JAMES HOGG.

From 'Wat o' the Cleuch.'

O heard ye never of Wat o' the Cleuch?The lad that has worrying tikes enow,Whose meat is the moss, and whose drink is the dew,And that's the cheer of Wat o' the Cleuch!Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!Woe's my heart for Wat o' the Cleuch!Wat o' the Cleuch sat down to dineWith two pint stoups of good red wine;But when he look'd they both were dry;O poverty parts good company!Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!O for a drink to Wat o' the Cleuch!Wat o' the Cleuch came down the TineTo woo a maid both gallant and fine;But as he came o'er by Dick o' the SideHe smell'd the mutton and left the bride.Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!What think ye now of Wat o' the Cleuch?Wat o' the Cleuch came here to steal,He wanted milk and he wanted veal;But ere he wan o'er the Beetleston browHe hough'd the calf and eated the cow!Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!Well done, doughty Wat o' the Cleuch!Wat o' the Cleuch came here to fight,But his whittle was blunt and his nag took fright,And the braggart he did what I dare not tell,But changed his cheer at the back of the fell.Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!O for a croudy to Wat o' the Cleuch!Wat o' the Cleuch kneel'd down to pray,He wist not what to do or to say;But he pray'd for beef, and he pray'd for bree,A two-hand spoon and a haggis to pree.Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!That's the cheer for Wat o' the Cleuch!But the devil is cunning as I heard say,He knew his right, and haul'd him away;And he's over the Border and over the heuch,And off to hell with Wat o' the Cleuch!Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!Lack-a-day for Wat o' the Cleuch!But of all the wights in poor Scotland,That ever drew bow or Border brand,That ever drove English bullock or ewe,There never was thief like Wat o' the Cleuch.Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!Down for ever with Wat o' the Cleuch!

O heard ye never of Wat o' the Cleuch?

The lad that has worrying tikes enow,

Whose meat is the moss, and whose drink is the dew,

And that's the cheer of Wat o' the Cleuch!

Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!

Woe's my heart for Wat o' the Cleuch!

Wat o' the Cleuch sat down to dineWith two pint stoups of good red wine;But when he look'd they both were dry;O poverty parts good company!Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!O for a drink to Wat o' the Cleuch!

Wat o' the Cleuch sat down to dine

With two pint stoups of good red wine;

But when he look'd they both were dry;

O poverty parts good company!

Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!

O for a drink to Wat o' the Cleuch!

Wat o' the Cleuch came down the TineTo woo a maid both gallant and fine;But as he came o'er by Dick o' the SideHe smell'd the mutton and left the bride.Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!What think ye now of Wat o' the Cleuch?

Wat o' the Cleuch came down the Tine

To woo a maid both gallant and fine;

But as he came o'er by Dick o' the Side

He smell'd the mutton and left the bride.

Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!

What think ye now of Wat o' the Cleuch?

Wat o' the Cleuch came here to steal,He wanted milk and he wanted veal;But ere he wan o'er the Beetleston browHe hough'd the calf and eated the cow!Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!Well done, doughty Wat o' the Cleuch!

Wat o' the Cleuch came here to steal,

He wanted milk and he wanted veal;

But ere he wan o'er the Beetleston brow

He hough'd the calf and eated the cow!

Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!

Well done, doughty Wat o' the Cleuch!

Wat o' the Cleuch came here to fight,But his whittle was blunt and his nag took fright,And the braggart he did what I dare not tell,But changed his cheer at the back of the fell.Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!O for a croudy to Wat o' the Cleuch!

Wat o' the Cleuch came here to fight,

But his whittle was blunt and his nag took fright,

And the braggart he did what I dare not tell,

But changed his cheer at the back of the fell.

Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!

O for a croudy to Wat o' the Cleuch!

Wat o' the Cleuch kneel'd down to pray,He wist not what to do or to say;But he pray'd for beef, and he pray'd for bree,A two-hand spoon and a haggis to pree.Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!That's the cheer for Wat o' the Cleuch!

Wat o' the Cleuch kneel'd down to pray,

He wist not what to do or to say;

But he pray'd for beef, and he pray'd for bree,

A two-hand spoon and a haggis to pree.

Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!

That's the cheer for Wat o' the Cleuch!

But the devil is cunning as I heard say,He knew his right, and haul'd him away;And he's over the Border and over the heuch,And off to hell with Wat o' the Cleuch!Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!Lack-a-day for Wat o' the Cleuch!

But the devil is cunning as I heard say,

He knew his right, and haul'd him away;

And he's over the Border and over the heuch,

And off to hell with Wat o' the Cleuch!

Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!

Lack-a-day for Wat o' the Cleuch!

But of all the wights in poor Scotland,That ever drew bow or Border brand,That ever drove English bullock or ewe,There never was thief like Wat o' the Cleuch.Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!Down for ever with Wat o' the Cleuch!

But of all the wights in poor Scotland,

That ever drew bow or Border brand,

That ever drove English bullock or ewe,

There never was thief like Wat o' the Cleuch.

Wat o' the Cleuch! Wat o' the Cleuch!

Down for ever with Wat o' the Cleuch!

Further Extract from 'The Recluse,' a Poem.

If ever chance or choice thy footsteps leadInto that green and flowery burial-groundThat compasseth with sweet and mournful smilesThe church of Grasmere,—by the eastern gateEnter—and underneath a stunted yew,Some three yards distant from the gravel-walk,On the left-hand side, thou wilt espy a grave,With unelaborate headstone beautified,Conspicuous 'mid the other stoneless heaps'Neath which the children of the valley lie.There pause—and with no common feelings readThis short inscription—'Here lies buriedThe Flying Tailor, aged twenty-nine!'Him from his birth unto his death I knew,And many years before he had attain'dThe fulness of his fame, I prophesiedThe triumphs of that youth's agility,And crown'd him with that name which afterwardsHe nobly justified—and dying leftTo fame's eternal blazon—read it here—'The Flying Tailor!'It is somewhat strangeThat his mother was a cripple, and his fatherLong way declined into the vale of yearsWhen their son Hugh was born. At first the babeWas sickly, and a smile was seen to passAcross the midwife's cheek, when, holding upThe sickly wretch, she to the father said,'A fine man-child!' What else could they expect?The mother being, as I said before,A cripple, and the father of the childLong way declined into the vale of years.But mark the wondrous change—ere he was putBy his mother into breeches, Nature strungThe muscular part of his economyTo an unusual strength, and he could leap,All unimpeded by his petticoats,Over the stool on which his mother satWhen carding wool, or cleansing vegetables,Or meek performing other household tasks.Cunning he watch'd his opportunity,And oft, as house-affairs did call her thence,Overleapt Hugh, a perfect whirligig,More than six inches o'er th' astonish'd stool.What boots it to narrate, how at leap-frogOver the breech'd and unbreech'd villagersHe shone conspicuous? Leap-frog do I say?Vainly so named. What though in attitudeThe Flying Tailor aped the croaking raceWhen issuing from the weed-entangled pool,Tadpoles no more, they seek the new-mown fields,A jocund people, bouncing to and froAmid the odorous clover—while amazedThe grasshopper sits idle on the stalkWith folded pinions and forgets to sing.Frog-like, no doubt, in attitude he was;But sure his bounds across the village greenSeem'd to my soul—(my soul for ever brightWith purest beams of sacred poesy)—Like bounds of red-deer on the Highland hill,When, close-environed by the tinchels chain,He lifts his branchy forehead to the sky,Then o'er the many-headed multitudeSprings belling half in terror, half in rage,And fleeter than the sunbeam or the windSpeeds to his cloud-lair on the mountain-top.No more of this—suffice it to narrate,In his tenth year he was apprenticedUnto a Master Tailor by a strongAnd regular indenture of seven years,Commencing from the date the parchment bore,And ending on a certain day, that madeThe term complete of seven solar years.Oft have I heard him say, that at this timeOf life he was most wretched; for, constrain'dTo sit all day cross-legg'd upon a board,The natural circulation of the bloodThereby was oft impeded, and he feltSo numb'd at times, that when he strove to riseUp from his work he could not, but fell backAmong the shreds and patches that bestrew'dWith various colours, brightening gorgeously,The board all round him—patch of warlike redWith which he patched the regimental-suitsOf a recruiting military troop,At that time stationed in a market townAt no great distance—eke of solemn blackShreds of no little magnitude, with whichThe parson's Sunday-coat was then repairing,That in the new-roof'd church he might appearWith fitting dignity—and gravely fillThe sacred seat of pulpit eloquence,Cheering with doctrinal point and words of faithThe poor man's heart, and from the shallow witOf atheist drying up each argument,Or sharpening his own weapons only to turnTheir point against himself, and overthrowHis idols with the very engineryReared 'gainst the structure of our English Church.Oft too, when striving all he could to finishThe stated daily task, the needle's point,Slanting insidious from th' eluded stitch,Hath pinched his finger, by the thimble's mailIn vain defended, and the crimson bloodDistain'd the lining of some wedding-suit;A dismal omen! that to mind like his,Apt to perceive in slightest circumstanceMysterious meaning, yielded sore distressAnd feverish perturbation, so that oftHe scarce could eat his dinner—nay, one nightHe swore to run from his apprenticeship,And go on board a first-rate man-of-war,From Plymouth lately come to Liverpool,Where, in the stir and tumult of a crewComposed of many nations, 'mid the roarOf wave and tempest, and the deadlier voiceOf battle, he might strive to mitigateThe fever that consumed his mighty heart.But other doom was his. That very nightA troop of tumblers came into the village,Tumbler, equestrian, mountebank,—on wire,On rope, on horse, with cup and balls, intentTo please the gaping multitude, and winThe coin from labour's pocket—small perhapsEach separate piece of money, but when join'dMaking a good round sum, destined ere longAll to be melted, (so these lawless folkName spending coin in loose debauchery)Melted into ale—or haply stouter cheer,Gin diuretic, or the liquid flameOf baneful brandy, by the smuggler broughtFrom the French coast in shallop many-oar'd,Skulking by night round headland and through bay,Afraid of the King's cutter, or the bargeOf cruising frigate, arm'd with chosen men,And with her sweeps across the foamy wavesMoving most beautiful with measured strokes.It chanced that as he threw a somersetOver three horses (each of larger sizeThan our small mountain-breed) one of the troopPut out his shoulder, and was otherwiseConsiderably bruised, especiallyAbout the loins and back. So he becameUseless unto that wandering company,And likely to be felt a sore expenseTo men just on the eve of bankruptcy,So the master of the troop determinedTo leave him in the workhouse, and proclaim'dThat if there was a man among the crowdWilling to fill his place and able too,Now was the time to show himself. Hugh ThwaitesHeard the proposal, as he stood apartStriving with his own soul—and with a boundHe leapt into the circle, and agreedTo supply the place of him who had been hurt.A shout of admiration and surpriseThen tore heaven's concave, and completely fill'dThe little field, where near a hundred peopleWere standing in a circle round and fair.Oft have I striven by meditative power,And reason working 'mid the various formsOf various occupations and professions,To explain the cause of one phenomenon,That, since the birth of science, hath remain'dA bare enunciation, unexplain'dBy any theory, or mental lightStream'd on it by the imaginative will,Or spirit musing in the cloudy shrine,The Penetralia of the immortal soul.I now allude to that most curious fact,That 'mid a given number, say threescore,Of tailors, more men of agilityWill issue out, than from an equal showFrom any other occupation—saySmiths, barbers, bakers, butchers, or the like.Let me not seem presumptuous, if I striveThis subject to illustrate; nor, while I giveMy meditations to the world, will IConceal from it, that much I have to sayI learnt from one who knows the subject wellIn theory and practice—need I name him?The light-heel'd author of the Isle of Palms,Illustrious more for leaping than for song.First, then, I would lay down this principle,That all excessive action by the lawOf nature tends unto repose. This granted,All action not excessive must partakeThe nature of excessive action—soThat in all human beings who keep moving,Unconscious cultivation of reposeIs going on in silence. Be it so.Apply to men of sedentary livesThis leading principle, and we beholdThat, active in their inactivity,And unreposing in their long repose,They are, in fact, the sole depositariesOf all the energies by others wasted,And come at last to teem with impulsesOf muscular motion, not to be withstood,And either giving vent unto themselvesIn numerous feats of wild agility,Or terminating in despair and death.Now, of all sedentary lives, none seemsSo much so as the tailor's.—Weavers useBoth arms and legs, and, we may safely add,Their bodies too, for arms and legs can't moveWithout the body—as the waving branchOf the green oak disturbs his glossy trunk.Not so the Tailor—for he sits cross-legg'd,Cross-legg'd for ever! save at time of meals,In bed, or when he takes his little walkFrom shop to ale-house, picking, as he goes,Stray patch of fustian, cloth, or cassimere,Which, as by natural instinct, he discerns,Though soil'd with mud, and by the passing wheelBruised to attenuation 'gainst the stones.Here then we pause—and need no farther go,We have reach'd the sea-mark of our utmost sail.Now let me trace the effect upon his mindOf this despised profession. Deem not thou,O rashly deem not, that his boyish daysPast at the shop-board, when the stripling boreWith bashful feeling of apprenticeshipThe name of Tailor, deem not that his soulDerived no genial influence from a life,Which, although haply adverse in the mainTo the growth of intellect, and the excursive power,Yet in its ordinary forms possessedA constant influence o'er his passing thoughts,Moulded his appetences and his will,And wrought out, by the work of sympathy,Between his bodily and mental form,Rare correspondence, wond'rous unity!Perfect—complete—and fading not away.While on his board cross-legg'd he used to sit,Shaping of various garments, to his mindAn image rose of every characterFor whom each special article was framed,Coat, waistcoat, breeches. So at last his soulWas like a storehouse, filled with images,By musing hours of solitude supplied.Nor did his ready fingers shape the cutOf villager's uncouth habilimentsWith greater readiness, than did his mindFrame corresponding images of thoseWhose corporal measurement the neat-mark'd paperIn many a mystic notch for ay retain'd.Hence, more than any man I ever knew,Did he possess the power intuitiveOf diving into character. A pairOf breeches to his philosophic eyeWere not what unto other folks they seem,Mere simple breeches, but in them he sawThe symbol of the soul—mysterious, highHieroglyphics! such as Egypt's PriestAdored upon the holy Pyramid,Vainly imagined tomb of monarchs old,But raised by wise philosophy, that soughtBy darkness to illumine, and to spreadKnowledge by dim concealment—process highOf man's imaginative, deathless soul.Nor, haply, in th' abasement of the lifeWhich stern necessity had made his own,Did he not recognise a genial powerOf soul-ennobling fortitude. He heardUnmoved the witling's shallow contumely,And thus, in spite of nature, by degreesHe saw a beauty and a majestyIn this despised trade, which warrior's browHath rarely circled—so that when he satBeneath his sky-light window, he hath castA gaze of triumph on the godlike sun,And felt that orb, in all his annual round,Beheld no happier nobler characterThan him, Hugh Thwaites, a little tailor-boy.Thus I, with no unprofitable song,Have, in the silence of th' umbrageous wood,Chaunted the heroic youthful attributesOf him the Flying Tailor. Much remainsOf highest argument, to lute or lyreFit to be murmur'd with impassion'd voice;And when, by timely supper and by sleepRefresh'd, I turn me to the welcome task,With lofty hopes,—Reader, do thou expectThe final termination of my lay.For, mark my words,—eternally my nameShall last on earth, conspicuous like a star'Mid that bright galaxy of favour'd spirits,Who, laugh'd at constantly whene'er they publish'd,Survived the impotent scorn of base Reviews,Monthly or Quarterly, or that accursedJournal, the Edinburgh Review, that livesOn tears, and sighs, and groans, and brains, and blood.

If ever chance or choice thy footsteps lead

Into that green and flowery burial-ground

That compasseth with sweet and mournful smiles

The church of Grasmere,—by the eastern gate

Enter—and underneath a stunted yew,

Some three yards distant from the gravel-walk,

On the left-hand side, thou wilt espy a grave,

With unelaborate headstone beautified,

Conspicuous 'mid the other stoneless heaps

'Neath which the children of the valley lie.

There pause—and with no common feelings read

This short inscription—'Here lies buried

The Flying Tailor, aged twenty-nine!'

Him from his birth unto his death I knew,And many years before he had attain'dThe fulness of his fame, I prophesiedThe triumphs of that youth's agility,And crown'd him with that name which afterwardsHe nobly justified—and dying leftTo fame's eternal blazon—read it here—'The Flying Tailor!'

Him from his birth unto his death I knew,

And many years before he had attain'd

The fulness of his fame, I prophesied

The triumphs of that youth's agility,

And crown'd him with that name which afterwards

He nobly justified—and dying left

To fame's eternal blazon—read it here—

'The Flying Tailor!'

It is somewhat strangeThat his mother was a cripple, and his fatherLong way declined into the vale of yearsWhen their son Hugh was born. At first the babeWas sickly, and a smile was seen to passAcross the midwife's cheek, when, holding upThe sickly wretch, she to the father said,'A fine man-child!' What else could they expect?The mother being, as I said before,A cripple, and the father of the childLong way declined into the vale of years.

It is somewhat strange

That his mother was a cripple, and his father

Long way declined into the vale of years

When their son Hugh was born. At first the babe

Was sickly, and a smile was seen to pass

Across the midwife's cheek, when, holding up

The sickly wretch, she to the father said,

'A fine man-child!' What else could they expect?

The mother being, as I said before,

A cripple, and the father of the child

Long way declined into the vale of years.

But mark the wondrous change—ere he was putBy his mother into breeches, Nature strungThe muscular part of his economyTo an unusual strength, and he could leap,All unimpeded by his petticoats,Over the stool on which his mother satWhen carding wool, or cleansing vegetables,Or meek performing other household tasks.Cunning he watch'd his opportunity,And oft, as house-affairs did call her thence,Overleapt Hugh, a perfect whirligig,More than six inches o'er th' astonish'd stool.What boots it to narrate, how at leap-frogOver the breech'd and unbreech'd villagersHe shone conspicuous? Leap-frog do I say?Vainly so named. What though in attitudeThe Flying Tailor aped the croaking raceWhen issuing from the weed-entangled pool,Tadpoles no more, they seek the new-mown fields,A jocund people, bouncing to and froAmid the odorous clover—while amazedThe grasshopper sits idle on the stalkWith folded pinions and forgets to sing.Frog-like, no doubt, in attitude he was;But sure his bounds across the village greenSeem'd to my soul—(my soul for ever brightWith purest beams of sacred poesy)—Like bounds of red-deer on the Highland hill,When, close-environed by the tinchels chain,He lifts his branchy forehead to the sky,Then o'er the many-headed multitudeSprings belling half in terror, half in rage,And fleeter than the sunbeam or the windSpeeds to his cloud-lair on the mountain-top.

But mark the wondrous change—ere he was put

By his mother into breeches, Nature strung

The muscular part of his economy

To an unusual strength, and he could leap,

All unimpeded by his petticoats,

Over the stool on which his mother sat

When carding wool, or cleansing vegetables,

Or meek performing other household tasks.

Cunning he watch'd his opportunity,

And oft, as house-affairs did call her thence,

Overleapt Hugh, a perfect whirligig,

More than six inches o'er th' astonish'd stool.

What boots it to narrate, how at leap-frog

Over the breech'd and unbreech'd villagers

He shone conspicuous? Leap-frog do I say?

Vainly so named. What though in attitude

The Flying Tailor aped the croaking race

When issuing from the weed-entangled pool,

Tadpoles no more, they seek the new-mown fields,

A jocund people, bouncing to and fro

Amid the odorous clover—while amazed

The grasshopper sits idle on the stalk

With folded pinions and forgets to sing.

Frog-like, no doubt, in attitude he was;

But sure his bounds across the village green

Seem'd to my soul—(my soul for ever bright

With purest beams of sacred poesy)—

Like bounds of red-deer on the Highland hill,

When, close-environed by the tinchels chain,

He lifts his branchy forehead to the sky,

Then o'er the many-headed multitude

Springs belling half in terror, half in rage,

And fleeter than the sunbeam or the wind

Speeds to his cloud-lair on the mountain-top.

No more of this—suffice it to narrate,In his tenth year he was apprenticedUnto a Master Tailor by a strongAnd regular indenture of seven years,Commencing from the date the parchment bore,And ending on a certain day, that madeThe term complete of seven solar years.Oft have I heard him say, that at this timeOf life he was most wretched; for, constrain'dTo sit all day cross-legg'd upon a board,The natural circulation of the bloodThereby was oft impeded, and he feltSo numb'd at times, that when he strove to riseUp from his work he could not, but fell backAmong the shreds and patches that bestrew'dWith various colours, brightening gorgeously,The board all round him—patch of warlike redWith which he patched the regimental-suitsOf a recruiting military troop,At that time stationed in a market townAt no great distance—eke of solemn blackShreds of no little magnitude, with whichThe parson's Sunday-coat was then repairing,That in the new-roof'd church he might appearWith fitting dignity—and gravely fillThe sacred seat of pulpit eloquence,Cheering with doctrinal point and words of faithThe poor man's heart, and from the shallow witOf atheist drying up each argument,Or sharpening his own weapons only to turnTheir point against himself, and overthrowHis idols with the very engineryReared 'gainst the structure of our English Church.

No more of this—suffice it to narrate,

In his tenth year he was apprenticed

Unto a Master Tailor by a strong

And regular indenture of seven years,

Commencing from the date the parchment bore,

And ending on a certain day, that made

The term complete of seven solar years.

Oft have I heard him say, that at this time

Of life he was most wretched; for, constrain'd

To sit all day cross-legg'd upon a board,

The natural circulation of the blood

Thereby was oft impeded, and he felt

So numb'd at times, that when he strove to rise

Up from his work he could not, but fell back

Among the shreds and patches that bestrew'd

With various colours, brightening gorgeously,

The board all round him—patch of warlike red

With which he patched the regimental-suits

Of a recruiting military troop,

At that time stationed in a market town

At no great distance—eke of solemn black

Shreds of no little magnitude, with which

The parson's Sunday-coat was then repairing,

That in the new-roof'd church he might appear

With fitting dignity—and gravely fill

The sacred seat of pulpit eloquence,

Cheering with doctrinal point and words of faith

The poor man's heart, and from the shallow wit

Of atheist drying up each argument,

Or sharpening his own weapons only to turn

Their point against himself, and overthrow

His idols with the very enginery

Reared 'gainst the structure of our English Church.

Oft too, when striving all he could to finishThe stated daily task, the needle's point,Slanting insidious from th' eluded stitch,Hath pinched his finger, by the thimble's mailIn vain defended, and the crimson bloodDistain'd the lining of some wedding-suit;A dismal omen! that to mind like his,Apt to perceive in slightest circumstanceMysterious meaning, yielded sore distressAnd feverish perturbation, so that oftHe scarce could eat his dinner—nay, one nightHe swore to run from his apprenticeship,And go on board a first-rate man-of-war,From Plymouth lately come to Liverpool,Where, in the stir and tumult of a crewComposed of many nations, 'mid the roarOf wave and tempest, and the deadlier voiceOf battle, he might strive to mitigateThe fever that consumed his mighty heart.

Oft too, when striving all he could to finish

The stated daily task, the needle's point,

Slanting insidious from th' eluded stitch,

Hath pinched his finger, by the thimble's mail

In vain defended, and the crimson blood

Distain'd the lining of some wedding-suit;

A dismal omen! that to mind like his,

Apt to perceive in slightest circumstance

Mysterious meaning, yielded sore distress

And feverish perturbation, so that oft

He scarce could eat his dinner—nay, one night

He swore to run from his apprenticeship,

And go on board a first-rate man-of-war,

From Plymouth lately come to Liverpool,

Where, in the stir and tumult of a crew

Composed of many nations, 'mid the roar

Of wave and tempest, and the deadlier voice

Of battle, he might strive to mitigate

The fever that consumed his mighty heart.

But other doom was his. That very nightA troop of tumblers came into the village,Tumbler, equestrian, mountebank,—on wire,On rope, on horse, with cup and balls, intentTo please the gaping multitude, and winThe coin from labour's pocket—small perhapsEach separate piece of money, but when join'dMaking a good round sum, destined ere longAll to be melted, (so these lawless folkName spending coin in loose debauchery)Melted into ale—or haply stouter cheer,Gin diuretic, or the liquid flameOf baneful brandy, by the smuggler broughtFrom the French coast in shallop many-oar'd,Skulking by night round headland and through bay,Afraid of the King's cutter, or the bargeOf cruising frigate, arm'd with chosen men,And with her sweeps across the foamy wavesMoving most beautiful with measured strokes.

But other doom was his. That very night

A troop of tumblers came into the village,

Tumbler, equestrian, mountebank,—on wire,

On rope, on horse, with cup and balls, intent

To please the gaping multitude, and win

The coin from labour's pocket—small perhaps

Each separate piece of money, but when join'd

Making a good round sum, destined ere long

All to be melted, (so these lawless folk

Name spending coin in loose debauchery)

Melted into ale—or haply stouter cheer,

Gin diuretic, or the liquid flame

Of baneful brandy, by the smuggler brought

From the French coast in shallop many-oar'd,

Skulking by night round headland and through bay,

Afraid of the King's cutter, or the barge

Of cruising frigate, arm'd with chosen men,

And with her sweeps across the foamy waves

Moving most beautiful with measured strokes.

It chanced that as he threw a somersetOver three horses (each of larger sizeThan our small mountain-breed) one of the troopPut out his shoulder, and was otherwiseConsiderably bruised, especiallyAbout the loins and back. So he becameUseless unto that wandering company,And likely to be felt a sore expenseTo men just on the eve of bankruptcy,So the master of the troop determinedTo leave him in the workhouse, and proclaim'dThat if there was a man among the crowdWilling to fill his place and able too,Now was the time to show himself. Hugh ThwaitesHeard the proposal, as he stood apartStriving with his own soul—and with a boundHe leapt into the circle, and agreedTo supply the place of him who had been hurt.A shout of admiration and surpriseThen tore heaven's concave, and completely fill'dThe little field, where near a hundred peopleWere standing in a circle round and fair.Oft have I striven by meditative power,And reason working 'mid the various formsOf various occupations and professions,To explain the cause of one phenomenon,That, since the birth of science, hath remain'dA bare enunciation, unexplain'dBy any theory, or mental lightStream'd on it by the imaginative will,Or spirit musing in the cloudy shrine,The Penetralia of the immortal soul.I now allude to that most curious fact,That 'mid a given number, say threescore,Of tailors, more men of agilityWill issue out, than from an equal showFrom any other occupation—saySmiths, barbers, bakers, butchers, or the like.Let me not seem presumptuous, if I striveThis subject to illustrate; nor, while I giveMy meditations to the world, will IConceal from it, that much I have to sayI learnt from one who knows the subject wellIn theory and practice—need I name him?The light-heel'd author of the Isle of Palms,Illustrious more for leaping than for song.

It chanced that as he threw a somerset

Over three horses (each of larger size

Than our small mountain-breed) one of the troop

Put out his shoulder, and was otherwise

Considerably bruised, especially

About the loins and back. So he became

Useless unto that wandering company,

And likely to be felt a sore expense

To men just on the eve of bankruptcy,

So the master of the troop determined

To leave him in the workhouse, and proclaim'd

That if there was a man among the crowd

Willing to fill his place and able too,

Now was the time to show himself. Hugh Thwaites

Heard the proposal, as he stood apart

Striving with his own soul—and with a bound

He leapt into the circle, and agreed

To supply the place of him who had been hurt.

A shout of admiration and surprise

Then tore heaven's concave, and completely fill'd

The little field, where near a hundred people

Were standing in a circle round and fair.

Oft have I striven by meditative power,

And reason working 'mid the various forms

Of various occupations and professions,

To explain the cause of one phenomenon,

That, since the birth of science, hath remain'd

A bare enunciation, unexplain'd

By any theory, or mental light

Stream'd on it by the imaginative will,

Or spirit musing in the cloudy shrine,

The Penetralia of the immortal soul.

I now allude to that most curious fact,

That 'mid a given number, say threescore,

Of tailors, more men of agility

Will issue out, than from an equal show

From any other occupation—say

Smiths, barbers, bakers, butchers, or the like.

Let me not seem presumptuous, if I strive

This subject to illustrate; nor, while I give

My meditations to the world, will I

Conceal from it, that much I have to say

I learnt from one who knows the subject well

In theory and practice—need I name him?

The light-heel'd author of the Isle of Palms,

Illustrious more for leaping than for song.

First, then, I would lay down this principle,That all excessive action by the lawOf nature tends unto repose. This granted,All action not excessive must partakeThe nature of excessive action—soThat in all human beings who keep moving,Unconscious cultivation of reposeIs going on in silence. Be it so.Apply to men of sedentary livesThis leading principle, and we beholdThat, active in their inactivity,And unreposing in their long repose,They are, in fact, the sole depositariesOf all the energies by others wasted,And come at last to teem with impulsesOf muscular motion, not to be withstood,And either giving vent unto themselvesIn numerous feats of wild agility,Or terminating in despair and death.

First, then, I would lay down this principle,

That all excessive action by the law

Of nature tends unto repose. This granted,

All action not excessive must partake

The nature of excessive action—so

That in all human beings who keep moving,

Unconscious cultivation of repose

Is going on in silence. Be it so.

Apply to men of sedentary lives

This leading principle, and we behold

That, active in their inactivity,

And unreposing in their long repose,

They are, in fact, the sole depositaries

Of all the energies by others wasted,

And come at last to teem with impulses

Of muscular motion, not to be withstood,

And either giving vent unto themselves

In numerous feats of wild agility,

Or terminating in despair and death.

Now, of all sedentary lives, none seemsSo much so as the tailor's.—Weavers useBoth arms and legs, and, we may safely add,Their bodies too, for arms and legs can't moveWithout the body—as the waving branchOf the green oak disturbs his glossy trunk.Not so the Tailor—for he sits cross-legg'd,Cross-legg'd for ever! save at time of meals,In bed, or when he takes his little walkFrom shop to ale-house, picking, as he goes,Stray patch of fustian, cloth, or cassimere,Which, as by natural instinct, he discerns,Though soil'd with mud, and by the passing wheelBruised to attenuation 'gainst the stones.

Now, of all sedentary lives, none seems

So much so as the tailor's.—Weavers use

Both arms and legs, and, we may safely add,

Their bodies too, for arms and legs can't move

Without the body—as the waving branch

Of the green oak disturbs his glossy trunk.

Not so the Tailor—for he sits cross-legg'd,

Cross-legg'd for ever! save at time of meals,

In bed, or when he takes his little walk

From shop to ale-house, picking, as he goes,

Stray patch of fustian, cloth, or cassimere,

Which, as by natural instinct, he discerns,

Though soil'd with mud, and by the passing wheel

Bruised to attenuation 'gainst the stones.

Here then we pause—and need no farther go,We have reach'd the sea-mark of our utmost sail.Now let me trace the effect upon his mindOf this despised profession. Deem not thou,O rashly deem not, that his boyish daysPast at the shop-board, when the stripling boreWith bashful feeling of apprenticeshipThe name of Tailor, deem not that his soulDerived no genial influence from a life,Which, although haply adverse in the mainTo the growth of intellect, and the excursive power,Yet in its ordinary forms possessedA constant influence o'er his passing thoughts,Moulded his appetences and his will,And wrought out, by the work of sympathy,Between his bodily and mental form,Rare correspondence, wond'rous unity!Perfect—complete—and fading not away.While on his board cross-legg'd he used to sit,Shaping of various garments, to his mindAn image rose of every characterFor whom each special article was framed,Coat, waistcoat, breeches. So at last his soulWas like a storehouse, filled with images,By musing hours of solitude supplied.Nor did his ready fingers shape the cutOf villager's uncouth habilimentsWith greater readiness, than did his mindFrame corresponding images of thoseWhose corporal measurement the neat-mark'd paperIn many a mystic notch for ay retain'd.Hence, more than any man I ever knew,Did he possess the power intuitiveOf diving into character. A pairOf breeches to his philosophic eyeWere not what unto other folks they seem,Mere simple breeches, but in them he sawThe symbol of the soul—mysterious, highHieroglyphics! such as Egypt's PriestAdored upon the holy Pyramid,Vainly imagined tomb of monarchs old,But raised by wise philosophy, that soughtBy darkness to illumine, and to spreadKnowledge by dim concealment—process highOf man's imaginative, deathless soul.Nor, haply, in th' abasement of the lifeWhich stern necessity had made his own,Did he not recognise a genial powerOf soul-ennobling fortitude. He heardUnmoved the witling's shallow contumely,And thus, in spite of nature, by degreesHe saw a beauty and a majestyIn this despised trade, which warrior's browHath rarely circled—so that when he satBeneath his sky-light window, he hath castA gaze of triumph on the godlike sun,And felt that orb, in all his annual round,Beheld no happier nobler characterThan him, Hugh Thwaites, a little tailor-boy.

Here then we pause—and need no farther go,

We have reach'd the sea-mark of our utmost sail.

Now let me trace the effect upon his mind

Of this despised profession. Deem not thou,

O rashly deem not, that his boyish days

Past at the shop-board, when the stripling bore

With bashful feeling of apprenticeship

The name of Tailor, deem not that his soul

Derived no genial influence from a life,

Which, although haply adverse in the main

To the growth of intellect, and the excursive power,

Yet in its ordinary forms possessed

A constant influence o'er his passing thoughts,

Moulded his appetences and his will,

And wrought out, by the work of sympathy,

Between his bodily and mental form,

Rare correspondence, wond'rous unity!

Perfect—complete—and fading not away.

While on his board cross-legg'd he used to sit,

Shaping of various garments, to his mind

An image rose of every character

For whom each special article was framed,

Coat, waistcoat, breeches. So at last his soul

Was like a storehouse, filled with images,

By musing hours of solitude supplied.

Nor did his ready fingers shape the cut

Of villager's uncouth habiliments

With greater readiness, than did his mind

Frame corresponding images of those

Whose corporal measurement the neat-mark'd paper

In many a mystic notch for ay retain'd.

Hence, more than any man I ever knew,

Did he possess the power intuitive

Of diving into character. A pair

Of breeches to his philosophic eye

Were not what unto other folks they seem,

Mere simple breeches, but in them he saw

The symbol of the soul—mysterious, high

Hieroglyphics! such as Egypt's Priest

Adored upon the holy Pyramid,

Vainly imagined tomb of monarchs old,

But raised by wise philosophy, that sought

By darkness to illumine, and to spread

Knowledge by dim concealment—process high

Of man's imaginative, deathless soul.

Nor, haply, in th' abasement of the life

Which stern necessity had made his own,

Did he not recognise a genial power

Of soul-ennobling fortitude. He heard

Unmoved the witling's shallow contumely,

And thus, in spite of nature, by degrees

He saw a beauty and a majesty

In this despised trade, which warrior's brow

Hath rarely circled—so that when he sat

Beneath his sky-light window, he hath cast

A gaze of triumph on the godlike sun,

And felt that orb, in all his annual round,

Beheld no happier nobler character

Than him, Hugh Thwaites, a little tailor-boy.

Thus I, with no unprofitable song,Have, in the silence of th' umbrageous wood,Chaunted the heroic youthful attributesOf him the Flying Tailor. Much remainsOf highest argument, to lute or lyreFit to be murmur'd with impassion'd voice;And when, by timely supper and by sleepRefresh'd, I turn me to the welcome task,With lofty hopes,—Reader, do thou expectThe final termination of my lay.For, mark my words,—eternally my nameShall last on earth, conspicuous like a star'Mid that bright galaxy of favour'd spirits,Who, laugh'd at constantly whene'er they publish'd,Survived the impotent scorn of base Reviews,Monthly or Quarterly, or that accursedJournal, the Edinburgh Review, that livesOn tears, and sighs, and groans, and brains, and blood.

Thus I, with no unprofitable song,

Have, in the silence of th' umbrageous wood,

Chaunted the heroic youthful attributes

Of him the Flying Tailor. Much remains

Of highest argument, to lute or lyre

Fit to be murmur'd with impassion'd voice;

And when, by timely supper and by sleep

Refresh'd, I turn me to the welcome task,

With lofty hopes,—Reader, do thou expect

The final termination of my lay.

For, mark my words,—eternally my name

Shall last on earth, conspicuous like a star

'Mid that bright galaxy of favour'd spirits,

Who, laugh'd at constantly whene'er they publish'd,

Survived the impotent scorn of base Reviews,

Monthly or Quarterly, or that accursed

Journal, the Edinburgh Review, that lives

On tears, and sighs, and groans, and brains, and blood.

Was it not lovely to beholdA Cherub come down from the sky,A beauteous thing of heavenly mould,With ringlets of the wavy gold,Dancing and floating curiously?To see it come down to the earthThis beauteous thing of heavenly birth!Leaving the fields of balm and bliss,To dwell in such a world as this!I heard a maiden sing the while,A strain so holy, it might beguileAn angel from the radiant spheres,That have swum in light ten thousand years;Ten times ten thousand is too few—Child of heaven, can this be true?And then I saw that beauteous thingSlowly from the clouds descending,Brightness, glory, beauty blending,In the 'mid air hovering.It had a halo round its head,It was not of the rainbow's hue,For in it was no shade of blue,But a beam of amber mixed with red,Like that which mingles in the rayA little after the break of day.Its raiment was the thousand dyesOf flowers in the heavenly paradise;Its track a beam of the sun refined,And its chariot was the southern wind;My heart danced in me with delight,And my spirits mounted at the sight,And I said within me it is well;But where the bower, or peaceful dell,Where this pure heavenly thing may dwell?Then I bethought me of the place,To lodge the messenger of grace;And I chose the ancient sycamore,And the little green by Greta's shore;It is a spot so passing fair,That sainted thing might sojourn there.Go tell yon stranger artisan,Build as quickly as he can.Heaven shield us from annoy!What shall form this dome of joy?The leaf of the rose would be too rudeFor a thing that is not flesh and blood;The walls must be of the sunny air,And the roof the silvery gossamer,And all the ceiling, round and round,Wove half of light, and half of sound;The sounds must be the tones that flyFrom distant harp, just ere they die;And the light the moon's soft midnight ray,When the cloud is downy, and thin, and grey.And such a bower of light and love,Of beauty, and of harmonie,In earth below, or heaven above,No mortal thing shall ever see.The dream is past, it is gone away!The rose is blighted on the spray;I look behind, I look before,The happy vision is no more!But in its room a darker shadeThan eye hath pierced, or darkness made;I cannot turn, yet do not know,What I would, or whither go;But I have heard, to heart of sin,A small voice whispering within,'Tis all I know, and all I trust,—'That man is weak, but God is just.'

Was it not lovely to behold

A Cherub come down from the sky,

A beauteous thing of heavenly mould,

With ringlets of the wavy gold,

Dancing and floating curiously?

To see it come down to the earth

This beauteous thing of heavenly birth!

Leaving the fields of balm and bliss,

To dwell in such a world as this!

I heard a maiden sing the while,A strain so holy, it might beguileAn angel from the radiant spheres,That have swum in light ten thousand years;Ten times ten thousand is too few—Child of heaven, can this be true?And then I saw that beauteous thingSlowly from the clouds descending,Brightness, glory, beauty blending,In the 'mid air hovering.It had a halo round its head,It was not of the rainbow's hue,For in it was no shade of blue,But a beam of amber mixed with red,Like that which mingles in the rayA little after the break of day.Its raiment was the thousand dyesOf flowers in the heavenly paradise;Its track a beam of the sun refined,And its chariot was the southern wind;My heart danced in me with delight,And my spirits mounted at the sight,And I said within me it is well;But where the bower, or peaceful dell,Where this pure heavenly thing may dwell?Then I bethought me of the place,To lodge the messenger of grace;And I chose the ancient sycamore,And the little green by Greta's shore;It is a spot so passing fair,That sainted thing might sojourn there.

I heard a maiden sing the while,

A strain so holy, it might beguile

An angel from the radiant spheres,

That have swum in light ten thousand years;

Ten times ten thousand is too few—

Child of heaven, can this be true?

And then I saw that beauteous thing

Slowly from the clouds descending,

Brightness, glory, beauty blending,

In the 'mid air hovering.

It had a halo round its head,

It was not of the rainbow's hue,

For in it was no shade of blue,

But a beam of amber mixed with red,

Like that which mingles in the ray

A little after the break of day.

Its raiment was the thousand dyes

Of flowers in the heavenly paradise;

Its track a beam of the sun refined,

And its chariot was the southern wind;

My heart danced in me with delight,

And my spirits mounted at the sight,

And I said within me it is well;

But where the bower, or peaceful dell,

Where this pure heavenly thing may dwell?

Then I bethought me of the place,

To lodge the messenger of grace;

And I chose the ancient sycamore,

And the little green by Greta's shore;

It is a spot so passing fair,

That sainted thing might sojourn there.

Go tell yon stranger artisan,Build as quickly as he can.Heaven shield us from annoy!What shall form this dome of joy?The leaf of the rose would be too rudeFor a thing that is not flesh and blood;The walls must be of the sunny air,And the roof the silvery gossamer,And all the ceiling, round and round,Wove half of light, and half of sound;The sounds must be the tones that flyFrom distant harp, just ere they die;And the light the moon's soft midnight ray,When the cloud is downy, and thin, and grey.And such a bower of light and love,Of beauty, and of harmonie,In earth below, or heaven above,No mortal thing shall ever see.

Go tell yon stranger artisan,

Build as quickly as he can.

Heaven shield us from annoy!

What shall form this dome of joy?

The leaf of the rose would be too rude

For a thing that is not flesh and blood;

The walls must be of the sunny air,

And the roof the silvery gossamer,

And all the ceiling, round and round,

Wove half of light, and half of sound;

The sounds must be the tones that fly

From distant harp, just ere they die;

And the light the moon's soft midnight ray,

When the cloud is downy, and thin, and grey.

And such a bower of light and love,

Of beauty, and of harmonie,

In earth below, or heaven above,

No mortal thing shall ever see.

The dream is past, it is gone away!The rose is blighted on the spray;I look behind, I look before,The happy vision is no more!But in its room a darker shadeThan eye hath pierced, or darkness made;I cannot turn, yet do not know,What I would, or whither go;But I have heard, to heart of sin,A small voice whispering within,'Tis all I know, and all I trust,—'That man is weak, but God is just.'

The dream is past, it is gone away!

The rose is blighted on the spray;

I look behind, I look before,

The happy vision is no more!

But in its room a darker shade

Than eye hath pierced, or darkness made;

I cannot turn, yet do not know,

What I would, or whither go;

But I have heard, to heart of sin,

A small voice whispering within,

'Tis all I know, and all I trust,—

'That man is weak, but God is just.'

Can there be a moon in heaven to-night,That the hill and the grey cloud seem so light?The air is whiten'd by some spell,For there is no moon, I know it well;On this third day, the sages say,('Tis wonderful how well they know,)The moon is journeying far away,Bright somewhere in a heaven below.It is a strange and lovely night,A greyish pale, but not white!Is it rain, or is it dew,That falls so thick I see its hue?In rays it follows, one, two, three,Down the air so merrily,Said Isabelle, so let it be!Why does the Lady IsabelleSit in the damp and dewy dellCounting the racks of drizzly rain,And how often the Rail cries over again?For she's harping, harping in the brake,Craik, craik—Craik, craik.Ten times nine, and thrice eleven;—That last call was an hundred and seven.Craik, craik—the hour is near—Let it come, I have no fear!Yet it is a dreadful work, I wis,Such doings in a night like this!Sounds the river harsh and loud?The stream sounds harsh, but not loud.There is a cloud that seems to hover,By western hill the churchyard over,What is it like?—'Tis like a whale;'Tis like a shark with half the tail,Not half, but third and more;Now 'tis a wolf, and now a boar;Its face is raised—it cometh here;Let it come—there is no fear.There's two for heaven, and ten for hell,Let it come—'tis well—'tis well!Said the Lady Isabelle.What ails that little cut-tail'd whelp,That it continues to yelp, yelp?Yelp, yelp, and it turns its eyeUp to the tree and half to the sky,Half to the sky and full to the cloud,And still it whines and barks aloud.Why I should dread I cannot tell;There is a spirit; I know it well!I see it in yon falling beam—Is it a vision, or a dream?It is no dream, full well I know,I have a woful deed to do!Hush, hush, thou little murmurer;I tell thee hush—the dead are near!If thou knew'st all, poor tailless whelp,Well might'st thou tremble, growl, and yelp;But thou know'st nothing, hast no part,(Simple and stupid as thou art)Save gratitude and truth of heart.But they are coming by this wayThat have been dead for a year and a day;Without challenge, without change,They shall have their full revenge!They have been sent to wander in woeIn the lands of flame, and the lands of snow;But those that are deadShall the green sward tread,And those that are livingShall soon be dead!None to pity them, none to help!Thou may'st quake, my cut-tail'd whelp!There are two from the graveThat I fain would save;Full hard is the weirdFor the young and the brave!Perchance they are rapt in vision sweet,While the passing breezes kiss their feet;And they are dreaming of joy and love!—Well, let them go—there's room above.There are three times three, and three to these,Count as you will, by twos or threes!Three for the gallows, and three for the wave,Three to roast behind the stone,And three that shall never see the graveUntil the day and the hour are gone!For retribution is mine alone!The cloud is redder in its hue,The hour is near, and vengeance due;It cannot, and it will not fail,—'Tis but a step to Borrowdale!Why shouldst thou love and follow me,Poor faithful thing? I pity thee!Up rose the Lady Isabelle,I may not of her motion tell,Yet thou may'st look upon her frame;Look on it with a passing eye,But think not thou upon the same,Turn away, and ask not why;For if thou darest look again,Mad of heart and seared of brain,Thou shalt never look again!What can ail that short-tail'd whelp?'Tis either behind or far before,And it hath changed its whining yelpTo a shorten'd yuff—its little coreSeems bursting with terror and dismay,Yuff, yuff,—hear how it speeds away.Hold thy peace, thou yemering thing,The very night-wind's slumbering,And thou wilt wake to woe and painThose that must never wake again.Meet is its terror and its flight,There's one on the left and two on the right!But save the paleness of the face,All is beauty, and all is grace!The earth and air are tinged with blue;There are no footsteps in the dew;Is this to wandering spirits given,Such stillness on the face of heaven?The fleecy clouds that sleep above,Are like the wing of beauteous dove,And the leaf of the elm-tree does not move!Yet they are coming! and they are three!Jesu! Maria! can it be?THE CONCLUSION.Sleep on, fair maiden of Borrowdale!Sleep! O sleep! and do not wake!Dream of the dance, till the foot so pale,And the beauteous ancle shiver and shake;Till thou shalt press, with feeling bland,Thine own fair breast for lover's hand.Thy heart is light as summer breeze,Thy heart is joyous as the day;Man never form of angel sees,But thou art fair as they!So lovers ween, and so they say,So thine shall ween for many a day!The hour's at hand, O woe is me!For they are coming, and they are three!

Can there be a moon in heaven to-night,

That the hill and the grey cloud seem so light?

The air is whiten'd by some spell,

For there is no moon, I know it well;

On this third day, the sages say,

('Tis wonderful how well they know,)

The moon is journeying far away,

Bright somewhere in a heaven below.

It is a strange and lovely night,A greyish pale, but not white!Is it rain, or is it dew,That falls so thick I see its hue?In rays it follows, one, two, three,Down the air so merrily,Said Isabelle, so let it be!

It is a strange and lovely night,

A greyish pale, but not white!

Is it rain, or is it dew,

That falls so thick I see its hue?

In rays it follows, one, two, three,

Down the air so merrily,

Said Isabelle, so let it be!

Why does the Lady IsabelleSit in the damp and dewy dellCounting the racks of drizzly rain,And how often the Rail cries over again?For she's harping, harping in the brake,Craik, craik—Craik, craik.Ten times nine, and thrice eleven;—That last call was an hundred and seven.Craik, craik—the hour is near—Let it come, I have no fear!Yet it is a dreadful work, I wis,Such doings in a night like this!

Why does the Lady Isabelle

Sit in the damp and dewy dell

Counting the racks of drizzly rain,

And how often the Rail cries over again?

For she's harping, harping in the brake,

Craik, craik—Craik, craik.

Ten times nine, and thrice eleven;—

That last call was an hundred and seven.

Craik, craik—the hour is near—

Let it come, I have no fear!

Yet it is a dreadful work, I wis,

Such doings in a night like this!

Sounds the river harsh and loud?The stream sounds harsh, but not loud.There is a cloud that seems to hover,By western hill the churchyard over,What is it like?—'Tis like a whale;'Tis like a shark with half the tail,Not half, but third and more;Now 'tis a wolf, and now a boar;Its face is raised—it cometh here;Let it come—there is no fear.There's two for heaven, and ten for hell,Let it come—'tis well—'tis well!Said the Lady Isabelle.

Sounds the river harsh and loud?

The stream sounds harsh, but not loud.

There is a cloud that seems to hover,

By western hill the churchyard over,

What is it like?—'Tis like a whale;

'Tis like a shark with half the tail,

Not half, but third and more;

Now 'tis a wolf, and now a boar;

Its face is raised—it cometh here;

Let it come—there is no fear.

There's two for heaven, and ten for hell,

Let it come—'tis well—'tis well!

Said the Lady Isabelle.

What ails that little cut-tail'd whelp,That it continues to yelp, yelp?Yelp, yelp, and it turns its eyeUp to the tree and half to the sky,Half to the sky and full to the cloud,And still it whines and barks aloud.Why I should dread I cannot tell;There is a spirit; I know it well!I see it in yon falling beam—Is it a vision, or a dream?It is no dream, full well I know,I have a woful deed to do!Hush, hush, thou little murmurer;I tell thee hush—the dead are near!

What ails that little cut-tail'd whelp,

That it continues to yelp, yelp?

Yelp, yelp, and it turns its eye

Up to the tree and half to the sky,

Half to the sky and full to the cloud,

And still it whines and barks aloud.

Why I should dread I cannot tell;

There is a spirit; I know it well!

I see it in yon falling beam—

Is it a vision, or a dream?

It is no dream, full well I know,

I have a woful deed to do!

Hush, hush, thou little murmurer;

I tell thee hush—the dead are near!

If thou knew'st all, poor tailless whelp,Well might'st thou tremble, growl, and yelp;But thou know'st nothing, hast no part,(Simple and stupid as thou art)Save gratitude and truth of heart.But they are coming by this wayThat have been dead for a year and a day;Without challenge, without change,They shall have their full revenge!They have been sent to wander in woeIn the lands of flame, and the lands of snow;But those that are deadShall the green sward tread,And those that are livingShall soon be dead!None to pity them, none to help!Thou may'st quake, my cut-tail'd whelp!

If thou knew'st all, poor tailless whelp,

Well might'st thou tremble, growl, and yelp;

But thou know'st nothing, hast no part,

(Simple and stupid as thou art)

Save gratitude and truth of heart.

But they are coming by this way

That have been dead for a year and a day;

Without challenge, without change,

They shall have their full revenge!

They have been sent to wander in woe

In the lands of flame, and the lands of snow;

But those that are dead

Shall the green sward tread,

And those that are living

Shall soon be dead!

None to pity them, none to help!

Thou may'st quake, my cut-tail'd whelp!

There are two from the graveThat I fain would save;Full hard is the weirdFor the young and the brave!Perchance they are rapt in vision sweet,While the passing breezes kiss their feet;And they are dreaming of joy and love!—Well, let them go—there's room above.

There are two from the grave

That I fain would save;

Full hard is the weird

For the young and the brave!

Perchance they are rapt in vision sweet,

While the passing breezes kiss their feet;

And they are dreaming of joy and love!—

Well, let them go—there's room above.

There are three times three, and three to these,Count as you will, by twos or threes!Three for the gallows, and three for the wave,Three to roast behind the stone,And three that shall never see the graveUntil the day and the hour are gone!For retribution is mine alone!The cloud is redder in its hue,The hour is near, and vengeance due;It cannot, and it will not fail,—'Tis but a step to Borrowdale!Why shouldst thou love and follow me,Poor faithful thing? I pity thee!

There are three times three, and three to these,

Count as you will, by twos or threes!

Three for the gallows, and three for the wave,

Three to roast behind the stone,

And three that shall never see the grave

Until the day and the hour are gone!

For retribution is mine alone!

The cloud is redder in its hue,

The hour is near, and vengeance due;

It cannot, and it will not fail,—

'Tis but a step to Borrowdale!

Why shouldst thou love and follow me,

Poor faithful thing? I pity thee!

Up rose the Lady Isabelle,I may not of her motion tell,Yet thou may'st look upon her frame;Look on it with a passing eye,But think not thou upon the same,Turn away, and ask not why;For if thou darest look again,Mad of heart and seared of brain,Thou shalt never look again!

Up rose the Lady Isabelle,

I may not of her motion tell,

Yet thou may'st look upon her frame;

Look on it with a passing eye,

But think not thou upon the same,

Turn away, and ask not why;

For if thou darest look again,

Mad of heart and seared of brain,

Thou shalt never look again!

What can ail that short-tail'd whelp?'Tis either behind or far before,And it hath changed its whining yelpTo a shorten'd yuff—its little coreSeems bursting with terror and dismay,Yuff, yuff,—hear how it speeds away.Hold thy peace, thou yemering thing,The very night-wind's slumbering,And thou wilt wake to woe and painThose that must never wake again.

What can ail that short-tail'd whelp?

'Tis either behind or far before,

And it hath changed its whining yelp

To a shorten'd yuff—its little core

Seems bursting with terror and dismay,

Yuff, yuff,—hear how it speeds away.

Hold thy peace, thou yemering thing,

The very night-wind's slumbering,

And thou wilt wake to woe and pain

Those that must never wake again.

Meet is its terror and its flight,There's one on the left and two on the right!But save the paleness of the face,All is beauty, and all is grace!The earth and air are tinged with blue;There are no footsteps in the dew;Is this to wandering spirits given,Such stillness on the face of heaven?The fleecy clouds that sleep above,Are like the wing of beauteous dove,And the leaf of the elm-tree does not move!Yet they are coming! and they are three!Jesu! Maria! can it be?

Meet is its terror and its flight,

There's one on the left and two on the right!

But save the paleness of the face,

All is beauty, and all is grace!

The earth and air are tinged with blue;

There are no footsteps in the dew;

Is this to wandering spirits given,

Such stillness on the face of heaven?

The fleecy clouds that sleep above,

Are like the wing of beauteous dove,

And the leaf of the elm-tree does not move!

Yet they are coming! and they are three!

Jesu! Maria! can it be?

Sleep on, fair maiden of Borrowdale!Sleep! O sleep! and do not wake!Dream of the dance, till the foot so pale,And the beauteous ancle shiver and shake;Till thou shalt press, with feeling bland,Thine own fair breast for lover's hand.Thy heart is light as summer breeze,Thy heart is joyous as the day;Man never form of angel sees,But thou art fair as they!So lovers ween, and so they say,So thine shall ween for many a day!The hour's at hand, O woe is me!For they are coming, and they are three!

Sleep on, fair maiden of Borrowdale!

Sleep! O sleep! and do not wake!

Dream of the dance, till the foot so pale,

And the beauteous ancle shiver and shake;

Till thou shalt press, with feeling bland,

Thine own fair breast for lover's hand.

Thy heart is light as summer breeze,

Thy heart is joyous as the day;

Man never form of angel sees,

But thou art fair as they!

So lovers ween, and so they say,

So thine shall ween for many a day!

The hour's at hand, O woe is me!

For they are coming, and they are three!

Carmen Judiciale.

I.In vale of Thirlemere, once on a time,When birds sung sweet and flowers were in the spring,While youth and fancy wanton'd in their prime,I laid me down in happy slumbering;The heavens in balmy breezes breathed deep,My senses all were lull'd in grateful, joyous sleep.II.Sleep had its visions-fancy all unsway'dRevelled in fulness of creative power:I ween'd that round me countless beings stray'd,Things of delight, illusions of an hour;So great the number of these things divine,Scarce could my heart believe that all the imps were mine.III.Yet mine they were, all motley as they moved;Careless I viewed them, yet I loved to view;The world beheld them, and the world approved,And blest the train with smiles and plaudits due:Proud of approval, to myself I said,From out the group I'll chuse, and breed one favourite maid.IV.Joan I chose, a maid of happy mien;Her form and mind I polished with care;A docile girl she proved, of moping vein,Slow in her motions, haughty in her air;Some mention'd trivial blame, or slightly frown'd;Forth to the world she went, her heavenly birth it own'd.V.The next, a son, I bred a Mussulman;With creeds and dogmas I was hard bested,For which was right or wrong I could not tell,So I resolved my offspring should be bredAs various as their lives—the lad I loved,A boy of wild unearthly mien he proved.VI.Then first I noted in my mazy dreamA being scarcely of the human frame,A tiny thing that from the north did seem,With swaggering, fuming impotence he came;I fled not, but I shudder'd at his look;Into his tutelage my boy he took.VII.Each principle of truth and purity,And all that merited the world's acclaim,This fiend misled—nor could I ever freeFrom his destroying grasp my darling's fame;But yet I could not ween that heart of gallCould be a foe to one, whose heart beat kind to all.VIII.My third, a Christian and a warrior true,A bold adventurer on foreign soil,And next, his brother, a supreme Hindu,I rear'd with hope, with joy, and painful toil.Alas! my hopes were vain! I saw them bothReft by an emmet!—crush'd before a moth!IX.Still could I not believe his vengeful spite,For in his guise a speciousness appear'd;My bitterness of heart I feigned light;But wholly as he urged my next I reared;He said of all the gang he was the best,And wrung his neck before mine eyes in jest.X.From that time forth, an independent look,A bold effrontery I did essay;But of my progeny no pains I took,Like lambs I rear'd them for the lion's prey;And still as playful forth they pass'd from me,I saw them mock'd and butcher'd wantonly.XI.'Just heaven!' said I, 'to thy awards I bow,For truth and vengeance are thine own alone;Are these the wreaths thou deignest to bestowOn bard, whose life and lays to virtue prone,Have never turn'd aside on devious way?Is this the high reward, to be of fools the prey?'XII.A laugh of scorn the welkin seem'd to rend,And by my side I saw a form serene;'Thou bard of honour, virtue's firmest friend,'He said, 'can'st thou thus fret? or dost thou weenThat such a thing can work thy fame's decay?Thou art no fading bloom—no flow'ret of a day!XIII.'When his o'erflowings of envenom'd spleenAn undistinguish'd dunghill mass shall lie,The name ofSouthey, like an evergreen,Shall spread, shall blow, and flourish to the sky;To Milton and to Spenser next in fame,O'er all the world shall spread thy laurell'd name,'XIV.'Friend of the bard,' I said, 'behold thou hastThe tears of one I love o'er blushes shed;Has he not wrung the throb from parent's heart,And stretch'd his hand to reave my children's bread?For every tear that on their cheeks hath shone,O may that Aristarch with tears of blood atone!'XV.'If cursing thou delight'st in,' he replied,'If rage and execration is thy meed,Mount the tribunal—Justice be thy guide,Before thee shall he come his rights to plead;To thy awards his fate forthwith is given,Only, be justice thine, the attribute of heaven,'XVI.Gladly I mounted, for before that timeMerit had crown'd me with unfading bays.Before me was brought in that man of crime,Who with unblushing front his face did raise;But when my royal laurel met his sight,He pointed with his thumb, and laughed with all his might.XVII.Maddening at impudence so thorough-bred,I rose from off my seat with frown severe,I shook my regal sceptre o'er his head—'Hear, culprit, of thy crimes, and sentence hear!Thou void of principle! of rule! of ruth!Thou renegade from nature and from truth!XVIII.'Thou bane of genius!—party's sordid slave!Mistaken, perverse, crooked is thy mind!No humble son of merit thou wilt save,Truth, virtue, ne'er from thee did friendship find;And while of freedom thou canst fume and rave,Of titles, party, wealth, thou art the cringing slave!XIX.'Thou hast renounced Nature for thy guide,A thousand times hast given thyself the lie,And raised thy party-curs to wealth and pride,The very scavengers of poetry.Thy quibbles are from ray of sense exempt,Presumptuous, pitiful, below contempt!XX.'Answer me, viper! here do I arraignThy arrogant, self-crowned majesty!Hast thou not prophesied of dole and pain,Weakening the arms of nations and of me?Thou foe of order!—Mercy lingers sick—False prophet! Canker! Damned heretic!'XXI.Then pointing with my sceptre to the sky,With vehemence that might not be restrain'd,I gave the awful curse of destiny!I was asleep, but sore with passion pain'd.It was a dreadful curse; and to this day,Even from my waking dreams it is not worn away.

In vale of Thirlemere, once on a time,When birds sung sweet and flowers were in the spring,While youth and fancy wanton'd in their prime,I laid me down in happy slumbering;The heavens in balmy breezes breathed deep,My senses all were lull'd in grateful, joyous sleep.

In vale of Thirlemere, once on a time,

When birds sung sweet and flowers were in the spring,

While youth and fancy wanton'd in their prime,

I laid me down in happy slumbering;

The heavens in balmy breezes breathed deep,

My senses all were lull'd in grateful, joyous sleep.

Sleep had its visions-fancy all unsway'dRevelled in fulness of creative power:I ween'd that round me countless beings stray'd,Things of delight, illusions of an hour;So great the number of these things divine,Scarce could my heart believe that all the imps were mine.

Sleep had its visions-fancy all unsway'd

Revelled in fulness of creative power:

I ween'd that round me countless beings stray'd,

Things of delight, illusions of an hour;

So great the number of these things divine,

Scarce could my heart believe that all the imps were mine.

Yet mine they were, all motley as they moved;Careless I viewed them, yet I loved to view;The world beheld them, and the world approved,And blest the train with smiles and plaudits due:Proud of approval, to myself I said,From out the group I'll chuse, and breed one favourite maid.

Yet mine they were, all motley as they moved;

Careless I viewed them, yet I loved to view;

The world beheld them, and the world approved,

And blest the train with smiles and plaudits due:

Proud of approval, to myself I said,

From out the group I'll chuse, and breed one favourite maid.

Joan I chose, a maid of happy mien;Her form and mind I polished with care;A docile girl she proved, of moping vein,Slow in her motions, haughty in her air;Some mention'd trivial blame, or slightly frown'd;Forth to the world she went, her heavenly birth it own'd.

Joan I chose, a maid of happy mien;

Her form and mind I polished with care;

A docile girl she proved, of moping vein,

Slow in her motions, haughty in her air;

Some mention'd trivial blame, or slightly frown'd;

Forth to the world she went, her heavenly birth it own'd.

The next, a son, I bred a Mussulman;With creeds and dogmas I was hard bested,For which was right or wrong I could not tell,So I resolved my offspring should be bredAs various as their lives—the lad I loved,A boy of wild unearthly mien he proved.

The next, a son, I bred a Mussulman;

With creeds and dogmas I was hard bested,

For which was right or wrong I could not tell,

So I resolved my offspring should be bred

As various as their lives—the lad I loved,

A boy of wild unearthly mien he proved.

Then first I noted in my mazy dreamA being scarcely of the human frame,A tiny thing that from the north did seem,With swaggering, fuming impotence he came;I fled not, but I shudder'd at his look;Into his tutelage my boy he took.

Then first I noted in my mazy dream

A being scarcely of the human frame,

A tiny thing that from the north did seem,

With swaggering, fuming impotence he came;

I fled not, but I shudder'd at his look;

Into his tutelage my boy he took.

Each principle of truth and purity,And all that merited the world's acclaim,This fiend misled—nor could I ever freeFrom his destroying grasp my darling's fame;But yet I could not ween that heart of gallCould be a foe to one, whose heart beat kind to all.

Each principle of truth and purity,

And all that merited the world's acclaim,

This fiend misled—nor could I ever free

From his destroying grasp my darling's fame;

But yet I could not ween that heart of gall

Could be a foe to one, whose heart beat kind to all.

My third, a Christian and a warrior true,A bold adventurer on foreign soil,And next, his brother, a supreme Hindu,I rear'd with hope, with joy, and painful toil.Alas! my hopes were vain! I saw them bothReft by an emmet!—crush'd before a moth!

My third, a Christian and a warrior true,

A bold adventurer on foreign soil,

And next, his brother, a supreme Hindu,

I rear'd with hope, with joy, and painful toil.

Alas! my hopes were vain! I saw them both

Reft by an emmet!—crush'd before a moth!

Still could I not believe his vengeful spite,For in his guise a speciousness appear'd;My bitterness of heart I feigned light;But wholly as he urged my next I reared;He said of all the gang he was the best,And wrung his neck before mine eyes in jest.

Still could I not believe his vengeful spite,

For in his guise a speciousness appear'd;

My bitterness of heart I feigned light;

But wholly as he urged my next I reared;

He said of all the gang he was the best,

And wrung his neck before mine eyes in jest.

From that time forth, an independent look,A bold effrontery I did essay;But of my progeny no pains I took,Like lambs I rear'd them for the lion's prey;And still as playful forth they pass'd from me,I saw them mock'd and butcher'd wantonly.

From that time forth, an independent look,

A bold effrontery I did essay;

But of my progeny no pains I took,

Like lambs I rear'd them for the lion's prey;

And still as playful forth they pass'd from me,

I saw them mock'd and butcher'd wantonly.

'Just heaven!' said I, 'to thy awards I bow,For truth and vengeance are thine own alone;Are these the wreaths thou deignest to bestowOn bard, whose life and lays to virtue prone,Have never turn'd aside on devious way?Is this the high reward, to be of fools the prey?'

'Just heaven!' said I, 'to thy awards I bow,

For truth and vengeance are thine own alone;

Are these the wreaths thou deignest to bestow

On bard, whose life and lays to virtue prone,

Have never turn'd aside on devious way?

Is this the high reward, to be of fools the prey?'

A laugh of scorn the welkin seem'd to rend,And by my side I saw a form serene;'Thou bard of honour, virtue's firmest friend,'He said, 'can'st thou thus fret? or dost thou weenThat such a thing can work thy fame's decay?Thou art no fading bloom—no flow'ret of a day!

A laugh of scorn the welkin seem'd to rend,

And by my side I saw a form serene;

'Thou bard of honour, virtue's firmest friend,'

He said, 'can'st thou thus fret? or dost thou ween

That such a thing can work thy fame's decay?

Thou art no fading bloom—no flow'ret of a day!

'When his o'erflowings of envenom'd spleenAn undistinguish'd dunghill mass shall lie,The name ofSouthey, like an evergreen,Shall spread, shall blow, and flourish to the sky;To Milton and to Spenser next in fame,O'er all the world shall spread thy laurell'd name,'

'When his o'erflowings of envenom'd spleen

An undistinguish'd dunghill mass shall lie,

The name ofSouthey, like an evergreen,

Shall spread, shall blow, and flourish to the sky;

To Milton and to Spenser next in fame,

O'er all the world shall spread thy laurell'd name,'

'Friend of the bard,' I said, 'behold thou hastThe tears of one I love o'er blushes shed;Has he not wrung the throb from parent's heart,And stretch'd his hand to reave my children's bread?For every tear that on their cheeks hath shone,O may that Aristarch with tears of blood atone!'

'Friend of the bard,' I said, 'behold thou hast

The tears of one I love o'er blushes shed;

Has he not wrung the throb from parent's heart,

And stretch'd his hand to reave my children's bread?

For every tear that on their cheeks hath shone,

O may that Aristarch with tears of blood atone!'

'If cursing thou delight'st in,' he replied,'If rage and execration is thy meed,Mount the tribunal—Justice be thy guide,Before thee shall he come his rights to plead;To thy awards his fate forthwith is given,Only, be justice thine, the attribute of heaven,'

'If cursing thou delight'st in,' he replied,

'If rage and execration is thy meed,

Mount the tribunal—Justice be thy guide,

Before thee shall he come his rights to plead;

To thy awards his fate forthwith is given,

Only, be justice thine, the attribute of heaven,'

Gladly I mounted, for before that timeMerit had crown'd me with unfading bays.Before me was brought in that man of crime,Who with unblushing front his face did raise;But when my royal laurel met his sight,He pointed with his thumb, and laughed with all his might.

Gladly I mounted, for before that time

Merit had crown'd me with unfading bays.

Before me was brought in that man of crime,

Who with unblushing front his face did raise;

But when my royal laurel met his sight,

He pointed with his thumb, and laughed with all his might.

Maddening at impudence so thorough-bred,I rose from off my seat with frown severe,I shook my regal sceptre o'er his head—'Hear, culprit, of thy crimes, and sentence hear!Thou void of principle! of rule! of ruth!Thou renegade from nature and from truth!

Maddening at impudence so thorough-bred,

I rose from off my seat with frown severe,

I shook my regal sceptre o'er his head—

'Hear, culprit, of thy crimes, and sentence hear!

Thou void of principle! of rule! of ruth!

Thou renegade from nature and from truth!

'Thou bane of genius!—party's sordid slave!Mistaken, perverse, crooked is thy mind!No humble son of merit thou wilt save,Truth, virtue, ne'er from thee did friendship find;And while of freedom thou canst fume and rave,Of titles, party, wealth, thou art the cringing slave!

'Thou bane of genius!—party's sordid slave!

Mistaken, perverse, crooked is thy mind!

No humble son of merit thou wilt save,

Truth, virtue, ne'er from thee did friendship find;

And while of freedom thou canst fume and rave,

Of titles, party, wealth, thou art the cringing slave!

'Thou hast renounced Nature for thy guide,A thousand times hast given thyself the lie,And raised thy party-curs to wealth and pride,The very scavengers of poetry.Thy quibbles are from ray of sense exempt,Presumptuous, pitiful, below contempt!

'Thou hast renounced Nature for thy guide,

A thousand times hast given thyself the lie,

And raised thy party-curs to wealth and pride,

The very scavengers of poetry.

Thy quibbles are from ray of sense exempt,

Presumptuous, pitiful, below contempt!

'Answer me, viper! here do I arraignThy arrogant, self-crowned majesty!Hast thou not prophesied of dole and pain,Weakening the arms of nations and of me?Thou foe of order!—Mercy lingers sick—False prophet! Canker! Damned heretic!'

'Answer me, viper! here do I arraign

Thy arrogant, self-crowned majesty!

Hast thou not prophesied of dole and pain,

Weakening the arms of nations and of me?

Thou foe of order!—Mercy lingers sick—

False prophet! Canker! Damned heretic!'

Then pointing with my sceptre to the sky,With vehemence that might not be restrain'd,I gave the awful curse of destiny!I was asleep, but sore with passion pain'd.It was a dreadful curse; and to this day,Even from my waking dreams it is not worn away.

Then pointing with my sceptre to the sky,

With vehemence that might not be restrain'd,

I gave the awful curse of destiny!

I was asleep, but sore with passion pain'd.

It was a dreadful curse; and to this day,

Even from my waking dreams it is not worn away.

The Curse.May heaven and earth,And hell underneath,Unite to ensting theeIn horrible wrath.May scorning surround thee,And conscience astound thee,High genius o'erpower,And the devil confound thee.The curse be upon theeIn pen and in pocket,Thy ink turn to puddle,And gorge in the socket;Thy study let rats destroy,Vermin and cats annoy,Thy base lucubrationsTo tear and to gnaw,Thy false calculationsIn Empire and Law.The printers shall harass,The devils shall dun thee,The trade shall despise thee,And C—t—e shun thee.The judge shall not hear thee,But frown and pass by thee,And clients shall fear thee,And know thee, and fly thee!I'll hunt thee, I'll chase thee,To scorn and deride thee,The cloud shall not cover,The cave shall not hide thee;The scorching of wrathAnd of shame shall abide thee,Till the herbs of the desertShall wither beside thee.Thou shalt thirst for revengeAnd misrule, as for wine,But genius shall flourish!And royalty shine!And thou shalt remainWhile the Laureate doth reign,With a fire in thy heart,And a fire in thy brain,And Fame shall disown theeAnd visit thee never,And the curse shall be on theeFor ever and ever!

May heaven and earth,And hell underneath,Unite to ensting theeIn horrible wrath.May scorning surround thee,And conscience astound thee,High genius o'erpower,And the devil confound thee.The curse be upon theeIn pen and in pocket,Thy ink turn to puddle,And gorge in the socket;Thy study let rats destroy,Vermin and cats annoy,Thy base lucubrationsTo tear and to gnaw,Thy false calculationsIn Empire and Law.The printers shall harass,The devils shall dun thee,The trade shall despise thee,And C—t—e shun thee.The judge shall not hear thee,But frown and pass by thee,And clients shall fear thee,And know thee, and fly thee!I'll hunt thee, I'll chase thee,To scorn and deride thee,The cloud shall not cover,The cave shall not hide thee;The scorching of wrathAnd of shame shall abide thee,Till the herbs of the desertShall wither beside thee.Thou shalt thirst for revengeAnd misrule, as for wine,But genius shall flourish!And royalty shine!And thou shalt remainWhile the Laureate doth reign,With a fire in thy heart,And a fire in thy brain,And Fame shall disown theeAnd visit thee never,And the curse shall be on theeFor ever and ever!

May heaven and earth,

And hell underneath,

Unite to ensting thee

In horrible wrath.

May scorning surround thee,

And conscience astound thee,

High genius o'erpower,

And the devil confound thee.

The curse be upon thee

In pen and in pocket,

Thy ink turn to puddle,

And gorge in the socket;

Thy study let rats destroy,

Vermin and cats annoy,

Thy base lucubrations

To tear and to gnaw,

Thy false calculations

In Empire and Law.

The printers shall harass,

The devils shall dun thee,

The trade shall despise thee,

And C—t—e shun thee.

The judge shall not hear thee,

But frown and pass by thee,

And clients shall fear thee,

And know thee, and fly thee!

I'll hunt thee, I'll chase thee,

To scorn and deride thee,

The cloud shall not cover,

The cave shall not hide thee;

The scorching of wrath

And of shame shall abide thee,

Till the herbs of the desert

Shall wither beside thee.

Thou shalt thirst for revenge

And misrule, as for wine,

But genius shall flourish!

And royalty shine!

And thou shalt remain

While the Laureate doth reign,

With a fire in thy heart,

And a fire in thy brain,

And Fame shall disown thee

And visit thee never,

And the curse shall be on thee

For ever and ever!

There wase ane katt, and ane gude greye katt,That duallit in the touir oi Blain,And mony haif hearit of that gude katt,That neuir shall heare agayn.Scho had ane brynd upon her backe.And ane brent abone hir bree;Hir culoris war the merilit heuisThat dappil the krene-berrye.But scho had that withyn her eeThat man may neuir declaire,For scho had that withyn hir eeQuhich mortyl dochtna beare.Sumtymis ane ladye sochte the touir,Of rych and fayre beautye:Sumtymis are maukyn cam therin,Hytchyng rycht wistfullye.But quhan they serchit the touir of Blain,And socht it sayre and lang,They fande nocht but the gude greye kattSittyng thrummyng at hir sang;And up scho rase and pacit hir wayisFull stetlye oure the stene,And streikit out hir braw hint-leg,As nocht at all had bene.Weil mocht the wyfis in that kintryeRayse up ane grefous stir,For neuir ane katt in all the landeDurst moop or melle wyth hir.Quhaneuir theye lukit in hir feceTheir fearis greue se ryfe,Theye snirtit and theye yollit throu frychte,And rann for dethe and lyfe.The lairde of Blain he had ane spouis,Beth cumlye, gude, and kynde;But scho had gane to the landis of pece,And left him sadd behynde;He had seuin dochteris all se fayre,Of mayre than yerdlye grece,Seuin bonnyer babis neuir braithit ayre,Or smylit in parentis fece.Ane daye quhan theye war all alane,He sayde with hevye mene;'Quhat will cum of ye, my deire babis,Now quhan your moderis gene?'O quha will leide your tendyr myndis,The pethe of ladyhoode,To thynke as ladye ocht to thynke,And feele as mayden sholde?'Weil mot it kythe in maydenis mynde,And maydenis modestye,The want of hir that weil wase fitFor taske unmeite for me!'But up then spak the gude greye katt,That satt on the herthe stene,'O hald yer tung, my deire maister,Nor mak se sayre ane mene;'For I will breide your seuin dochteris,To winsum ladyhoode,To thynk as ladyis ocht to thynke,And feile as maydenis sholde.'I'll breide them fayre, I'll breide them freeFrom every seye of syn,Fayre as the blumyng roz withoute,And pure in herte withyn.'Rychte sayre astoundit wase the lairde,Ane frychtenit man wase he;But the sueite babyis war full faine,And chicklit joyfullye.May Ella tooke the gude greye kattRychte fondlye on hir knee,'And hethe my pussye lernit to speike?I troue scho lernit of me.'The katt, scho thrummyt at hir sang,And turnit hir haffet sleike,And drewe hir bonnye bassenyt side,Againste the babyis cheike.But the lairde he was ane cunnyng lairde,And he saide with speechis fayre,'I haif a feste in hall to nychte,Sweite pussye, be you there.'The katt scho set ane luke on him,That turnit his herte til stene;'If you haif feste in hall to nychte,I shall be there for ane.'The feste wase laide, the tabil spreadWith rych and nobil store,And there wase set the Byschope of Blain,With all his holy kore;He wase ane wyce and wylie wychteOf wytch and warlockrye,And mony ane wyfe had byrnit to coome,Or hangit on ane tre.He kenit their merkis and molis of hell,And made them joifullyRyde on the reid-het gad of ern,Ane pleasaunt sycht to se.The Byschope said ane holye grace,Unpatiente to begyn,But nathyng of the gude greye kattWase funde the touir withyn;But in there cam ane fayre ladye,Cledd in the silken sheene,Ane winsumer and bonnyer mayOn yerde was neuir seene;Scho tuke her sete at tabil heide,With courtlye modestye,Quhill ilken bosome byrnit with lufeAnd waulit ilken ee.Sueite wase hir voyce to all the ryng,Unlesse the Lairde of Blain,For he had hearit that very voyce,From off his own herthe stene.He barrit the doris and windois fast,He barrit them to the jynne;'Now in the grece of heuin,' said he,'Your excercyse begyn;'There is no grece nor happynesseFor my poor babyis soulisUntil you trye that weirdlye wytch,And roste hir on the colis.'If this be scho,' the Byschope saide,'This beauteous cumlye may,It is meite I try hir all aloneTo heire quhat scho will saye.''No,' quod the Lairde, 'I suthelye sweireNone shall from this proceide,Until I see that wycked wytchByrnt til ane izel reide.'The Byschope knelit doune and prayit,Quhill all their hayris did creipe;And aye he hoonit and he prayit,Quhill all war faste asleipe;He prayit gain syn and Sauten bothe,And deidis of shyft and schame;But all the tyme his faithful handisPressit the cumlye dame.Weil saw the Lairde, but nething saide,He kenit, in holye zele,He grepit for the merkis of hell,Whilk he did ken ful weile.And aye he pressit hir lillye hande,And kyssit it ferventlye,And prayit betweine, for och ane kyndeAnd lufyng preste was he!The Byschope stappit and sterted sore,Wyde gaipen with affrychte,For och that fayre and lillye handeHad turned ane paw outrychte!Ane paw with long and crukit clawis!That breste of heuinlye charmeHad turnit til brusket of ane katt,Ful hayrie and ful warme!And there scho satt on lang-settil,With een of glentyng flame,And theye war on the Byschope settLyke poynter on his game.The Byschope turnit him runde abouteTo se quhat he mocht se,Scho strak ane clawe in ilken lug,And throu the rofe did flee.The katt went throu withouten stopLyke schado throu the daye,But the great Byschopis fleschlye formeMade all the rofe gif waye;The silyng faldit lyke ane buke,The serker crashit amayne,And shredis and flenis of brokyn stenisFell to the grunde lyke rayne.The braide ful mone wase up the lyft,The nychte wase lyke ane daye,As the greate Byschope tuke his janteUp throu the milkye-waye;He cryit se loude and lustilyeThe hillis and skyis war riuen;Och sicken cryis war neuir hearitAtwene the yerde and heuin!They sawe him spurryng in the ayre,And flynging horredlye,And than he prayit and sang ane saum,For ane fearit wycht was he;But ay his waylingis fainter greueAs the braide lyft he crossit,Quhill sum saide that theye hearit them still,And sum saide all wase loste.There was ane herd on Dollar-Lawe,Turnyng his flockis by nychte,Or stealyng in ane gude haggyseBefore the mornyng lychte.He hearit the cryis cum yont the heuin,And sawe them bethe passe bye;The katt scho skreuit up hir taileAs sayrlye pinchit to flye.But aye scho thrummyt at hir sang,Though he wase sore in thrall,Like katt that hethe are jollye mouseGaun murryng thro' the hall.That greye kattis sang it wase se sweete,As on the nychte it fell,The Murecokis dancit ane seuinsum ryngArunde the hether bell;The Foumartis jyggit by the brukis,The Maukinis by the kaile,And the Otar dancit ane minowayeAs he gaed ouir the daile;The Hurchanis helde ane kintrye danceAlang the brumye knowe,And the gude Toop-hogg rase fra his layreAnd ualtzit with the youe.The Greye Kattis Sang.Murr, my Lorde Byschope,I syng to you;Murr, my Lorde Byschope,Bawlillilu!Murr, my Lorde Byschope, &c.That nycht ane hynde on Border sydeChancit at his dore to be;He spyit ane greate clypse of the mone,And ben the house ran he;He laide ane wisp upon the colis,And bleue full lang and sayre,And rede the Belfaste Almanake,But the clypse it wase not there.Och but that hynde wase sor aghaste,And haf to madnesse driuen,For he thochte he hearit ane drounyng manSyching alangis the heuin.That nychte ane greate FilossofereHad watchit on Etnyis height,To merk the rysing of the sonne,And the blythsum mornyng lychte;And all the lychtlye lynis of goude,As on the se they fell,And watch the fyir and the smoke,Cum rummilyng up fra hell.He luket este, the daye cam on,Upon his gladsum pethe,And the braid mone hang in the west,Her paleness wase lyke dethe;And by her sat are littil stern,Quhan all the laife war gane,It was lyke ane wee fadyng gemeIn the wyde worild its lane.Then the Filossofere was sadde,And he turnit his ee awaye,For they mindit him of the yerdlye greate,In dethe or in decaye.He turnit his face unto the north,The fallyng teare to drie,And he spyit ane thyng of wonderous maike,Atwene the yerde and skie;It wase lyke ane burd withoutten wyng,Rychte wonderous to beholde,And it bure are forked thyng alang,With swiftnesse manyfolde:But ay it greue as neare it dreue—His herte bete wondir sayre!The sonne, the mone, and sternis war gaine,He thocht of them ne mayre,Quhan he behelde ane jollye presteCumyng swyggyng throu the ayre.The katt scho helde him by the luggisAtour the ausum hole,And och the drede that he wase inWase mayre than man colde thole;He cryit, 'O Pussye, hald your gryp,O hald and dinna spaire;O drap me in the yerde or se,But dinna drap me there.'But scho wase ane doure and deidlye katt,And scho saide with lychtsum ayre,'You kno heuin is ane blissit plece,And all the prestis gang there.''Och sweete, sweete Pussye, hald your gryp,Spaire nouther cleke nor clawe;Is euir that lyke heuin abone,In quhich am lyke to fa'?And aye scho hang him by the luggisAbone the ausum den,Till he fande the gryp rive slowlye out,Sore was he quakyng then!Doune went the Byschope, doune lyke leideInto the hollowe nychte,His goune wase flapyng in the ayre,Quhan he wase out of sychte.They hearit him honyng down the deep,Till the croone it dyit awaye,It wase lyke the stoune of ane greate bom-beGaun soundyng throu the daye.All wase in sloomeryng quietnesse,Quhan he went doune to hell,But seckn an houre wase neuir seine,Quhan the gude lorde Byschope fell.Then cam the smouder and the smokeUp roschyng vilentlye,And it tourackit awaye til heuinAne gloryous sychte to se;For ay it rowed its fleecye curlisOut to the rysing sonne,And the estern syde was gildit goude,And all the westlin dunne.Then the Filossofere wase muvit,And he wist not quhat til say,For he saw nochte of the gude greye katt;But he saw ane ladye gay.Hir goune wase of the gress-greene sylk,And hir ee wase lyke the deue,And hir hayre wase lyke the threidis of goudeThat runde her shoulderis fleue.Hir gairtenis war the raynbowis heme,That scho tyit anethe hir knee,And ay scho kemit hir yellow hayre,And sang full pleasauntlye.'I am the Queene of the Fairy Land,I'll do ne harme to thee,For I am the gardian of the gude,Let the wycked be ware of me.'There ar seuin pearlis in yonder touir,Their number sune shall wane;There are seuin flouris in fayre Scotland,I'll pu them ane by ane;'And the weeist burd in all the bouirShall be the last that is taene;The Lairde of Blain hethe seuin dochteris,But sune he shall haif nane.'I'll bathe them all in the krystal streimeThrou the Fairy Land that flouis,I'll seike the bouris of paradyceFor the bonnyest flouir that blouis.'And I'll distil it in the deueThat fallis on the hillis of heuin,And the hues that luvelye angelis weireShall to these maidis be giuen.'And I'll trie how luvelye and how fayreTheir formis may be to see,And I'll trie how pure the maydenis myndeIn this ill worild may be.'The Lairde of Blain he walkis the wode,But he walkis it all alane;The Lairde of Blain had seuin dochteris,But now he hethe not ane.They neuir war on dethbed layde,But they elyit all awaye;He lost his babyis ane by aneAtween the nychte and day.He kend not quhat to thynk or saye,Or quhat did him beseime,But he walkit throu this weirye worildLyke ane that is in a dreime.Quhan seuin lang yearis, and seuin lang daies,Had slowlye cumit and gane,He walkit throu the gude grene wode,And he walkit all alane;He turnit his fece unto the skie,And the teire stude in his ee,For he thocht of the ladye of his lufe,And his lost familye:But aye his fayth was firm and sure,And his trust in Heuin still,For he hopet to meite them all agayneBeyond the reiche of ill:And ay the teiris fell on the grene,As he knelit downe to praye,But he wase se muvit with tendirnesseThat ane worde he colde not saye.He lukit oure his left shouldirTo se quhat he mocht se:There he behelde seuin bonnye maydisCumyng tryppyng oure the le!Sic beautye ee had neuir seine,Nor euir agayne shall se,Sic luvelye formis of flesche and blude,On yerde can neuir be;The joie that bemit in ilken eeWase lyke the risyng sonne,The fayriste blumis in all the wodeBesyde their formis war dunne;There wase ane wrethe on ilken heide,On ilken bosome thre,And the brychtest flouris the worild e'er sawWar noddyng oure the bre.But cese yer strayne, my gude auld herpe,O cese and syng ne mayre!Gin ye wolde of that meityng teil,O I mocht reue it sayre!There wolde ne ee in faire Scotland,Nor luvelye cheike be drie;The laveroke wolde forget hir sang,And drap deide fra the skie;And the desye wolde ne mayre be quhyte,And the lillye wolde chainge hir heue,For the blude-drapis wolde fal fra the mone,And reiden the mornyng deue.But quhan I tell ye oute my tale,Ful playnlye ye will se,That quhare there is ne syn nor schameNe sorroue there can be.

There wase ane katt, and ane gude greye katt,That duallit in the touir oi Blain,And mony haif hearit of that gude katt,That neuir shall heare agayn.

There wase ane katt, and ane gude greye katt,

That duallit in the touir oi Blain,

And mony haif hearit of that gude katt,

That neuir shall heare agayn.

Scho had ane brynd upon her backe.And ane brent abone hir bree;Hir culoris war the merilit heuisThat dappil the krene-berrye.

Scho had ane brynd upon her backe.

And ane brent abone hir bree;

Hir culoris war the merilit heuis

That dappil the krene-berrye.

But scho had that withyn her eeThat man may neuir declaire,For scho had that withyn hir eeQuhich mortyl dochtna beare.

But scho had that withyn her ee

That man may neuir declaire,

For scho had that withyn hir ee

Quhich mortyl dochtna beare.

Sumtymis ane ladye sochte the touir,Of rych and fayre beautye:Sumtymis are maukyn cam therin,Hytchyng rycht wistfullye.

Sumtymis ane ladye sochte the touir,

Of rych and fayre beautye:

Sumtymis are maukyn cam therin,

Hytchyng rycht wistfullye.

But quhan they serchit the touir of Blain,And socht it sayre and lang,They fande nocht but the gude greye kattSittyng thrummyng at hir sang;

But quhan they serchit the touir of Blain,

And socht it sayre and lang,

They fande nocht but the gude greye katt

Sittyng thrummyng at hir sang;

And up scho rase and pacit hir wayisFull stetlye oure the stene,And streikit out hir braw hint-leg,As nocht at all had bene.

And up scho rase and pacit hir wayis

Full stetlye oure the stene,

And streikit out hir braw hint-leg,

As nocht at all had bene.

Weil mocht the wyfis in that kintryeRayse up ane grefous stir,For neuir ane katt in all the landeDurst moop or melle wyth hir.

Weil mocht the wyfis in that kintrye

Rayse up ane grefous stir,

For neuir ane katt in all the lande

Durst moop or melle wyth hir.

Quhaneuir theye lukit in hir feceTheir fearis greue se ryfe,Theye snirtit and theye yollit throu frychte,And rann for dethe and lyfe.

Quhaneuir theye lukit in hir fece

Their fearis greue se ryfe,

Theye snirtit and theye yollit throu frychte,

And rann for dethe and lyfe.

The lairde of Blain he had ane spouis,Beth cumlye, gude, and kynde;But scho had gane to the landis of pece,And left him sadd behynde;

The lairde of Blain he had ane spouis,

Beth cumlye, gude, and kynde;

But scho had gane to the landis of pece,

And left him sadd behynde;

He had seuin dochteris all se fayre,Of mayre than yerdlye grece,Seuin bonnyer babis neuir braithit ayre,Or smylit in parentis fece.

He had seuin dochteris all se fayre,

Of mayre than yerdlye grece,

Seuin bonnyer babis neuir braithit ayre,

Or smylit in parentis fece.

Ane daye quhan theye war all alane,He sayde with hevye mene;'Quhat will cum of ye, my deire babis,Now quhan your moderis gene?

Ane daye quhan theye war all alane,

He sayde with hevye mene;

'Quhat will cum of ye, my deire babis,

Now quhan your moderis gene?

'O quha will leide your tendyr myndis,The pethe of ladyhoode,To thynke as ladye ocht to thynke,And feele as mayden sholde?

'O quha will leide your tendyr myndis,

The pethe of ladyhoode,

To thynke as ladye ocht to thynke,

And feele as mayden sholde?

'Weil mot it kythe in maydenis mynde,And maydenis modestye,The want of hir that weil wase fitFor taske unmeite for me!'

'Weil mot it kythe in maydenis mynde,

And maydenis modestye,

The want of hir that weil wase fit

For taske unmeite for me!'

But up then spak the gude greye katt,That satt on the herthe stene,'O hald yer tung, my deire maister,Nor mak se sayre ane mene;

But up then spak the gude greye katt,

That satt on the herthe stene,

'O hald yer tung, my deire maister,

Nor mak se sayre ane mene;

'For I will breide your seuin dochteris,To winsum ladyhoode,To thynk as ladyis ocht to thynke,And feile as maydenis sholde.

'For I will breide your seuin dochteris,

To winsum ladyhoode,

To thynk as ladyis ocht to thynke,

And feile as maydenis sholde.

'I'll breide them fayre, I'll breide them freeFrom every seye of syn,Fayre as the blumyng roz withoute,And pure in herte withyn.'

'I'll breide them fayre, I'll breide them free

From every seye of syn,

Fayre as the blumyng roz withoute,

And pure in herte withyn.'

Rychte sayre astoundit wase the lairde,Ane frychtenit man wase he;But the sueite babyis war full faine,And chicklit joyfullye.

Rychte sayre astoundit wase the lairde,

Ane frychtenit man wase he;

But the sueite babyis war full faine,

And chicklit joyfullye.

May Ella tooke the gude greye kattRychte fondlye on hir knee,'And hethe my pussye lernit to speike?I troue scho lernit of me.'

May Ella tooke the gude greye katt

Rychte fondlye on hir knee,

'And hethe my pussye lernit to speike?

I troue scho lernit of me.'

The katt, scho thrummyt at hir sang,And turnit hir haffet sleike,And drewe hir bonnye bassenyt side,Againste the babyis cheike.

The katt, scho thrummyt at hir sang,

And turnit hir haffet sleike,

And drewe hir bonnye bassenyt side,

Againste the babyis cheike.

But the lairde he was ane cunnyng lairde,And he saide with speechis fayre,'I haif a feste in hall to nychte,Sweite pussye, be you there.'

But the lairde he was ane cunnyng lairde,

And he saide with speechis fayre,

'I haif a feste in hall to nychte,

Sweite pussye, be you there.'

The katt scho set ane luke on him,That turnit his herte til stene;'If you haif feste in hall to nychte,I shall be there for ane.'

The katt scho set ane luke on him,

That turnit his herte til stene;

'If you haif feste in hall to nychte,

I shall be there for ane.'

The feste wase laide, the tabil spreadWith rych and nobil store,And there wase set the Byschope of Blain,With all his holy kore;

The feste wase laide, the tabil spread

With rych and nobil store,

And there wase set the Byschope of Blain,

With all his holy kore;

He wase ane wyce and wylie wychteOf wytch and warlockrye,And mony ane wyfe had byrnit to coome,Or hangit on ane tre.

He wase ane wyce and wylie wychte

Of wytch and warlockrye,

And mony ane wyfe had byrnit to coome,

Or hangit on ane tre.

He kenit their merkis and molis of hell,And made them joifullyRyde on the reid-het gad of ern,Ane pleasaunt sycht to se.

He kenit their merkis and molis of hell,

And made them joifully

Ryde on the reid-het gad of ern,

Ane pleasaunt sycht to se.

The Byschope said ane holye grace,Unpatiente to begyn,But nathyng of the gude greye kattWase funde the touir withyn;

The Byschope said ane holye grace,

Unpatiente to begyn,

But nathyng of the gude greye katt

Wase funde the touir withyn;

But in there cam ane fayre ladye,Cledd in the silken sheene,Ane winsumer and bonnyer mayOn yerde was neuir seene;

But in there cam ane fayre ladye,

Cledd in the silken sheene,

Ane winsumer and bonnyer may

On yerde was neuir seene;

Scho tuke her sete at tabil heide,With courtlye modestye,Quhill ilken bosome byrnit with lufeAnd waulit ilken ee.

Scho tuke her sete at tabil heide,

With courtlye modestye,

Quhill ilken bosome byrnit with lufe

And waulit ilken ee.

Sueite wase hir voyce to all the ryng,Unlesse the Lairde of Blain,For he had hearit that very voyce,From off his own herthe stene.

Sueite wase hir voyce to all the ryng,

Unlesse the Lairde of Blain,

For he had hearit that very voyce,

From off his own herthe stene.

He barrit the doris and windois fast,He barrit them to the jynne;'Now in the grece of heuin,' said he,'Your excercyse begyn;

He barrit the doris and windois fast,

He barrit them to the jynne;

'Now in the grece of heuin,' said he,

'Your excercyse begyn;

'There is no grece nor happynesseFor my poor babyis soulisUntil you trye that weirdlye wytch,And roste hir on the colis.

'There is no grece nor happynesse

For my poor babyis soulis

Until you trye that weirdlye wytch,

And roste hir on the colis.

'If this be scho,' the Byschope saide,'This beauteous cumlye may,It is meite I try hir all aloneTo heire quhat scho will saye.'

'If this be scho,' the Byschope saide,

'This beauteous cumlye may,

It is meite I try hir all alone

To heire quhat scho will saye.'

'No,' quod the Lairde, 'I suthelye sweireNone shall from this proceide,Until I see that wycked wytchByrnt til ane izel reide.'

'No,' quod the Lairde, 'I suthelye sweire

None shall from this proceide,

Until I see that wycked wytch

Byrnt til ane izel reide.'

The Byschope knelit doune and prayit,Quhill all their hayris did creipe;And aye he hoonit and he prayit,Quhill all war faste asleipe;

The Byschope knelit doune and prayit,

Quhill all their hayris did creipe;

And aye he hoonit and he prayit,

Quhill all war faste asleipe;

He prayit gain syn and Sauten bothe,And deidis of shyft and schame;But all the tyme his faithful handisPressit the cumlye dame.

He prayit gain syn and Sauten bothe,

And deidis of shyft and schame;

But all the tyme his faithful handis

Pressit the cumlye dame.

Weil saw the Lairde, but nething saide,He kenit, in holye zele,He grepit for the merkis of hell,Whilk he did ken ful weile.

Weil saw the Lairde, but nething saide,

He kenit, in holye zele,

He grepit for the merkis of hell,

Whilk he did ken ful weile.

And aye he pressit hir lillye hande,And kyssit it ferventlye,And prayit betweine, for och ane kyndeAnd lufyng preste was he!

And aye he pressit hir lillye hande,

And kyssit it ferventlye,

And prayit betweine, for och ane kynde

And lufyng preste was he!

The Byschope stappit and sterted sore,Wyde gaipen with affrychte,For och that fayre and lillye handeHad turned ane paw outrychte!

The Byschope stappit and sterted sore,

Wyde gaipen with affrychte,

For och that fayre and lillye hande

Had turned ane paw outrychte!

Ane paw with long and crukit clawis!That breste of heuinlye charmeHad turnit til brusket of ane katt,Ful hayrie and ful warme!

Ane paw with long and crukit clawis!

That breste of heuinlye charme

Had turnit til brusket of ane katt,

Ful hayrie and ful warme!

And there scho satt on lang-settil,With een of glentyng flame,And theye war on the Byschope settLyke poynter on his game.

And there scho satt on lang-settil,

With een of glentyng flame,

And theye war on the Byschope sett

Lyke poynter on his game.

The Byschope turnit him runde abouteTo se quhat he mocht se,Scho strak ane clawe in ilken lug,And throu the rofe did flee.

The Byschope turnit him runde aboute

To se quhat he mocht se,

Scho strak ane clawe in ilken lug,

And throu the rofe did flee.

The katt went throu withouten stopLyke schado throu the daye,But the great Byschopis fleschlye formeMade all the rofe gif waye;

The katt went throu withouten stop

Lyke schado throu the daye,

But the great Byschopis fleschlye forme

Made all the rofe gif waye;

The silyng faldit lyke ane buke,The serker crashit amayne,And shredis and flenis of brokyn stenisFell to the grunde lyke rayne.

The silyng faldit lyke ane buke,

The serker crashit amayne,

And shredis and flenis of brokyn stenis

Fell to the grunde lyke rayne.

The braide ful mone wase up the lyft,The nychte wase lyke ane daye,As the greate Byschope tuke his janteUp throu the milkye-waye;

The braide ful mone wase up the lyft,

The nychte wase lyke ane daye,

As the greate Byschope tuke his jante

Up throu the milkye-waye;

He cryit se loude and lustilyeThe hillis and skyis war riuen;Och sicken cryis war neuir hearitAtwene the yerde and heuin!

He cryit se loude and lustilye

The hillis and skyis war riuen;

Och sicken cryis war neuir hearit

Atwene the yerde and heuin!

They sawe him spurryng in the ayre,And flynging horredlye,And than he prayit and sang ane saum,For ane fearit wycht was he;

They sawe him spurryng in the ayre,

And flynging horredlye,

And than he prayit and sang ane saum,

For ane fearit wycht was he;

But ay his waylingis fainter greueAs the braide lyft he crossit,Quhill sum saide that theye hearit them still,And sum saide all wase loste.

But ay his waylingis fainter greue

As the braide lyft he crossit,

Quhill sum saide that theye hearit them still,

And sum saide all wase loste.

There was ane herd on Dollar-Lawe,Turnyng his flockis by nychte,Or stealyng in ane gude haggyseBefore the mornyng lychte.

There was ane herd on Dollar-Lawe,

Turnyng his flockis by nychte,

Or stealyng in ane gude haggyse

Before the mornyng lychte.

He hearit the cryis cum yont the heuin,And sawe them bethe passe bye;The katt scho skreuit up hir taileAs sayrlye pinchit to flye.

He hearit the cryis cum yont the heuin,

And sawe them bethe passe bye;

The katt scho skreuit up hir taile

As sayrlye pinchit to flye.

But aye scho thrummyt at hir sang,Though he wase sore in thrall,Like katt that hethe are jollye mouseGaun murryng thro' the hall.

But aye scho thrummyt at hir sang,

Though he wase sore in thrall,

Like katt that hethe are jollye mouse

Gaun murryng thro' the hall.

That greye kattis sang it wase se sweete,As on the nychte it fell,The Murecokis dancit ane seuinsum ryngArunde the hether bell;

That greye kattis sang it wase se sweete,

As on the nychte it fell,

The Murecokis dancit ane seuinsum ryng

Arunde the hether bell;

The Foumartis jyggit by the brukis,The Maukinis by the kaile,And the Otar dancit ane minowayeAs he gaed ouir the daile;

The Foumartis jyggit by the brukis,

The Maukinis by the kaile,

And the Otar dancit ane minowaye

As he gaed ouir the daile;

The Hurchanis helde ane kintrye danceAlang the brumye knowe,And the gude Toop-hogg rase fra his layreAnd ualtzit with the youe.

The Hurchanis helde ane kintrye dance

Alang the brumye knowe,

And the gude Toop-hogg rase fra his layre

And ualtzit with the youe.

Murr, my Lorde Byschope,I syng to you;Murr, my Lorde Byschope,Bawlillilu!Murr, my Lorde Byschope, &c.

Murr, my Lorde Byschope,

I syng to you;

Murr, my Lorde Byschope,

Bawlillilu!

Murr, my Lorde Byschope, &c.

That nycht ane hynde on Border sydeChancit at his dore to be;He spyit ane greate clypse of the mone,And ben the house ran he;

That nycht ane hynde on Border syde

Chancit at his dore to be;

He spyit ane greate clypse of the mone,

And ben the house ran he;

He laide ane wisp upon the colis,And bleue full lang and sayre,And rede the Belfaste Almanake,But the clypse it wase not there.

He laide ane wisp upon the colis,

And bleue full lang and sayre,

And rede the Belfaste Almanake,

But the clypse it wase not there.

Och but that hynde wase sor aghaste,And haf to madnesse driuen,For he thochte he hearit ane drounyng manSyching alangis the heuin.

Och but that hynde wase sor aghaste,

And haf to madnesse driuen,

For he thochte he hearit ane drounyng man

Syching alangis the heuin.

That nychte ane greate FilossofereHad watchit on Etnyis height,To merk the rysing of the sonne,And the blythsum mornyng lychte;

That nychte ane greate Filossofere

Had watchit on Etnyis height,

To merk the rysing of the sonne,

And the blythsum mornyng lychte;

And all the lychtlye lynis of goude,As on the se they fell,And watch the fyir and the smoke,Cum rummilyng up fra hell.

And all the lychtlye lynis of goude,

As on the se they fell,

And watch the fyir and the smoke,

Cum rummilyng up fra hell.

He luket este, the daye cam on,Upon his gladsum pethe,And the braid mone hang in the west,Her paleness wase lyke dethe;

He luket este, the daye cam on,

Upon his gladsum pethe,

And the braid mone hang in the west,

Her paleness wase lyke dethe;

And by her sat are littil stern,Quhan all the laife war gane,It was lyke ane wee fadyng gemeIn the wyde worild its lane.

And by her sat are littil stern,

Quhan all the laife war gane,

It was lyke ane wee fadyng geme

In the wyde worild its lane.

Then the Filossofere was sadde,And he turnit his ee awaye,For they mindit him of the yerdlye greate,In dethe or in decaye.

Then the Filossofere was sadde,

And he turnit his ee awaye,

For they mindit him of the yerdlye greate,

In dethe or in decaye.

He turnit his face unto the north,The fallyng teare to drie,And he spyit ane thyng of wonderous maike,Atwene the yerde and skie;

He turnit his face unto the north,

The fallyng teare to drie,

And he spyit ane thyng of wonderous maike,

Atwene the yerde and skie;

It wase lyke ane burd withoutten wyng,Rychte wonderous to beholde,And it bure are forked thyng alang,With swiftnesse manyfolde:

It wase lyke ane burd withoutten wyng,

Rychte wonderous to beholde,

And it bure are forked thyng alang,

With swiftnesse manyfolde:

But ay it greue as neare it dreue—His herte bete wondir sayre!The sonne, the mone, and sternis war gaine,He thocht of them ne mayre,Quhan he behelde ane jollye presteCumyng swyggyng throu the ayre.

But ay it greue as neare it dreue—

His herte bete wondir sayre!

The sonne, the mone, and sternis war gaine,

He thocht of them ne mayre,

Quhan he behelde ane jollye preste

Cumyng swyggyng throu the ayre.

The katt scho helde him by the luggisAtour the ausum hole,And och the drede that he wase inWase mayre than man colde thole;

The katt scho helde him by the luggis

Atour the ausum hole,

And och the drede that he wase in

Wase mayre than man colde thole;

He cryit, 'O Pussye, hald your gryp,O hald and dinna spaire;O drap me in the yerde or se,But dinna drap me there.'

He cryit, 'O Pussye, hald your gryp,

O hald and dinna spaire;

O drap me in the yerde or se,

But dinna drap me there.'

But scho wase ane doure and deidlye katt,And scho saide with lychtsum ayre,'You kno heuin is ane blissit plece,And all the prestis gang there.'

But scho wase ane doure and deidlye katt,

And scho saide with lychtsum ayre,

'You kno heuin is ane blissit plece,

And all the prestis gang there.'

'Och sweete, sweete Pussye, hald your gryp,Spaire nouther cleke nor clawe;Is euir that lyke heuin abone,In quhich am lyke to fa'?

'Och sweete, sweete Pussye, hald your gryp,

Spaire nouther cleke nor clawe;

Is euir that lyke heuin abone,

In quhich am lyke to fa'?

And aye scho hang him by the luggisAbone the ausum den,Till he fande the gryp rive slowlye out,Sore was he quakyng then!

And aye scho hang him by the luggis

Abone the ausum den,

Till he fande the gryp rive slowlye out,

Sore was he quakyng then!

Doune went the Byschope, doune lyke leideInto the hollowe nychte,His goune wase flapyng in the ayre,Quhan he wase out of sychte.

Doune went the Byschope, doune lyke leide

Into the hollowe nychte,

His goune wase flapyng in the ayre,

Quhan he wase out of sychte.

They hearit him honyng down the deep,Till the croone it dyit awaye,It wase lyke the stoune of ane greate bom-beGaun soundyng throu the daye.

They hearit him honyng down the deep,

Till the croone it dyit awaye,

It wase lyke the stoune of ane greate bom-be

Gaun soundyng throu the daye.

All wase in sloomeryng quietnesse,Quhan he went doune to hell,But seckn an houre wase neuir seine,Quhan the gude lorde Byschope fell.

All wase in sloomeryng quietnesse,

Quhan he went doune to hell,

But seckn an houre wase neuir seine,

Quhan the gude lorde Byschope fell.

Then cam the smouder and the smokeUp roschyng vilentlye,And it tourackit awaye til heuinAne gloryous sychte to se;

Then cam the smouder and the smoke

Up roschyng vilentlye,

And it tourackit awaye til heuin

Ane gloryous sychte to se;

For ay it rowed its fleecye curlisOut to the rysing sonne,And the estern syde was gildit goude,And all the westlin dunne.

For ay it rowed its fleecye curlis

Out to the rysing sonne,

And the estern syde was gildit goude,

And all the westlin dunne.

Then the Filossofere wase muvit,And he wist not quhat til say,For he saw nochte of the gude greye katt;But he saw ane ladye gay.

Then the Filossofere wase muvit,

And he wist not quhat til say,

For he saw nochte of the gude greye katt;

But he saw ane ladye gay.

Hir goune wase of the gress-greene sylk,And hir ee wase lyke the deue,And hir hayre wase lyke the threidis of goudeThat runde her shoulderis fleue.

Hir goune wase of the gress-greene sylk,

And hir ee wase lyke the deue,

And hir hayre wase lyke the threidis of goude

That runde her shoulderis fleue.

Hir gairtenis war the raynbowis heme,That scho tyit anethe hir knee,And ay scho kemit hir yellow hayre,And sang full pleasauntlye.

Hir gairtenis war the raynbowis heme,

That scho tyit anethe hir knee,

And ay scho kemit hir yellow hayre,

And sang full pleasauntlye.

'I am the Queene of the Fairy Land,I'll do ne harme to thee,For I am the gardian of the gude,Let the wycked be ware of me.

'I am the Queene of the Fairy Land,

I'll do ne harme to thee,

For I am the gardian of the gude,

Let the wycked be ware of me.

'There ar seuin pearlis in yonder touir,Their number sune shall wane;There are seuin flouris in fayre Scotland,I'll pu them ane by ane;

'There ar seuin pearlis in yonder touir,

Their number sune shall wane;

There are seuin flouris in fayre Scotland,

I'll pu them ane by ane;

'And the weeist burd in all the bouirShall be the last that is taene;The Lairde of Blain hethe seuin dochteris,But sune he shall haif nane.

'And the weeist burd in all the bouir

Shall be the last that is taene;

The Lairde of Blain hethe seuin dochteris,

But sune he shall haif nane.

'I'll bathe them all in the krystal streimeThrou the Fairy Land that flouis,I'll seike the bouris of paradyceFor the bonnyest flouir that blouis.

'I'll bathe them all in the krystal streime

Throu the Fairy Land that flouis,

I'll seike the bouris of paradyce

For the bonnyest flouir that blouis.

'And I'll distil it in the deueThat fallis on the hillis of heuin,And the hues that luvelye angelis weireShall to these maidis be giuen.

'And I'll distil it in the deue

That fallis on the hillis of heuin,

And the hues that luvelye angelis weire

Shall to these maidis be giuen.

'And I'll trie how luvelye and how fayreTheir formis may be to see,And I'll trie how pure the maydenis myndeIn this ill worild may be.'

'And I'll trie how luvelye and how fayre

Their formis may be to see,

And I'll trie how pure the maydenis mynde

In this ill worild may be.'

The Lairde of Blain he walkis the wode,But he walkis it all alane;The Lairde of Blain had seuin dochteris,But now he hethe not ane.

The Lairde of Blain he walkis the wode,

But he walkis it all alane;

The Lairde of Blain had seuin dochteris,

But now he hethe not ane.

They neuir war on dethbed layde,But they elyit all awaye;He lost his babyis ane by aneAtween the nychte and day.

They neuir war on dethbed layde,

But they elyit all awaye;

He lost his babyis ane by ane

Atween the nychte and day.

He kend not quhat to thynk or saye,Or quhat did him beseime,But he walkit throu this weirye worildLyke ane that is in a dreime.

He kend not quhat to thynk or saye,

Or quhat did him beseime,

But he walkit throu this weirye worild

Lyke ane that is in a dreime.

Quhan seuin lang yearis, and seuin lang daies,Had slowlye cumit and gane,He walkit throu the gude grene wode,And he walkit all alane;

Quhan seuin lang yearis, and seuin lang daies,

Had slowlye cumit and gane,

He walkit throu the gude grene wode,

And he walkit all alane;

He turnit his fece unto the skie,And the teire stude in his ee,For he thocht of the ladye of his lufe,And his lost familye:

He turnit his fece unto the skie,

And the teire stude in his ee,

For he thocht of the ladye of his lufe,

And his lost familye:

But aye his fayth was firm and sure,And his trust in Heuin still,For he hopet to meite them all agayneBeyond the reiche of ill:

But aye his fayth was firm and sure,

And his trust in Heuin still,

For he hopet to meite them all agayne

Beyond the reiche of ill:

And ay the teiris fell on the grene,As he knelit downe to praye,But he wase se muvit with tendirnesseThat ane worde he colde not saye.

And ay the teiris fell on the grene,

As he knelit downe to praye,

But he wase se muvit with tendirnesse

That ane worde he colde not saye.

He lukit oure his left shouldirTo se quhat he mocht se:There he behelde seuin bonnye maydisCumyng tryppyng oure the le!

He lukit oure his left shouldir

To se quhat he mocht se:

There he behelde seuin bonnye maydis

Cumyng tryppyng oure the le!

Sic beautye ee had neuir seine,Nor euir agayne shall se,Sic luvelye formis of flesche and blude,On yerde can neuir be;

Sic beautye ee had neuir seine,

Nor euir agayne shall se,

Sic luvelye formis of flesche and blude,

On yerde can neuir be;

The joie that bemit in ilken eeWase lyke the risyng sonne,The fayriste blumis in all the wodeBesyde their formis war dunne;

The joie that bemit in ilken ee

Wase lyke the risyng sonne,

The fayriste blumis in all the wode

Besyde their formis war dunne;

There wase ane wrethe on ilken heide,On ilken bosome thre,And the brychtest flouris the worild e'er sawWar noddyng oure the bre.

There wase ane wrethe on ilken heide,

On ilken bosome thre,

And the brychtest flouris the worild e'er saw

War noddyng oure the bre.

But cese yer strayne, my gude auld herpe,O cese and syng ne mayre!Gin ye wolde of that meityng teil,O I mocht reue it sayre!

But cese yer strayne, my gude auld herpe,

O cese and syng ne mayre!

Gin ye wolde of that meityng teil,

O I mocht reue it sayre!

There wolde ne ee in faire Scotland,Nor luvelye cheike be drie;The laveroke wolde forget hir sang,And drap deide fra the skie;

There wolde ne ee in faire Scotland,

Nor luvelye cheike be drie;

The laveroke wolde forget hir sang,

And drap deide fra the skie;

And the desye wolde ne mayre be quhyte,And the lillye wolde chainge hir heue,For the blude-drapis wolde fal fra the mone,And reiden the mornyng deue.

And the desye wolde ne mayre be quhyte,

And the lillye wolde chainge hir heue,

For the blude-drapis wolde fal fra the mone,

And reiden the mornyng deue.

But quhan I tell ye oute my tale,Ful playnlye ye will se,That quhare there is ne syn nor schameNe sorroue there can be.

But quhan I tell ye oute my tale,

Ful playnlye ye will se,

That quhare there is ne syn nor schame

Ne sorroue there can be.

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