Snakestanger, snakestanger, vlee aal about the brooks;Sting aal the bad bwoys that vor the fish looks,Bút let the góod bwoys ketch aál the vish they can,And car'm away whooam to vry 'em in a pan;Bread and butter they shall yeat at zupper wi' their vishWhile aal the littull bad bwoys shall only lick the dish.
Snakestanger, snakestanger, vlee aal about the brooks;Sting aal the bad bwoys that vor the fish looks,Bút let the góod bwoys ketch aál the vish they can,And car'm away whooam to vry 'em in a pan;Bread and butter they shall yeat at zupper wi' their vishWhile aal the littull bad bwoys shall only lick the dish.
Snakestanger, snakestanger, vlee aal about the brooks;Sting aal the bad bwoys that vor the fish looks,Bút let the góod bwoys ketch aál the vish they can,And car'm away whooam to vry 'em in a pan;Bread and butter they shall yeat at zupper wi' their vishWhile aal the littull bad bwoys shall only lick the dish.
Snakestanger, snakestanger, vlee aal about the brooks;
Sting aal the bad bwoys that vor the fish looks,
Bút let the góod bwoys ketch aál the vish they can,
And car'm away whooam to vry 'em in a pan;
Bread and butter they shall yeat at zupper wi' their vish
While aal the littull bad bwoys shall only lick the dish.
And here is yet another rhyme on theFirefly(from Du Bartas), which I have borrowed (with other passages as curious) from a mine of such things,Animal Lore of Shakespeare's Time, by Miss Emma Phipson:
"New-Spain'scucuio, in his forehead bringsTwo burning lamps, two underneath his wings:Whose shining rayes serve oft, in darkest night,Th' imbroderer's hand in royall works to light:Th' ingenious turner, with a wakefull eye,To polish fair his purest ivory:The usurer to count his glistring treasures:The learned scribe to limn his golden measures."
"New-Spain'scucuio, in his forehead bringsTwo burning lamps, two underneath his wings:Whose shining rayes serve oft, in darkest night,Th' imbroderer's hand in royall works to light:Th' ingenious turner, with a wakefull eye,To polish fair his purest ivory:The usurer to count his glistring treasures:The learned scribe to limn his golden measures."
"New-Spain'scucuio, in his forehead bringsTwo burning lamps, two underneath his wings:Whose shining rayes serve oft, in darkest night,Th' imbroderer's hand in royall works to light:Th' ingenious turner, with a wakefull eye,To polish fair his purest ivory:The usurer to count his glistring treasures:The learned scribe to limn his golden measures."
"New-Spain'scucuio, in his forehead brings
Two burning lamps, two underneath his wings:
Whose shining rayes serve oft, in darkest night,
Th' imbroderer's hand in royall works to light:
Th' ingenious turner, with a wakefull eye,
To polish fair his purest ivory:
The usurer to count his glistring treasures:
The learned scribe to limn his golden measures."
"There is a kind of little animal of the size of prawnes," says Champlain of these tiny winged things, "which fly by night, and make such light in the air that one would say that they were so many little candles. If a man had three or four of these little creatures, which are not larger than a filbert, he could read as well at night as with a wax light."
"The Pet Lamb" by William Wordsworth is certainly of a more delicate light and colour and music than this poem. But it is much better known. And there is a secret something in the words of Mary Howitt's that wins one at once to love the writer of it.
This is another translation by Kuno Meyer from the ancient Irish—just the bare bones, that is, of a poem that in its original tongue must have been many times more musical withrhyme and gentle echo and cadence; for the craft of Gaelic verse was an exceedingly delicate one.
I like it for the sake of its cat, its monk, and its age, but chiefly because it reminds me of my own faraway days at Thrae—brooding up there in solitude and silence over Mr. Nahum's books.
As for "white Pangur" and his kind, "it is needlesse," says Topsell, "to spend any time about [Puss's] loving nature to man, how she flattereth by rubbing her skinne against ones legges, how she whurleth with her voyce, having as many tunes as turnes; for she hath one voice to beg and to complain, another to testifie her delight and pleasure, another among her own kind by flattring, by hissing, by spitting, insomuch as some have thought that they have a peculiar intelligible language among themselves." So also John de Trevisa, in 1387: "The catte is a beaste of uncerten heare (hair) and colour; for some catte is white, some rede, some blacke, some skewed (piebald) and speckled in the fete and in the face and in the eares. He is a beste in youth, swyfte, plyaunte, and mery, and lepeth and reseth (rusheth) on all thynge that is tofore him; and is led by a strawe and playeth therwith. He is a right hevy beast in aege, and ful slepy, and lyeth slily in wait for myce. And he maketh a ruthefull noyse and gastfull, whan one proffreth to fyghte with another, and he falleth on his owne fete whan he falleth out of hye places."
The writings of the ancient Egyptians show that, far from detesting to wet his paws, he would thenswimin pursuit of fish. They painted a cat for the sound "miaou" in their hieroglyphics; gazed into his changing moon-like eyes and revered him; and embalmed him when dead.
Having borrowed him from Egypt, the Romans brought him to Britain (though we already had a wilding of our own,Felis Catus'), with the ass, the goat, the rabbit, the peacock, not to speak of the cherry, the walnut, the crocus, the tulip, the leek, the cucumber, etc. The Monk's Pangur, then, came of a long lineage.
So valuable were cats inWalesin the eleventh century (two or three hundred years after Pangur), that their price was fixed by law: for a blind kitten a penny; for a kitten with its eyes open, twopence; for a cat of one mouse, fourpence, and so on. And to kill one of the Prince's granary cats meant paymentof a fine of as much wheat as would cover up its body when suspended by its tail. In Scotland there has long been a complete Clan of Cats—apart from the witches. As for the Cheshire Cat, he grins, I imagine, not because he has nine lives, is said to be melancholy, may look at a king, and has nothing to do with Catgut, Cat's cradle, and Cat-i'-the-pan, but because he has read in a dictionary that Dick Whittington sailed off to the Isle of Rats, not with a Cat, but withacatorachat, meaning goods for trading—Coals! Long may he grin! How but one country Gib or Tom may befriend the brightfaced Heartsease (so sturdy a little dear that it will bloom at burning noonday in a gravel path) Charles Darwin tells in his "Origin of Species," p. 57.
His "loving nature" to creaturesotherthan man and the heartsease is referred to in the following old Scots nursery rhyme:
There was a wee bit mousikie,That lived in Gilberaty, O,It couldna get a bite o' cheese,For cheetie-poussie-cattie, O.It said unto the cheesikie,"Oh fain wad I be at ye, O,If 't were na for the cruel pawsO' cheetie-poussie-cattie, O."
There was a wee bit mousikie,That lived in Gilberaty, O,It couldna get a bite o' cheese,For cheetie-poussie-cattie, O.It said unto the cheesikie,"Oh fain wad I be at ye, O,If 't were na for the cruel pawsO' cheetie-poussie-cattie, O."
There was a wee bit mousikie,That lived in Gilberaty, O,It couldna get a bite o' cheese,For cheetie-poussie-cattie, O.
There was a wee bit mousikie,
That lived in Gilberaty, O,
It couldna get a bite o' cheese,
For cheetie-poussie-cattie, O.
It said unto the cheesikie,"Oh fain wad I be at ye, O,If 't were na for the cruel pawsO' cheetie-poussie-cattie, O."
It said unto the cheesikie,
"Oh fain wad I be at ye, O,
If 't were na for the cruel paws
O' cheetie-poussie-cattie, O."
The verbdare(I gather from Webster) was once used only in the past tense, the preterite; for "dare he" therefore in this poem we should now writedared he.
Andrew Marvell has three rare charms—his poetry is wholly his own; it is as delightful as the sound of his name; and the face in his portrait is as enchanting as either.
The Phillip of these two poems is, I suppose, the hedge-sparrow or dunnock, that gentle and happy little cousin of the warblers—as light and lovely in voice as they are on the wing. As everyone knows, a bullfinch can be taught to whistle like abaker's boy, and will become so jealous of his mistress that he will hiss and ruff with rage at every stranger. Jackdaws and magpies, too, will become friends to a friend. But a lady whom I have the happiness to know has a nightingale that was hatched in captivity, and so has never shared either the delights or the dangers of the wild. So easy is he in her company that he will perch on her pen-tip as she sits at table, and sing as if out of a garden in Damascus.
" ... As she (St. Douceline) sat at meat, if anyone brought her a flower, a bird, a fruit, or any other thing that gave her pleasure, then she fell straightway into an ecstasy, and was caught up to Him Who had made these fair creatures.... One day she heard a lonely sparrow sing, whereupon she said to her companions, 'How lonely is the song of that bird!' and in the twinkling of an eye she was in an ecstasy, drawn up to God by the bird's voice...."
The above is fromA Medieval Garner, and this, from a Note to "A Saint's Tragedy," by Margaret L. Woods: When the blessed Elizabeth "had been ill twelve days and more, one of her maids sitting by her bed heard in her throat a very sweet sound, ... and saying, 'Oh, my mistress, how sweetly thou didst sing!' she answered, 'I tell thee, I heard a little bird between me and the wall sing merrily; who with his sweet song so stirred me up that I could not but sing myself.'"
My dear, do you knowHow a long time ago,Two poor little children,Whose names I don't know,Were stolen awayOn a fine summer's day,And left in a wood,As I've heard people say.And when it was night,So sad was their plight,The sun it went down,And the moon gave no light!They sobbed and they sighed,And they bitterly cried,And the poor little things,They laid down and died.And when they were dead,The robins so redBrought strawberry leaves,And over them spread;And all the day long,They sang them this song,—Poor babes in the wood!Poor babes in the wood!And don't you rememberThe babes in the wood?
My dear, do you knowHow a long time ago,Two poor little children,Whose names I don't know,Were stolen awayOn a fine summer's day,And left in a wood,As I've heard people say.And when it was night,So sad was their plight,The sun it went down,And the moon gave no light!They sobbed and they sighed,And they bitterly cried,And the poor little things,They laid down and died.And when they were dead,The robins so redBrought strawberry leaves,And over them spread;And all the day long,They sang them this song,—Poor babes in the wood!Poor babes in the wood!And don't you rememberThe babes in the wood?
My dear, do you knowHow a long time ago,Two poor little children,Whose names I don't know,Were stolen awayOn a fine summer's day,And left in a wood,As I've heard people say.
My dear, do you know
How a long time ago,
Two poor little children,
Whose names I don't know,
Were stolen away
On a fine summer's day,
And left in a wood,
As I've heard people say.
And when it was night,So sad was their plight,The sun it went down,And the moon gave no light!They sobbed and they sighed,And they bitterly cried,And the poor little things,They laid down and died.
And when it was night,
So sad was their plight,
The sun it went down,
And the moon gave no light!
They sobbed and they sighed,
And they bitterly cried,
And the poor little things,
They laid down and died.
And when they were dead,The robins so redBrought strawberry leaves,And over them spread;And all the day long,They sang them this song,—Poor babes in the wood!Poor babes in the wood!And don't you rememberThe babes in the wood?
And when they were dead,
The robins so red
Brought strawberry leaves,
And over them spread;
And all the day long,
They sang them this song,—
Poor babes in the wood!
Poor babes in the wood!
And don't you remember
The babes in the wood?
It was a note of enchantment such as this that haunted the memory of Edward Thomas when he was writing his poem calledThe Unknown Bird.I give only a few lines, but the rest of the beautiful thing may be found in hisPoems:
Oftenest when I heard him I was alone,Nor could I ever make another hear.La-la-la! he called seeming far-off—As if a cock crowed past the edge of the world,As if the bird or I were in a dream....... O wild-raving winds! if you ever do roarBy the house and the elms from where I've a-come,Breathe up at the window, or call at the door,And tell you've a found me a-thinking of home."William Barnes
Oftenest when I heard him I was alone,Nor could I ever make another hear.La-la-la! he called seeming far-off—As if a cock crowed past the edge of the world,As if the bird or I were in a dream....... O wild-raving winds! if you ever do roarBy the house and the elms from where I've a-come,Breathe up at the window, or call at the door,And tell you've a found me a-thinking of home."William Barnes
Oftenest when I heard him I was alone,Nor could I ever make another hear.La-la-la! he called seeming far-off—As if a cock crowed past the edge of the world,As if the bird or I were in a dream....
Oftenest when I heard him I was alone,
Nor could I ever make another hear.
La-la-la! he called seeming far-off—
As if a cock crowed past the edge of the world,
As if the bird or I were in a dream....
... O wild-raving winds! if you ever do roarBy the house and the elms from where I've a-come,Breathe up at the window, or call at the door,And tell you've a found me a-thinking of home."William Barnes
... O wild-raving winds! if you ever do roar
By the house and the elms from where I've a-come,
Breathe up at the window, or call at the door,
And tell you've a found me a-thinking of home."
William Barnes
"They say," says Ophelia, "they say the owle was a Baker's daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your Table." And thus runs the story:
Our Saviour being footsore, weary and hungry one darkening evening, went into a baker's shop and asked for bread. The oven being then hot and all prepared for the baking, the mistress of the shop cut off a good-sized piece of the risen dough to bake for him. At this her fair, greedydaughter, who sate watching what was forward from a little window, upbraided her mother for this wasting of profit on such an outcast; and taking the platter out of her hands, she chopped the piece of dough into half, and half, and half again. Nevertheless when this mean small lump was put into the oven, it presently began miraculously to rise and swell until it exceeded a full quartern of wheaten bread. In alarm at this strange sight the daughter—her round blue eyes largely eyeing the stranger in the dim light—turned on her mother, and cried out: "O Mother, Mother,Heugh, heugh, heugh." "As thou hast spoken," said our Saviour, "so be thou: child of the Night." Whereupon, the poor creature, feathered and in the likeness of an owl, fled forth into the dark towards the woodside.
When night is o'er the woodAnd moon-scared watch-dogs howl,Comes forth in search of foodThe snowy mystic owl.His soft, white, ghostly wingsBeat noiselessly the airLike some lost soul that hopelesslyIs mute in its despair.But now his hollow noteRings cheerless through the gladeAnd o'er the silent moatHe flits from shade to shade.He hovers, swoops and glidesO'er meadows, moors and streams;He seems to be some fantasy—A ghostly bird of dreams.Why dost thou haunt the night?Why dost thou love the moonWhen other birds delightTo sing their joy at noon?Art thou then crazed with love,Or is't for some fell crimeThat thus thou flittest covertlyAt this unhallowed time?F. J. Patmore
When night is o'er the woodAnd moon-scared watch-dogs howl,Comes forth in search of foodThe snowy mystic owl.His soft, white, ghostly wingsBeat noiselessly the airLike some lost soul that hopelesslyIs mute in its despair.But now his hollow noteRings cheerless through the gladeAnd o'er the silent moatHe flits from shade to shade.He hovers, swoops and glidesO'er meadows, moors and streams;He seems to be some fantasy—A ghostly bird of dreams.Why dost thou haunt the night?Why dost thou love the moonWhen other birds delightTo sing their joy at noon?Art thou then crazed with love,Or is't for some fell crimeThat thus thou flittest covertlyAt this unhallowed time?F. J. Patmore
When night is o'er the woodAnd moon-scared watch-dogs howl,Comes forth in search of foodThe snowy mystic owl.His soft, white, ghostly wingsBeat noiselessly the airLike some lost soul that hopelesslyIs mute in its despair.
When night is o'er the wood
And moon-scared watch-dogs howl,
Comes forth in search of food
The snowy mystic owl.
His soft, white, ghostly wings
Beat noiselessly the air
Like some lost soul that hopelessly
Is mute in its despair.
But now his hollow noteRings cheerless through the gladeAnd o'er the silent moatHe flits from shade to shade.He hovers, swoops and glidesO'er meadows, moors and streams;He seems to be some fantasy—A ghostly bird of dreams.
But now his hollow note
Rings cheerless through the glade
And o'er the silent moat
He flits from shade to shade.
He hovers, swoops and glides
O'er meadows, moors and streams;
He seems to be some fantasy—
A ghostly bird of dreams.
Why dost thou haunt the night?Why dost thou love the moonWhen other birds delightTo sing their joy at noon?Art thou then crazed with love,Or is't for some fell crimeThat thus thou flittest covertlyAt this unhallowed time?F. J. Patmore
Why dost thou haunt the night?
Why dost thou love the moon
When other birds delight
To sing their joy at noon?
Art thou then crazed with love,
Or is't for some fell crime
That thus thou flittest covertly
At this unhallowed time?
F. J. Patmore
Smallestof all shrill souls among the English birds is the wren, but she has a remote relative that dwells in the dark and enormous forests of South America, the Humming Bird, and simply for their own sakes I cannot resist borrowing two more fragments from Miss Phipson'sAnimal Lore. The first comes out of Purchas'sPilgrimes, and was written by Antonia Galvano of New Spain:
"There be certaine small birds namedvicmalim, their bil is small and long. They live of the dew, and the juyce of flowers and roses. Their feathers bee small and of divers colours. They be greatly esteemed to worke gold with. They die or sleepe every yeere in the moneth of October, sitting upon a little bough in a warme and close place: they revive or wake againe in the moneth of April after that the flowers be sprung, and therefore they call them the revived birds—Vicmalim."
The second is Gonzalo Ferdinando de Oviedo's—his very name a string of gems:
" ... I have seene that one of these birds with her nest put into a paire of gold weights [scales] altogether, hath waide no more then atomini, which are in poise 24 graines, with the feathers, without the which she would have waied somewhat less. And doubtlesse, when I consider the finenesse of the clawes and feete of these birds, I know not whereunto I may better liken them then to the little birds which the lymners of bookes are accustomed to paint on the margent of church bookes, and other bookes of divine service. Their feathers are of manie faire colours, as golden, yellow, and greene, beside other variable colours. Their beake is verie long for the proportion of their bodies, and as fine and subtile as a sowing needle. They are verie hardy, so that when they see a man clime the tree where they have their nests, they fly at his face, and strike him in the eyes, comming, going, and returning with such swiftnesse, that no man should lightly beleeve it that had not seene it...."
And Shelley:
... I cannot tell my joy, when o'er a lakeUpon a drooping bough with nightshade twined,I saw two azure halcyons clinging downwardAnd thinning one bright bunch of amber berries,With quick long beaks, and in the deep there layThose lovely forms imaged as in a sky....
... I cannot tell my joy, when o'er a lakeUpon a drooping bough with nightshade twined,I saw two azure halcyons clinging downwardAnd thinning one bright bunch of amber berries,With quick long beaks, and in the deep there layThose lovely forms imaged as in a sky....
... I cannot tell my joy, when o'er a lakeUpon a drooping bough with nightshade twined,I saw two azure halcyons clinging downwardAnd thinning one bright bunch of amber berries,With quick long beaks, and in the deep there layThose lovely forms imaged as in a sky....
... I cannot tell my joy, when o'er a lake
Upon a drooping bough with nightshade twined,
I saw two azure halcyons clinging downward
And thinning one bright bunch of amber berries,
With quick long beaks, and in the deep there lay
Those lovely forms imaged as in a sky....
Anyone so happy as to be able to remember Mary Coleridge as a friend, will agree that to have seen her eyes is to have seen her own pool and Shelley's lake, imaging such lovely flitting halcyons.
A wild and dreadful legend is hidden here—of a King who wronged his Queen and her sister, daughters of Pandion, and how they avenged themselves upon him, sacrificing his son to their hatred. That Queen, goes this old tale, became a nightingale, her sister a swallow (crimson still dying the feathers of her throat), the evil king a hoopoe, and the firstborn was raised to life again a pheasant.
—a little bird but of a noble family. Listen, at least, to Auceps, the Faulkner or Falconer, in "The Compleat Angler." [I have inserted a few full stops in a sentence that has none] " ... And first, for the Element that I use to trade in, which is the Air, an Element of more worth than weight, an Element that doubtless exceeds both the Earth and Water; for though I sometimes deal in both; yet the Air is most properly mine, I and my Hawks use that most, and it yields us most recreation. It stops not the high soaring of my noble generousFalcon; in it she ascends to such an height, as the dull eyes of beasts and fish are not able to reach to; their bodies are too gross for such high elevations. In the Air my troops of Hawks soar up on high, and when they are lost in the sight of men, then they attend upon and converse with the gods, therefore I think myEagleis so justly styled, Joves servant in Ordinary. And that very Falcon, that I am now going to see, deserves no meaner a title, for she usually in her flight endangers her self, (like the son ofDaedalus), to have her wings scorched by the Suns heat, she flyes so near it. But her mettle makes her careless of danger, for she then heeds nothing, but makes hernimble Pinions cut the fluid air, and so makes her high way over the steepest mountains and deepest rivers, and in her glorious carere looks with contempt upon those high Steeples and magnificent Palaces which we adore and wonder at; from which height I can make her to descend by a word from my mouth (which she both knows and obeys), to accept of meat from my hand, to own me for her Master, to go home with me, and be willing the next day to afford me the like recreation...."
... Tak any brid,[213]and put it in a cage,And do al thyn entente and thy corageTo fostre it tendrely with mete and drinke,Of allè deyntees that thou canst bithinke,And keep it al-so clenly as thou may;Al-though his cage of gold be never so gay,Yet hath this brid, by twenty thousand fold,Lever in a forest, that is rude and cold,Gon eté wormés and seich wrecchednesse.For ever this brid wol doon his bisinesseTo escape out of his cagė, if he may;His libertee this brid desireth ay....Geoffrey Chaucer
... Tak any brid,[213]and put it in a cage,And do al thyn entente and thy corageTo fostre it tendrely with mete and drinke,Of allè deyntees that thou canst bithinke,And keep it al-so clenly as thou may;Al-though his cage of gold be never so gay,Yet hath this brid, by twenty thousand fold,Lever in a forest, that is rude and cold,Gon eté wormés and seich wrecchednesse.For ever this brid wol doon his bisinesseTo escape out of his cagė, if he may;His libertee this brid desireth ay....Geoffrey Chaucer
... Tak any brid,[213]and put it in a cage,And do al thyn entente and thy corageTo fostre it tendrely with mete and drinke,Of allè deyntees that thou canst bithinke,And keep it al-so clenly as thou may;Al-though his cage of gold be never so gay,Yet hath this brid, by twenty thousand fold,Lever in a forest, that is rude and cold,Gon eté wormés and seich wrecchednesse.For ever this brid wol doon his bisinesseTo escape out of his cagė, if he may;His libertee this brid desireth ay....Geoffrey Chaucer
... Tak any brid,[213]and put it in a cage,
And do al thyn entente and thy corage
To fostre it tendrely with mete and drinke,
Of allè deyntees that thou canst bithinke,
And keep it al-so clenly as thou may;
Al-though his cage of gold be never so gay,
Yet hath this brid, by twenty thousand fold,
Lever in a forest, that is rude and cold,
Gon eté wormés and seich wrecchednesse.
For ever this brid wol doon his bisinesse
To escape out of his cagė, if he may;
His libertee this brid desireth ay....
Geoffrey Chaucer
When I was a child of eight or nine I had a kind of passion for sparrows, and used to set traps for them; but even if I succeeded in taking one alive, which was not always, I could never persuade it to live in a cage above a day or two, however much I pampered it. It drooped and died. Then, like a young crocodile, I occasionally shed tears. One fine morning, I remember, I visited a distant trap and, as usual, all but stopped breathing at discovering that it was "down." Very cautiously edging in my fingers towards the captive, I was startled out of my wits by a sudden prodigious skirring of wings, and lo and behold, I had caught—and lost—a starling. He fled away twenty yards or so, and perched on a hillock. I see him now, his feathers glistening in the sun, and his sharp head turned towards me, his eyes looking back at me, as if foe at foe. Andthat reminds me of the Griffons—the guardians of the mines of the one-eyed Arimaspians.
" ... From that land go men toward the land of Bacharie, where be full evil folk and full cruel.... In that country be many griffounes, more plentiful than in any other country. Some men say that they have the body upward as an eagle, and beneath as a lion; and truly they say sooth that they be of that shape. But a griffoun hath the body more great, and is more strong, than eight lions, of such lions as be on this side of the world; and larger and stronger than an hundred eagles, such as we have amongst us. For a griffoun there will bear flying to his nest a great horse, if he may find him handy, or two oxen yoked together, as they go at the plough. For he hath his talons so long and so broad and great upon his feet, as though they were homes of great oxen, or of bugles (bullocks), or of kine; so that men make cups of them, to drink out of. And of their ribs, and the quills of their wings, men make bows full strong, to shoot with arrows and bow-bolts...."
But a griffoun is only a gigantic starling, so to speak; and it's a pity mine and I were enemies. "If a sparrow come before my window," wrote John Keats in one of his letters, "I take part in its existence, and pick about the gravel." Brick-traps are little help in this.
A Robin Redbreast in a cagePuts all Heaven in a rage ...A Skylark wounded in the wing,A Cherubim does cease to sing ...The wild Deer wandering here and thereKeeps the Human Soul from care ...He who shall hurt the little WrenShall never be beloved by Men ...The wanton Boy that kills the FlyShall feel the Spider's enmity ...Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly,For the Last Judgment draweth nigh ...The Beggar's Dog and Widow's Cat,Feed them, and thou wilt grow fat ...
A Robin Redbreast in a cagePuts all Heaven in a rage ...A Skylark wounded in the wing,A Cherubim does cease to sing ...The wild Deer wandering here and thereKeeps the Human Soul from care ...He who shall hurt the little WrenShall never be beloved by Men ...The wanton Boy that kills the FlyShall feel the Spider's enmity ...Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly,For the Last Judgment draweth nigh ...The Beggar's Dog and Widow's Cat,Feed them, and thou wilt grow fat ...
A Robin Redbreast in a cagePuts all Heaven in a rage ...
A Robin Redbreast in a cage
Puts all Heaven in a rage ...
A Skylark wounded in the wing,A Cherubim does cease to sing ...
A Skylark wounded in the wing,
A Cherubim does cease to sing ...
The wild Deer wandering here and thereKeeps the Human Soul from care ...
The wild Deer wandering here and there
Keeps the Human Soul from care ...
He who shall hurt the little WrenShall never be beloved by Men ...
He who shall hurt the little Wren
Shall never be beloved by Men ...
The wanton Boy that kills the FlyShall feel the Spider's enmity ...
The wanton Boy that kills the Fly
Shall feel the Spider's enmity ...
Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly,For the Last Judgment draweth nigh ...
Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly,
For the Last Judgment draweth nigh ...
The Beggar's Dog and Widow's Cat,Feed them, and thou wilt grow fat ...
The Beggar's Dog and Widow's Cat,
Feed them, and thou wilt grow fat ...
To see a World in a Grain of Sand,And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand,And Eternity in an hour.William Blake
To see a World in a Grain of Sand,And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand,And Eternity in an hour.William Blake
To see a World in a Grain of Sand,And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand,And Eternity in an hour.William Blake
To see a World in a Grain of Sand,
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand,
And Eternity in an hour.
William Blake
... What is heaven? a globe of dew,Filling in the morning newSome eyed flower whose young leaves wakenOn an unimagined world:Constellated suns unshaken,Orbits measureless, are furledIn that frail and fading sphere,With ten millions gathered there,To tremble, gleam, and disappear.Percy Bysshe Shelley
... What is heaven? a globe of dew,Filling in the morning newSome eyed flower whose young leaves wakenOn an unimagined world:Constellated suns unshaken,Orbits measureless, are furledIn that frail and fading sphere,With ten millions gathered there,To tremble, gleam, and disappear.Percy Bysshe Shelley
... What is heaven? a globe of dew,Filling in the morning newSome eyed flower whose young leaves wakenOn an unimagined world:Constellated suns unshaken,Orbits measureless, are furledIn that frail and fading sphere,With ten millions gathered there,To tremble, gleam, and disappear.Percy Bysshe Shelley
... What is heaven? a globe of dew,
Filling in the morning new
Some eyed flower whose young leaves waken
On an unimagined world:
Constellated suns unshaken,
Orbits measureless, are furled
In that frail and fading sphere,
With ten millions gathered there,
To tremble, gleam, and disappear.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
The men who wrote these words, truly and solemnly meant them. They are not mere pretty flowers of the fancy, but the tough piercing roots of the tree of life that grew within their minds.
This poem and many others I copied out of Mr. Nahum's book in their original spelling. At first I found the reading of some of them very troublesome. It was like looking at a dried-up flower or beetle. But there the things were; and after a good deal of trouble I not only began to read them more easily, but grew to like them thus for their own sake. First, because this was as they were actually written, before our English printers agreed to spell alike; and next, because the old words with their look of age became a pleasure to me in themselves. It was like watching the dried-up flower or beetle actually and as if by a magic of the mind coming to life. Besides, many of Shakespeare's small poems were already known to me. It touched them with newness to see them (though indeedhenever so saw them), as they appeared (seven years after his death), in the pages of the famous folio volume of hisPlaysthat was printed in 1623 by Isaac Jaggard and Edward Blount.
Not only that; for it is curious too to see how in the old days English was constantly changing—its faded words falling likedead leaves from a tree, and new ones appearing. In a book which William Caxton printed as far back even as 1490, he says: "And certainly our language now used varieth far from that which was used and spoken when I was born. For we Englishmen be born under the domination of the moon, which is never steadfast but ever wavering, waxing one season and waneth and decreaseth another season." So in our own day words, like human beings, come into the world and pass away: and many gradually change their meanings.
For if the spelling of a word alters its effect on the eye, it must also affect themindof the reader; and I must confess that "my lovynge deare," looks to me to tell of somebody more lovable even than "my loving dear." And what about shoogar-plummes, cleere greye eies, the murrkie fogghe, the moones enravysshynge?
And what about—
"Let's goe to Bedde," says Sleepihed;"Tarrie a while," says Slowe;"Putte on the Panne," says Greedie Nanne,"Wee'll suppe afore wee goe."
"Let's goe to Bedde," says Sleepihed;"Tarrie a while," says Slowe;"Putte on the Panne," says Greedie Nanne,"Wee'll suppe afore wee goe."
"Let's goe to Bedde," says Sleepihed;"Tarrie a while," says Slowe;"Putte on the Panne," says Greedie Nanne,"Wee'll suppe afore wee goe."
"Let's goe to Bedde," says Sleepihed;
"Tarrie a while," says Slowe;
"Putte on the Panne," says Greedie Nanne,
"Wee'll suppe afore wee goe."
Not that I havealwayskept to the old spellings. I have followed my fancy; and if anyone would like to see an old poem in its first looks that is here printed in our own way, all he need do is to go back to the book in which it first appeared.
... This palace standeth in the air,By necromancy placèd there,That it no tempest needs to fear,Which way soe'er it blow it;And somewhat southward toward the noon,Whence lies a way up to the moon,And thence the Fairy can as soonPass to the earth below it.The walls of spiders' legs are madeWell mortisèd and finely laid;He was the master of his tradeIt curiously that builded:The windows of the eyes of cats,And for the roof, instead of slats,Is covered with the skins of bats,With moonshine that are gilded....Michael Drayton
... This palace standeth in the air,By necromancy placèd there,That it no tempest needs to fear,Which way soe'er it blow it;And somewhat southward toward the noon,Whence lies a way up to the moon,And thence the Fairy can as soonPass to the earth below it.The walls of spiders' legs are madeWell mortisèd and finely laid;He was the master of his tradeIt curiously that builded:The windows of the eyes of cats,And for the roof, instead of slats,Is covered with the skins of bats,With moonshine that are gilded....Michael Drayton
... This palace standeth in the air,By necromancy placèd there,That it no tempest needs to fear,Which way soe'er it blow it;And somewhat southward toward the noon,Whence lies a way up to the moon,And thence the Fairy can as soonPass to the earth below it.
... This palace standeth in the air,
By necromancy placèd there,
That it no tempest needs to fear,
Which way soe'er it blow it;
And somewhat southward toward the noon,
Whence lies a way up to the moon,
And thence the Fairy can as soon
Pass to the earth below it.
The walls of spiders' legs are madeWell mortisèd and finely laid;He was the master of his tradeIt curiously that builded:The windows of the eyes of cats,And for the roof, instead of slats,Is covered with the skins of bats,With moonshine that are gilded....Michael Drayton
The walls of spiders' legs are made
Well mortisèd and finely laid;
He was the master of his trade
It curiously that builded:
The windows of the eyes of cats,
And for the roof, instead of slats,
Is covered with the skins of bats,
With moonshine that are gilded....
Michael Drayton
... Such a soft floating witchery of soundAs twilight Elfins make, when they at eveVoyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land,Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers,Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise,Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed wing!...S. T. Coleridge
... Such a soft floating witchery of soundAs twilight Elfins make, when they at eveVoyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land,Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers,Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise,Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed wing!...S. T. Coleridge
... Such a soft floating witchery of soundAs twilight Elfins make, when they at eveVoyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land,Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers,Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise,Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed wing!...S. T. Coleridge
... Such a soft floating witchery of sound
As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve
Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land,
Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers,
Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise,
Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed wing!...
S. T. Coleridge
"Terrestrial devils," says Robert Burton, "are those Lares, Genii, Fauns, Satyrs, Wood-nymphs, Foliots, Fairies, Robin Goodfellows, Trulli, etc., which as they are most conversant with men, so they do them most harm.... These are they that dance on heaths and greens ... and leave that green circle, which we commonly find in plain fields, which others hold to proceed from a meteor falling, or some accidental rankness of the ground, so nature sports herself; they are sometimes seen by old women and children.... Paracelsus reckons up many places in Germany, where they do usually walk in little coats, some two feet long. A bigger kind there is of them called with us hobgoblins, and Robin Goodfellows, that would in those superstitious times grind corn for a mess of milk, cut wood, or do any manner of drudgery work. They would mend old irons in those Aeolian isles of Lipari, in former ages, and have been often seen and heard.... Dithmarus Bleskenius, in his description of Iceland, reports for a certainty, that almost in every family they have yet some such familiar spirits.... Another sort of these there are, which frequent forlorn houses.... They will make strange noises in the night, howl sometimes pitifully, and then laugh again, cause great flame and sudden lights, fling stones, rattle chains, shave men, open doors and shut them, fling down platters, stools, chests, sometimes appear in the likeness of hares, crows, black dogs, etc." ...
So too with Hazel Dorn, in the following poem by Mr. Bernard Sleigh, who has most kindly allowed me to print it here for the first time.
They stole her from the well beside the wood.Ten years ago as village gossips tell;One Beltane-eve when trees were all a-budIn copse and fell.Ominous, vast, the moon rose full and redBehind dim hills; no leaf stirred in the glenThat breathless eve, when she was pixy-ledBeyond our ken.For she had worn no rowan in her hair,—Nor set the cream-bowl by the kitchen door,—Nor whispered low the pagan faery prayerOf ancient lore;But trod that daisied ring in hose and shoon,To hear entranced, their elf-bells round her ring;The wizard spells about her wail and croonWith gathering string.Swiftly her arms they bound in gossamer,With elvish lures they held her soul in thrall;With wizard sorceries enveloped herPast cry or call.A passing shepherd caught his breath to seeA golden mist of moving wings and lightsSwirl upwards past the red moon eerielyTo starlit heights.While far off carollings half drowned a cry,Mournful, remote, of "Mother, Mother dear,"Floating across the drifting haze,—a sigh"Farewell, Farewell!"
They stole her from the well beside the wood.Ten years ago as village gossips tell;One Beltane-eve when trees were all a-budIn copse and fell.Ominous, vast, the moon rose full and redBehind dim hills; no leaf stirred in the glenThat breathless eve, when she was pixy-ledBeyond our ken.For she had worn no rowan in her hair,—Nor set the cream-bowl by the kitchen door,—Nor whispered low the pagan faery prayerOf ancient lore;But trod that daisied ring in hose and shoon,To hear entranced, their elf-bells round her ring;The wizard spells about her wail and croonWith gathering string.Swiftly her arms they bound in gossamer,With elvish lures they held her soul in thrall;With wizard sorceries enveloped herPast cry or call.A passing shepherd caught his breath to seeA golden mist of moving wings and lightsSwirl upwards past the red moon eerielyTo starlit heights.While far off carollings half drowned a cry,Mournful, remote, of "Mother, Mother dear,"Floating across the drifting haze,—a sigh"Farewell, Farewell!"
They stole her from the well beside the wood.Ten years ago as village gossips tell;One Beltane-eve when trees were all a-budIn copse and fell.
They stole her from the well beside the wood.
Ten years ago as village gossips tell;
One Beltane-eve when trees were all a-bud
In copse and fell.
Ominous, vast, the moon rose full and redBehind dim hills; no leaf stirred in the glenThat breathless eve, when she was pixy-ledBeyond our ken.
Ominous, vast, the moon rose full and red
Behind dim hills; no leaf stirred in the glen
That breathless eve, when she was pixy-led
Beyond our ken.
For she had worn no rowan in her hair,—Nor set the cream-bowl by the kitchen door,—Nor whispered low the pagan faery prayerOf ancient lore;
For she had worn no rowan in her hair,—
Nor set the cream-bowl by the kitchen door,—
Nor whispered low the pagan faery prayer
Of ancient lore;
But trod that daisied ring in hose and shoon,To hear entranced, their elf-bells round her ring;The wizard spells about her wail and croonWith gathering string.
But trod that daisied ring in hose and shoon,
To hear entranced, their elf-bells round her ring;
The wizard spells about her wail and croon
With gathering string.
Swiftly her arms they bound in gossamer,With elvish lures they held her soul in thrall;With wizard sorceries enveloped herPast cry or call.
Swiftly her arms they bound in gossamer,
With elvish lures they held her soul in thrall;
With wizard sorceries enveloped her
Past cry or call.
A passing shepherd caught his breath to seeA golden mist of moving wings and lightsSwirl upwards past the red moon eerielyTo starlit heights.
A passing shepherd caught his breath to see
A golden mist of moving wings and lights
Swirl upwards past the red moon eeriely
To starlit heights.
While far off carollings half drowned a cry,Mournful, remote, of "Mother, Mother dear,"Floating across the drifting haze,—a sigh"Farewell, Farewell!"
While far off carollings half drowned a cry,
Mournful, remote, of "Mother, Mother dear,"
Floating across the drifting haze,—a sigh
"Farewell, Farewell!"
In the small hours of Beltane or May Day, vast fires have been wont to be kindled on the hills of the Highlands—a custom old as the Druids. Mr. Gilbert Sheldon tells me that as lately as 1899 he saw the hills round Glengariff ablaze withthem. They must be set aflame with what is called need-fire. And need-fire is made by nine men twisting a wimble of wood in a balk of oak until the friction makes sparks fly. With these they ignite dry agaric, a fungus that grows on birch-trees, and soon the blaze is reddening the countryside under the night-sky. Need-fire in a window-nook or carried in a lantern is—like iron—an invincible defence against witches and witchcraft. Beltane cakes—to be eaten whilst squatting on the hills, or dancing and watching the fire—are made out of a caudle of eggs, butter, oatmeal and milk.
So potent is the flower or berry or wood of the rowan or witchwood or quicken or whicken-tree or mountain ash against the wiles of the elf-folk, that dairymaids use it for cream-stirrers and cowherds for a switch.
Rowan-tree and red threadGar the Witches tyne their speed.
Rowan-tree and red threadGar the Witches tyne their speed.
Rowan-tree and red threadGar the Witches tyne their speed.
Rowan-tree and red thread
Gar the Witches tyne their speed.
There are four copies in handwriting—two of them written about 1450—of a rhymed romance telling how Thomas in his youth, while dreaming daydreams under the Eildon Tree, was met and greeted by the Queen of fair Elfland. The ballad on p. 127 has been passed on from mouth to mouth.
Up to our own grandmothers' day, at least, this Thomas Rhymour of Ercildoune—a village nor far distant from where the Leader joins the Tweed—was famous as a Wise One and a Seer (a See-er—with the inward eye). He lived seven centuries ago, between 1210 and 1297. Years after he had returned from Elfland—as the ballad tells—while he sat feasting in his Castle, news was brought to him that a hart and a hind, having issued out of the forest, were to be seen stepping fair and softly down the stony street of the town, to the marvel of the people. At this, Thomas at once rose from among his guests; left the table; made down to the street; followed after these strange summoners: and was seen again no more.
"Ilka tett," line 7, means every twist or plait; a "fairlie," stanza II, is a wonder, mystery, marvel; and the "coat" inthe last stanza, being of "even cloth," was finer than the finestnaplessdamask.
So, too, Young Tamlane, when a boy "just turned of nine," was carried off by the Elfin Queen:
Ae fatal morning I went outDreading nae injury,And thinking lang, fell soun asleepBeneath an apple tree.Then by it came the Elfin QueenAnd laid her hand on me;And from that time since ever I mindI've been in her companie....
Ae fatal morning I went outDreading nae injury,And thinking lang, fell soun asleepBeneath an apple tree.Then by it came the Elfin QueenAnd laid her hand on me;And from that time since ever I mindI've been in her companie....
Ae fatal morning I went outDreading nae injury,And thinking lang, fell soun asleepBeneath an apple tree.
Ae fatal morning I went out
Dreading nae injury,
And thinking lang, fell soun asleep
Beneath an apple tree.
Then by it came the Elfin QueenAnd laid her hand on me;And from that time since ever I mindI've been in her companie....
Then by it came the Elfin Queen
And laid her hand on me;
And from that time since ever I mind
I've been in her companie....
He seems to have been an outlandish and unhuman creature—if this next rhyme tells of him truly (gait, meaning road;pin, (?) knife;coft, bought;moss, peat-bog; andboonmost—you can guess):
Tam o' the linn came up the gait,Wi' twenty puddings on a plate,And every pudding had a pin,"We'll eat them a'," quo' Tam o' the linn.Tam o' the linn had nae breeks to wear,He coft him a sheep's-skin to make him a pair,The fleshy side out, the woolly side in,"It's fine summer cleeding," quo' Tam o' the linn.Tam o' the linn he had three bairns,They fell in the fire, in each others' arms;"Oh," quo' the boonmost, "I've got a het skin;""It's better below," quo' Tam o' the linn.Tam o' the linn gaed to the moss,To seek a stable to his horse;The moss was open, and Tam fell in,"I've stabled mysel'," quo' Tam o' the linn.
Tam o' the linn came up the gait,Wi' twenty puddings on a plate,And every pudding had a pin,"We'll eat them a'," quo' Tam o' the linn.Tam o' the linn had nae breeks to wear,He coft him a sheep's-skin to make him a pair,The fleshy side out, the woolly side in,"It's fine summer cleeding," quo' Tam o' the linn.Tam o' the linn he had three bairns,They fell in the fire, in each others' arms;"Oh," quo' the boonmost, "I've got a het skin;""It's better below," quo' Tam o' the linn.Tam o' the linn gaed to the moss,To seek a stable to his horse;The moss was open, and Tam fell in,"I've stabled mysel'," quo' Tam o' the linn.
Tam o' the linn came up the gait,Wi' twenty puddings on a plate,And every pudding had a pin,"We'll eat them a'," quo' Tam o' the linn.
Tam o' the linn came up the gait,
Wi' twenty puddings on a plate,
And every pudding had a pin,
"We'll eat them a'," quo' Tam o' the linn.
Tam o' the linn had nae breeks to wear,He coft him a sheep's-skin to make him a pair,The fleshy side out, the woolly side in,"It's fine summer cleeding," quo' Tam o' the linn.
Tam o' the linn had nae breeks to wear,
He coft him a sheep's-skin to make him a pair,
The fleshy side out, the woolly side in,
"It's fine summer cleeding," quo' Tam o' the linn.
Tam o' the linn he had three bairns,They fell in the fire, in each others' arms;"Oh," quo' the boonmost, "I've got a het skin;""It's better below," quo' Tam o' the linn.
Tam o' the linn he had three bairns,
They fell in the fire, in each others' arms;
"Oh," quo' the boonmost, "I've got a het skin;"
"It's better below," quo' Tam o' the linn.
Tam o' the linn gaed to the moss,To seek a stable to his horse;The moss was open, and Tam fell in,"I've stabled mysel'," quo' Tam o' the linn.
Tam o' the linn gaed to the moss,
To seek a stable to his horse;
The moss was open, and Tam fell in,
"I've stabled mysel'," quo' Tam o' the linn.
This song is from "Comus," a masque written by Milton for the entertainment of the Earl of Bridgewater, lord lieutenant of Wales, at Ludlow Castle in 1634. That Castle's Hall is now open to the sky—"the lightning shines there; snowburdens the ivy." From a neighbouring room the two princes, Edward V. and his brother, went to their dark death in the Tower. Below the ruinous Castle flow together the Terne and the Corve, on their way to the great Severn—of which Sabrina, the daughter of Estrildis, is the Nymph, she having been drowned in its waters by Guendolen, the jealous queen of Locrine the son of Brut. Estrildis herself, the daughter of King Humber, "so farre excelled in bewtie, that none was then lightly found unto her comparable, for her skin was so whyte that scarcely the fynest kind of Ivorie that might be found, nor the snowe lately fallen downe from the Elament, nor the Lylles did passe the same."
Milton's poems—Lycidas, for instance—frequently resemble bunches of keys, each one of them fitting the lock of some ancient myth or legend. In the lines I have omitted from No. 138 are many such locks awaiting the reader—a reference to the following tale of Glaucus, for example:
There is a secret herb which, if nibbled by fish already gasping to death in our air, gives them the power and cunning to slip back through the grasses into their waters again. Of this herb Glaucus tasted, and instantly his eyes dazzled in desire to share their green transparent deeps. Whereupon the laughing divinities of the rivers gave him sea-green hair, sleeking the stream, fins and a fish's tail, and feasted him merrily. His story is told by Keats in the third book of hisEndymion, while Leucothea's, another reference, is to be found in the fifth of theOdyssey. As for the Sirens, here is the counsel Circe gave Ulysses, the while his seamen lay asleep the night after they had returned in safety from Pluto's dismal mansions:
"... And then observe: They sit amidst a mead,And round about it runs a hedge or wallOf dead men's bones, their withered skins and allHung all along upon it; and these menWere such as they had fawned into their fen,And then their skins hung on their hedge of bones.Sail by them therefore, thy companionsBeforehand causing to stop every earWith sweet soft wax, so close that none may hearA note of all their charmings...."
"... And then observe: They sit amidst a mead,And round about it runs a hedge or wallOf dead men's bones, their withered skins and allHung all along upon it; and these menWere such as they had fawned into their fen,And then their skins hung on their hedge of bones.Sail by them therefore, thy companionsBeforehand causing to stop every earWith sweet soft wax, so close that none may hearA note of all their charmings...."
"... And then observe: They sit amidst a mead,And round about it runs a hedge or wallOf dead men's bones, their withered skins and allHung all along upon it; and these menWere such as they had fawned into their fen,And then their skins hung on their hedge of bones.Sail by them therefore, thy companionsBeforehand causing to stop every earWith sweet soft wax, so close that none may hearA note of all their charmings...."
"... And then observe: They sit amidst a mead,
And round about it runs a hedge or wall
Of dead men's bones, their withered skins and all
Hung all along upon it; and these men
Were such as they had fawned into their fen,
And then their skins hung on their hedge of bones.
Sail by them therefore, thy companions
Beforehand causing to stop every ear
With sweet soft wax, so close that none may hear
A note of all their charmings...."
These Songs are from the last act of "A Midsummer Night's Dream"—the Duke and his guests are retired, and now sleep far from Life's Play; and Puck and the fairies are abroad in his palace.
When the cock begins to crow,And the embers leave to glow,And the owl cries, Tu-whit—Tu-whoo,When crickets do singAnd mice roam about,And midnight bells ringTo call the devout:When the lazy lie sleepingAnd think it no harm,Their zeal is so coldAnd their beds are so warm.When the long—long lazy slutHas not made the parlour clean,No water on the hearth is put,But all things in disorder seem;Then we trip it round the roomAnd make like bees a drowsy hum.Be she Betty, Nan, or Sue,We make her of another hueAnd pinch her black and blue.
When the cock begins to crow,And the embers leave to glow,And the owl cries, Tu-whit—Tu-whoo,When crickets do singAnd mice roam about,And midnight bells ringTo call the devout:When the lazy lie sleepingAnd think it no harm,Their zeal is so coldAnd their beds are so warm.When the long—long lazy slutHas not made the parlour clean,No water on the hearth is put,But all things in disorder seem;Then we trip it round the roomAnd make like bees a drowsy hum.Be she Betty, Nan, or Sue,We make her of another hueAnd pinch her black and blue.
When the cock begins to crow,And the embers leave to glow,And the owl cries, Tu-whit—Tu-whoo,When crickets do singAnd mice roam about,And midnight bells ringTo call the devout:When the lazy lie sleepingAnd think it no harm,Their zeal is so coldAnd their beds are so warm.When the long—long lazy slutHas not made the parlour clean,No water on the hearth is put,But all things in disorder seem;Then we trip it round the roomAnd make like bees a drowsy hum.Be she Betty, Nan, or Sue,We make her of another hueAnd pinch her black and blue.
When the cock begins to crow,
And the embers leave to glow,
And the owl cries, Tu-whit—Tu-whoo,
When crickets do sing
And mice roam about,
And midnight bells ring
To call the devout:
When the lazy lie sleeping
And think it no harm,
Their zeal is so cold
And their beds are so warm.
When the long—long lazy slut
Has not made the parlour clean,
No water on the hearth is put,
But all things in disorder seem;
Then we trip it round the room
And make like bees a drowsy hum.
Be she Betty, Nan, or Sue,
We make her of another hue
And pinch her black and blue.
But when the Puritans came in, it seems, the fairies fled away. And Richard Corbet bewailed their exile:
"Farewell, rewards and fairies!"Good housewives now may say,For now foul sluts in dairiesDo fare as well as they.And though they sweep their hearths no lessThan maids were wont to do,Yet who of late, for cleanliness,Finds sixpence in her shoe?...At morning and at evening bothYou merry were and glad;So little care of sleep or slothThese pretty ladies had;When Tom came home from labour,Or Ciss to milking rose,Then merrily merrily went their tabourAnd nimbly went their toes.Witness those rings and roundelaysOf theirs, which yet remain,Were footed in Queen Mary's daysOn many a grassy plain;But since of late, Elizabeth,And later, James came in,They never danced on any heathAs when the time hath been.
"Farewell, rewards and fairies!"Good housewives now may say,For now foul sluts in dairiesDo fare as well as they.And though they sweep their hearths no lessThan maids were wont to do,Yet who of late, for cleanliness,Finds sixpence in her shoe?...At morning and at evening bothYou merry were and glad;So little care of sleep or slothThese pretty ladies had;When Tom came home from labour,Or Ciss to milking rose,Then merrily merrily went their tabourAnd nimbly went their toes.Witness those rings and roundelaysOf theirs, which yet remain,Were footed in Queen Mary's daysOn many a grassy plain;But since of late, Elizabeth,And later, James came in,They never danced on any heathAs when the time hath been.
"Farewell, rewards and fairies!"Good housewives now may say,For now foul sluts in dairiesDo fare as well as they.And though they sweep their hearths no lessThan maids were wont to do,Yet who of late, for cleanliness,Finds sixpence in her shoe?...
"Farewell, rewards and fairies!"
Good housewives now may say,
For now foul sluts in dairies
Do fare as well as they.
And though they sweep their hearths no less
Than maids were wont to do,
Yet who of late, for cleanliness,
Finds sixpence in her shoe?...
At morning and at evening bothYou merry were and glad;So little care of sleep or slothThese pretty ladies had;When Tom came home from labour,Or Ciss to milking rose,Then merrily merrily went their tabourAnd nimbly went their toes.
At morning and at evening both
You merry were and glad;
So little care of sleep or sloth
These pretty ladies had;
When Tom came home from labour,
Or Ciss to milking rose,
Then merrily merrily went their tabour
And nimbly went their toes.
Witness those rings and roundelaysOf theirs, which yet remain,Were footed in Queen Mary's daysOn many a grassy plain;But since of late, Elizabeth,And later, James came in,They never danced on any heathAs when the time hath been.
Witness those rings and roundelays
Of theirs, which yet remain,
Were footed in Queen Mary's days
On many a grassy plain;
But since of late, Elizabeth,
And later, James came in,
They never danced on any heath
As when the time hath been.
For times change, and with them changes the direction of man's imagination. He turns his questing thoughts now this way, now that; and though our learned dictionaries may maintain that fairy rings are but brighter circles in green grass formed by "certain fungi, especiallymarasmius oreades"—who knows?—
He that sees blowing the wild wood tree,And peewits circling their watery glass,Dreams about Strangers that yet may beDark to our eyes, Alas!
He that sees blowing the wild wood tree,And peewits circling their watery glass,Dreams about Strangers that yet may beDark to our eyes, Alas!
He that sees blowing the wild wood tree,And peewits circling their watery glass,Dreams about Strangers that yet may beDark to our eyes, Alas!
He that sees blowing the wild wood tree,
And peewits circling their watery glass,
Dreams about Strangers that yet may be
Dark to our eyes, Alas!
After all, Geoffrey Chaucer, even inhisdistant day, lamented that England was bereft of the Silent Folk. Whisper, and they will return—bringing with them Prince Oberon, who "is of heyght but of III fote, and crokyd shulderyd.... And yf ye speke to hym, ye are lost for ever."
Another mere fragment—from p. 182 of Mr. C. M. Doughty's Play, entitledThe Cliffs. For the complete "feast" bestowed on the world by this great traveller and poet, the reader must seek out not only this volume, but hisArabia Deserta, and hisDawn in Britain.
"Nan Page (my daughter) and my little sonne,And three or foure more of their growth, wee'l dressLike Urchins, Ouphes, and Fairies, greene and white,With rounds of waxen Tapers on their heads,And rattles in their hands ..."The Merry Wives of Windsor.
"Nan Page (my daughter) and my little sonne,And three or foure more of their growth, wee'l dressLike Urchins, Ouphes, and Fairies, greene and white,With rounds of waxen Tapers on their heads,And rattles in their hands ..."The Merry Wives of Windsor.
"Nan Page (my daughter) and my little sonne,And three or foure more of their growth, wee'l dressLike Urchins, Ouphes, and Fairies, greene and white,With rounds of waxen Tapers on their heads,And rattles in their hands ..."The Merry Wives of Windsor.
"Nan Page (my daughter) and my little sonne,
And three or foure more of their growth, wee'l dress
Like Urchins, Ouphes, and Fairies, greene and white,
With rounds of waxen Tapers on their heads,
And rattles in their hands ..."
The Merry Wives of Windsor.
was in old days the Tally-ho blared at daybreak to rouse the chase.