,
And none can speak of scenery, nor tell
   Of ‘tints of amber,’ or of ‘amethyst.’
Here once thy daughters, young Romance, did dwell,
   Here Sara flirted with whoever list,
Belinda loved not wisely but too well,
   And Mr. Ford played the Philologist!
Haunted the house is, and the balcony
   Where that fond Matron knew her Lover near,
And here we sit, and wait for tea, and sigh,
   While the sad rain sobs in the sullen mere,
And all our hearts go forth into the cry,
   Would that the teller of the tale were here!

LINES

Written on the window pane of a railway carriage after reading an advertisement of sunlight soap, and Poems, by William Wordsworth.

I passed upon the wings of Steam
Along Tay’s valley fair,
The book I read had such a theme
As bids the Soul despair.

A tale of miserable men
Of hearts with doubt distraught,
Wherein a melancholy pen
With helpless problems fought.

Where many a life was brought to dust,
And many a heart laid low,
And many a love was smirched with lust—
I raised mine eyes, and, oh!—

I marked upon a common wall,
These simple words of hope,
That mute appeal to one and all,
Cheer up! Use Sunlight Soap!

Our moral energies have range
Beyond their seeming scope,
How tonic were the words, how strange,
Cheer up! Use Sunlight Soap!

‘Behold,’ I cried, ‘the inner touch
That lifts the Soul through cares!’
I loved that Soap-boiler so much
I blessed him unawares!

Perchance he is some vulgar man,
Engrossed in £ s. d.
But, ah! through Nature’s holy plan
He whispered hope to me!

ODE TO GOLF

‘Delusive Nymph, farewell!’
How oft we’ve said or sung,
When balls evasive fell,
Or in the jaws of ‘Hell,’
Or salt sea-weeds among,
’Mid shingle and sea-shell!

How oft beside the Burn,
We play the sad ‘two more’;
How often at the turn,
The heather must we spurn;
How oft we’ve ‘topped and swore,’
In bent and whin and fern!

Yes, when the broken head
Bounds further than the ball,
The heart has inly bled.
Ah! and the lips have said
Words we would fain recall—
Wild words, of passion bred!

In bunkers all unknown,
Far beyond ‘Walkinshaw,
Where never ball had flown—
Reached by ourselves alone—
Caddies have heard with awe
The music of our moan!

Yet, Nymph, if once alone,
The ball hath featly fled—
Not smitten from the bone—
That drive doth still atone;
And one long shot laid dead
Our grief to the winds hath blown!

So, still beside the tee,
We meet in storm or calm,
Lady, and worship thee;
While the loud lark sings free,
Piping his matin psalm
Above the grey sad sea!

FRESHMAN’S TERM

Return again, thou Freshman’s year,
      When bloom was on the rye,
When breakfast came with bottled beer,
      When Pleasure walked the High;
When Torpid Bumps were more by far
      To every opening mind
Than Trade, or Shares, or Peace, or War,
      To senior humankind;
When ribbons of outrageous hues
      Were worn with honest pride,
When much was talked of boats and crews,
      When Proctors were defied:
When Tick was in its early bloom,
      When Schools were far away,
As vaguely distant as the tomb,
      Nor more regarded—they!
When arm was freely linked with arm
      Beneath the College limes,
When Sunday grinds possessed a charm
      Denied to College Rhymes:
When ices were in much request
      Beside the April fire,
When men were very strangely dressed
      By Standen or by Prior.
Return, ye Freshman’s Terms! They do
      Return, and much the same,
To boys, who, just like me and you,
      Play the absurd old game!

A TOAST

Kate Kennedy is the Patron Saint of St. Leonard’s and St. Salvator. Her history is quite unknown.

The learned are all ‘in a swither,’
(They don’t very often agree,)
They know not her ‘whence’ nor her ‘whither,’
The Maiden we drink to together,
The College’s Kate Kennedie!

Did she shine in days early or later?
Did she ever achieve a degree?
Was she pretty or plain? Did she mate, or
Live lonely? And who was the pater
Of mystical Kate Kennedie?

The learned may scorn her and scout her,
But true to her colours are we,
The learned may mock her and flout her,
But surely we’ll rally about her,
In the College that stands by the Sea!

So here’s to her memory! here to
      The mystical Maiden drink we,
We pledge her, and we’ll persevere too,
Though the reason is not very clear to
      The critical mind, nor to me.
Here’s to Kate! she’s our own, and she’s dear to
      The College that stands by the Sea.

DEATH IN JUNE

FOR CRICKETERS ONLY

June is the month of Suicides

Why do we slay ourselves in June,
   When life, if ever, seems so sweet?
When “Moon,” and “tune,” and “afternoon,”
   And other happy rhymes we meet,
When strawberries are coming soon?
   Why do we do it?’ you repeat!

Ah, careless butterfly, to thee
   The strawberry seems passing good;
And sweet, on Music’s wings, to flee
   Amid the waltzing multitude,
And revel late—perchance till three—
   For Love is monarch of thy mood!

Alas! to us no solace shows
   For sorrows we endure—at Lord’s,
When Oxford’s bowling always goes
   For ‘fours,’ for ever to the cords—
Or more, perhaps, with ‘overthrows’;—
   These things can pierce the heart like swords!

And thus it is though woods are green,
   Though mayflies down the Test are rolling,
Though sweet, the silver showers between,
   The finches sing in strains consoling,
We cut our throats for very spleen,
   And very shame of Oxford’s bowling!

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Ban and Arriere Ban: A Rally of Fugitive Rhymes

Ban and Arrière Ban

ERRATUM

1731

1744

ENVOI

I

II THE SAILOR’S GRAVE

GOLDEN EYES

II
THE SAILOR’S GRAVE