From the rim it trickles downOf the mountain’s granite crownClear and cool;Keen and eager though it goThrough your veins with lively flow,Yet it knoweth not to reignIn the chambers of the brainWith misrule;Where dark water-cresses growYou will trace its quiet flow,With mossy border yellow,So mild, and soft, and mellow,In its pouring.With no shiny dregs to troubleThe brightness of its bubbleAs it threads its silver wayFrom the granite shoulders greyOf Ben Dorain.Then down the sloping sideIt will slip with glassy slideGently welling,Till it gather strength to leap,With a light and foamy sweep,To the corrie broad and deepProudly swelling;Then bends amid the boulders,’Neath the shadow of the shouldersOf the Ben,Through a country rough and shaggy,So jaggy and so knaggy,Full of hummocks and of hunches,Full of stumps and tufts and bunches,Full of bushes and of rushes,In the glen,Through rich green solitudes,And wildly hanging woodsWith blossom and with bell,In rich redundant swell,And the prideOf the mountain daisy there,And the forest everywhere,With the dress and with the airOf a bride.
From the rim it trickles downOf the mountain’s granite crownClear and cool;Keen and eager though it goThrough your veins with lively flow,Yet it knoweth not to reignIn the chambers of the brainWith misrule;Where dark water-cresses growYou will trace its quiet flow,With mossy border yellow,So mild, and soft, and mellow,In its pouring.With no shiny dregs to troubleThe brightness of its bubbleAs it threads its silver wayFrom the granite shoulders greyOf Ben Dorain.Then down the sloping sideIt will slip with glassy slideGently welling,Till it gather strength to leap,With a light and foamy sweep,To the corrie broad and deepProudly swelling;Then bends amid the boulders,’Neath the shadow of the shouldersOf the Ben,Through a country rough and shaggy,So jaggy and so knaggy,Full of hummocks and of hunches,Full of stumps and tufts and bunches,Full of bushes and of rushes,In the glen,Through rich green solitudes,And wildly hanging woodsWith blossom and with bell,In rich redundant swell,And the prideOf the mountain daisy there,And the forest everywhere,With the dress and with the airOf a bride.
From the rim it trickles downOf the mountain’s granite crownClear and cool;Keen and eager though it goThrough your veins with lively flow,Yet it knoweth not to reignIn the chambers of the brainWith misrule;
Where dark water-cresses growYou will trace its quiet flow,With mossy border yellow,So mild, and soft, and mellow,In its pouring.With no shiny dregs to troubleThe brightness of its bubbleAs it threads its silver wayFrom the granite shoulders greyOf Ben Dorain.
Then down the sloping sideIt will slip with glassy slideGently welling,Till it gather strength to leap,With a light and foamy sweep,To the corrie broad and deepProudly swelling;
Then bends amid the boulders,’Neath the shadow of the shouldersOf the Ben,Through a country rough and shaggy,So jaggy and so knaggy,Full of hummocks and of hunches,Full of stumps and tufts and bunches,Full of bushes and of rushes,In the glen,
Through rich green solitudes,And wildly hanging woodsWith blossom and with bell,In rich redundant swell,And the prideOf the mountain daisy there,And the forest everywhere,With the dress and with the airOf a bride.
MARY MACLEOD
Alone on the hill-top,Sadly and silently,Downward on IslayAnd over the sea—I look and I wonderHow time hath deceived me:A stranger in Muile[25]Who ne’er thought to be.Ne’er thought it, my island!Where rests the deep dark shadeThy grand mossy mountainsFor ages have made—God bless thee, and prosper!Thy chief of the sharp blade,All over these islands,His fame never fade!Never fade it, Sir Norman!For well ’tis the rightOf thy name to win creditIn council or fight;By wisdom, by shrewdness,By spirit, by might,By manliness, courage,By daring, by sleight.In council or fight, thy kindredKnow these should be thine—Branch of Lochlin’s wide-rulingAnd king-bearing line!And in Erin they know it—Far over the brine:No Earl would in AlbinThy friendship decline.Yes! the nobles of ErinThy titles well know,To the honour and friendshipOf high and of low.Born the deed-marks to follow,Thy father did show,—That friend of the noble—That manliest foe.That friend of the noble—From him art thou heirTo virtues which AlbinWas proud to declare:Crown’d the best of her chieftainsLong, long may’st thou wearThe blossoms paternalHis broad branches bare!O banner’d Clan Ruari!Whose loss is my woe,Of this chief who survivesMay I ne’er hear he’s low;But, darling of mortals!From him though I go,Long the shapeliest, comeliestForm may he show!The shapeliest, comeliest,Faultless in bearing—Cheerful, cordial, and kind,The red and white wearing,Well looks the blue-eyed chief;Blue, bright, and daring,His eye o’er his red cheek shines,Blue, bright, calmly daring.His red cheek shines,Like hip on the brier-tree,’Neath the choicest of curly hairWaving and free.A warm hearth, a drinking cup,Meet shall he see,And a choice of good armourWhoe’er visits thee.Drinking-horns, trenchers bright,And arms old and new;Long, narrow-bladed swords,Cold, clear, and blue—These are seen in thy mansion,With rifles and carbines, too;And hempen-strung long-bows,Of hard, healthy yew.Long-bows and cross-bows,With strings that well wear;Arrows, with polish’d heads,In quivers full and fair,From the eagle’s wing feather’d,With silk fine and rare;And guns dear to purchase—Long slender—are there.My heart’s with thee, hero!May Mary’s son keepMy stripling who lovesThe lone forest to sweep;Rejoicing to feel thereThe solitude deepOf the long moor and valley,And rough mountain steep.The mountain steep searchingAnd rough rocky chains;The old dogs he caresses,The young dogs he restrains:Then, soon from my chieftain’s spearThe life-blood rainsOf the red-hided deer or doeAnd the green heather stains.Fall the red stag, the white-bellied doe;Then stand on the heather,Thy gentle companions,Well arm’d altogether,Well taught on the hunter’s craft,Well skill’d in the weather;They know the rough sea as wellAs the green heather!
Alone on the hill-top,Sadly and silently,Downward on IslayAnd over the sea—I look and I wonderHow time hath deceived me:A stranger in Muile[25]Who ne’er thought to be.Ne’er thought it, my island!Where rests the deep dark shadeThy grand mossy mountainsFor ages have made—God bless thee, and prosper!Thy chief of the sharp blade,All over these islands,His fame never fade!Never fade it, Sir Norman!For well ’tis the rightOf thy name to win creditIn council or fight;By wisdom, by shrewdness,By spirit, by might,By manliness, courage,By daring, by sleight.In council or fight, thy kindredKnow these should be thine—Branch of Lochlin’s wide-rulingAnd king-bearing line!And in Erin they know it—Far over the brine:No Earl would in AlbinThy friendship decline.Yes! the nobles of ErinThy titles well know,To the honour and friendshipOf high and of low.Born the deed-marks to follow,Thy father did show,—That friend of the noble—That manliest foe.That friend of the noble—From him art thou heirTo virtues which AlbinWas proud to declare:Crown’d the best of her chieftainsLong, long may’st thou wearThe blossoms paternalHis broad branches bare!O banner’d Clan Ruari!Whose loss is my woe,Of this chief who survivesMay I ne’er hear he’s low;But, darling of mortals!From him though I go,Long the shapeliest, comeliestForm may he show!The shapeliest, comeliest,Faultless in bearing—Cheerful, cordial, and kind,The red and white wearing,Well looks the blue-eyed chief;Blue, bright, and daring,His eye o’er his red cheek shines,Blue, bright, calmly daring.His red cheek shines,Like hip on the brier-tree,’Neath the choicest of curly hairWaving and free.A warm hearth, a drinking cup,Meet shall he see,And a choice of good armourWhoe’er visits thee.Drinking-horns, trenchers bright,And arms old and new;Long, narrow-bladed swords,Cold, clear, and blue—These are seen in thy mansion,With rifles and carbines, too;And hempen-strung long-bows,Of hard, healthy yew.Long-bows and cross-bows,With strings that well wear;Arrows, with polish’d heads,In quivers full and fair,From the eagle’s wing feather’d,With silk fine and rare;And guns dear to purchase—Long slender—are there.My heart’s with thee, hero!May Mary’s son keepMy stripling who lovesThe lone forest to sweep;Rejoicing to feel thereThe solitude deepOf the long moor and valley,And rough mountain steep.The mountain steep searchingAnd rough rocky chains;The old dogs he caresses,The young dogs he restrains:Then, soon from my chieftain’s spearThe life-blood rainsOf the red-hided deer or doeAnd the green heather stains.Fall the red stag, the white-bellied doe;Then stand on the heather,Thy gentle companions,Well arm’d altogether,Well taught on the hunter’s craft,Well skill’d in the weather;They know the rough sea as wellAs the green heather!
Alone on the hill-top,Sadly and silently,Downward on IslayAnd over the sea—I look and I wonderHow time hath deceived me:A stranger in Muile[25]Who ne’er thought to be.
Ne’er thought it, my island!Where rests the deep dark shadeThy grand mossy mountainsFor ages have made—God bless thee, and prosper!Thy chief of the sharp blade,All over these islands,His fame never fade!
Never fade it, Sir Norman!For well ’tis the rightOf thy name to win creditIn council or fight;By wisdom, by shrewdness,By spirit, by might,By manliness, courage,By daring, by sleight.
In council or fight, thy kindredKnow these should be thine—Branch of Lochlin’s wide-rulingAnd king-bearing line!And in Erin they know it—Far over the brine:No Earl would in AlbinThy friendship decline.
Yes! the nobles of ErinThy titles well know,To the honour and friendshipOf high and of low.Born the deed-marks to follow,Thy father did show,—That friend of the noble—That manliest foe.
That friend of the noble—From him art thou heirTo virtues which AlbinWas proud to declare:Crown’d the best of her chieftainsLong, long may’st thou wearThe blossoms paternalHis broad branches bare!
O banner’d Clan Ruari!Whose loss is my woe,Of this chief who survivesMay I ne’er hear he’s low;But, darling of mortals!From him though I go,Long the shapeliest, comeliestForm may he show!
The shapeliest, comeliest,Faultless in bearing—Cheerful, cordial, and kind,The red and white wearing,Well looks the blue-eyed chief;Blue, bright, and daring,His eye o’er his red cheek shines,Blue, bright, calmly daring.
His red cheek shines,Like hip on the brier-tree,’Neath the choicest of curly hairWaving and free.A warm hearth, a drinking cup,Meet shall he see,And a choice of good armourWhoe’er visits thee.
Drinking-horns, trenchers bright,And arms old and new;Long, narrow-bladed swords,Cold, clear, and blue—These are seen in thy mansion,With rifles and carbines, too;And hempen-strung long-bows,Of hard, healthy yew.
Long-bows and cross-bows,With strings that well wear;Arrows, with polish’d heads,In quivers full and fair,From the eagle’s wing feather’d,With silk fine and rare;And guns dear to purchase—Long slender—are there.
My heart’s with thee, hero!May Mary’s son keepMy stripling who lovesThe lone forest to sweep;Rejoicing to feel thereThe solitude deepOf the long moor and valley,And rough mountain steep.
The mountain steep searchingAnd rough rocky chains;The old dogs he caresses,The young dogs he restrains:Then, soon from my chieftain’s spearThe life-blood rainsOf the red-hided deer or doeAnd the green heather stains.
Fall the red stag, the white-bellied doe;Then stand on the heather,Thy gentle companions,Well arm’d altogether,Well taught on the hunter’s craft,Well skill’d in the weather;They know the rough sea as wellAs the green heather!
ANON.
There’s a sound on the hill,Not of joy but of ailing;Dark-hair’d women mourn—Beat their hands, with loud wailing.They cry out, Ochon!For the young Monaltri,Who went to the hill;But home came not he.Without snood, without plaidKatrina’s gone roaming.O Katrina, my dear!Homeward be coming.Och! hear, on the castleYon pretty bird singing,“Snoodless and plaidless,Her hands she is ringing.”
There’s a sound on the hill,Not of joy but of ailing;Dark-hair’d women mourn—Beat their hands, with loud wailing.They cry out, Ochon!For the young Monaltri,Who went to the hill;But home came not he.Without snood, without plaidKatrina’s gone roaming.O Katrina, my dear!Homeward be coming.Och! hear, on the castleYon pretty bird singing,“Snoodless and plaidless,Her hands she is ringing.”
There’s a sound on the hill,Not of joy but of ailing;Dark-hair’d women mourn—Beat their hands, with loud wailing.
They cry out, Ochon!For the young Monaltri,Who went to the hill;But home came not he.
Without snood, without plaidKatrina’s gone roaming.O Katrina, my dear!Homeward be coming.
Och! hear, on the castleYon pretty bird singing,“Snoodless and plaidless,Her hands she is ringing.”
Hó-bhan, hó-bhan, Goiridh òg O,Goiridh òg O, Goiridh òg O;Hó-bhan, hó-bhan, Goiridh òg O,I’ve lost my darling baby O!I left my darling lying here,A-lying here, a-lying here;I left my darling lying here,To go and gather blaeberries.I’ve found the wee brown otter’s track,The otter’s track, the otter’s track;I’ve found the wee brown otter’s track,But ne’er a trace of baby O!I found the track of the swan on the lake,The swan on the lake, the swan on the lake;I found the track of the swan on the lake,But not the track of baby O!I found the track of the yellow fawn,The yellow fawn, the yellow fawn;I found the track of the yellow fawn,But could not trace my baby O!I’ve found the trail of the mountain mist,The mountain mist, the mountain mist;I’ve found the trail of the mountain mist,But ne’er a trace of baby O!
Hó-bhan, hó-bhan, Goiridh òg O,Goiridh òg O, Goiridh òg O;Hó-bhan, hó-bhan, Goiridh òg O,I’ve lost my darling baby O!I left my darling lying here,A-lying here, a-lying here;I left my darling lying here,To go and gather blaeberries.I’ve found the wee brown otter’s track,The otter’s track, the otter’s track;I’ve found the wee brown otter’s track,But ne’er a trace of baby O!I found the track of the swan on the lake,The swan on the lake, the swan on the lake;I found the track of the swan on the lake,But not the track of baby O!I found the track of the yellow fawn,The yellow fawn, the yellow fawn;I found the track of the yellow fawn,But could not trace my baby O!I’ve found the trail of the mountain mist,The mountain mist, the mountain mist;I’ve found the trail of the mountain mist,But ne’er a trace of baby O!
Hó-bhan, hó-bhan, Goiridh òg O,Goiridh òg O, Goiridh òg O;Hó-bhan, hó-bhan, Goiridh òg O,I’ve lost my darling baby O!
I left my darling lying here,A-lying here, a-lying here;I left my darling lying here,To go and gather blaeberries.
I’ve found the wee brown otter’s track,The otter’s track, the otter’s track;I’ve found the wee brown otter’s track,But ne’er a trace of baby O!
I found the track of the swan on the lake,The swan on the lake, the swan on the lake;I found the track of the swan on the lake,But not the track of baby O!
I found the track of the yellow fawn,The yellow fawn, the yellow fawn;I found the track of the yellow fawn,But could not trace my baby O!
I’ve found the trail of the mountain mist,The mountain mist, the mountain mist;I’ve found the trail of the mountain mist,But ne’er a trace of baby O!
ANON.
Ho, my bonnie boatie,Thou bonnie boatie mine!So trim and tight a boatieWas never launched on brine.Ho, my bonnie boatie,My praise is justly thineAbove all bonnie boatiesWere builded on Loch Fyne!Hò mo bhàta laghach,’S tu mo bhàta grinn;Hò mo bhàta laghach,’S tu mo bhàta grinn.Hò mo bhàta laghach,’S tu mo bhàta grinn:Mo bhàta boidheach laghach,Thogadh taobh Loch Fin.To build thee up so firmly,I knew the stuff was good;Thy keel of stoutest elm-tree,Well fixed in oaken wood;Thy timbers ripely seasonedOf cleanest Norway pineWell cased in ruddy copper,To plough the deep were thine!Hò mo bhàta, etc.How lovely was my boatieAt rest upon the shore,Before my bonnie boatieHad known wild ocean’s roar.Thy deck so smooth and stainless,With such fine bend thy rim,Thy seams that know no gaping,Thy masts so tall and trim.Hò mo bhàta, etc.And bonnie was my boatieAfloat upon the bay,When smooth as mirror round herThe heaving ocean lay;While round the cradled boatieLight troops of plumy thingsTo praise the bonnie boatieMade music with their wings.Hò mo bhàta, etc.How eager was my boatieTo plough the swelling seas,When o’er the curling watersFull sharply blew the breeze!O, ’twas she that stood to windward,The first among her peers,When shrill the blasty musicCame piping round her ears!Hò mo bhàta, etc.And where the sea came surgingIn mountains from the west,And reared the racing billowIts high and hissing crest;She turned her head so deftly,With skill so firmly shown,The billows they went their wayThe boatie went her own.Hò mo bhàta, etc.And when the sudden squall cameBlack swooping from the Ben,And white the foam was spinningAround thy topmast then,O never knew my boatieA thought of ugly dread,But dashed right through the billow,With the spray-shower round her head!Hò mo bhàta, etc.Yet wert thou never headstrongTo stand with forward will,When yielding was thy wisdomAnd caution was my skill.How neatly and how nimblyThou turned thee to the wind,With thy leeside in the waterAnd a swirling trail behind!Hò mo bhàta, etc.What though a lonely dwellingOn barren shore I own,My kingdom is the blue wave,My boatie is my throne!I’ll never want a dainty dishTo breakfast or to dine,While men may man my boatieAnd fish swim in Loch Fyne!Hò mo bhàta laghach,’S tu mo bhàta grinn.Hò mo bhàta laghach,’S tu mo bhàta grinn.Hò mo bhàta laghach,’S tu mo bhàta grinn:Mo bhàta boidheach laghach,Thogadh taobh Loch Fin.
Ho, my bonnie boatie,Thou bonnie boatie mine!So trim and tight a boatieWas never launched on brine.Ho, my bonnie boatie,My praise is justly thineAbove all bonnie boatiesWere builded on Loch Fyne!Hò mo bhàta laghach,’S tu mo bhàta grinn;Hò mo bhàta laghach,’S tu mo bhàta grinn.Hò mo bhàta laghach,’S tu mo bhàta grinn:Mo bhàta boidheach laghach,Thogadh taobh Loch Fin.To build thee up so firmly,I knew the stuff was good;Thy keel of stoutest elm-tree,Well fixed in oaken wood;Thy timbers ripely seasonedOf cleanest Norway pineWell cased in ruddy copper,To plough the deep were thine!Hò mo bhàta, etc.How lovely was my boatieAt rest upon the shore,Before my bonnie boatieHad known wild ocean’s roar.Thy deck so smooth and stainless,With such fine bend thy rim,Thy seams that know no gaping,Thy masts so tall and trim.Hò mo bhàta, etc.And bonnie was my boatieAfloat upon the bay,When smooth as mirror round herThe heaving ocean lay;While round the cradled boatieLight troops of plumy thingsTo praise the bonnie boatieMade music with their wings.Hò mo bhàta, etc.How eager was my boatieTo plough the swelling seas,When o’er the curling watersFull sharply blew the breeze!O, ’twas she that stood to windward,The first among her peers,When shrill the blasty musicCame piping round her ears!Hò mo bhàta, etc.And where the sea came surgingIn mountains from the west,And reared the racing billowIts high and hissing crest;She turned her head so deftly,With skill so firmly shown,The billows they went their wayThe boatie went her own.Hò mo bhàta, etc.And when the sudden squall cameBlack swooping from the Ben,And white the foam was spinningAround thy topmast then,O never knew my boatieA thought of ugly dread,But dashed right through the billow,With the spray-shower round her head!Hò mo bhàta, etc.Yet wert thou never headstrongTo stand with forward will,When yielding was thy wisdomAnd caution was my skill.How neatly and how nimblyThou turned thee to the wind,With thy leeside in the waterAnd a swirling trail behind!Hò mo bhàta, etc.What though a lonely dwellingOn barren shore I own,My kingdom is the blue wave,My boatie is my throne!I’ll never want a dainty dishTo breakfast or to dine,While men may man my boatieAnd fish swim in Loch Fyne!Hò mo bhàta laghach,’S tu mo bhàta grinn.Hò mo bhàta laghach,’S tu mo bhàta grinn.Hò mo bhàta laghach,’S tu mo bhàta grinn:Mo bhàta boidheach laghach,Thogadh taobh Loch Fin.
Ho, my bonnie boatie,Thou bonnie boatie mine!So trim and tight a boatieWas never launched on brine.Ho, my bonnie boatie,My praise is justly thineAbove all bonnie boatiesWere builded on Loch Fyne!
Hò mo bhàta laghach,’S tu mo bhàta grinn;Hò mo bhàta laghach,’S tu mo bhàta grinn.Hò mo bhàta laghach,’S tu mo bhàta grinn:Mo bhàta boidheach laghach,Thogadh taobh Loch Fin.To build thee up so firmly,I knew the stuff was good;Thy keel of stoutest elm-tree,Well fixed in oaken wood;Thy timbers ripely seasonedOf cleanest Norway pineWell cased in ruddy copper,To plough the deep were thine!Hò mo bhàta, etc.
How lovely was my boatieAt rest upon the shore,Before my bonnie boatieHad known wild ocean’s roar.Thy deck so smooth and stainless,With such fine bend thy rim,Thy seams that know no gaping,Thy masts so tall and trim.Hò mo bhàta, etc.
And bonnie was my boatieAfloat upon the bay,When smooth as mirror round herThe heaving ocean lay;While round the cradled boatieLight troops of plumy thingsTo praise the bonnie boatieMade music with their wings.Hò mo bhàta, etc.
How eager was my boatieTo plough the swelling seas,When o’er the curling watersFull sharply blew the breeze!O, ’twas she that stood to windward,The first among her peers,When shrill the blasty musicCame piping round her ears!Hò mo bhàta, etc.
And where the sea came surgingIn mountains from the west,And reared the racing billowIts high and hissing crest;She turned her head so deftly,With skill so firmly shown,The billows they went their wayThe boatie went her own.Hò mo bhàta, etc.
And when the sudden squall cameBlack swooping from the Ben,And white the foam was spinningAround thy topmast then,O never knew my boatieA thought of ugly dread,But dashed right through the billow,With the spray-shower round her head!Hò mo bhàta, etc.
Yet wert thou never headstrongTo stand with forward will,When yielding was thy wisdomAnd caution was my skill.How neatly and how nimblyThou turned thee to the wind,With thy leeside in the waterAnd a swirling trail behind!Hò mo bhàta, etc.
What though a lonely dwellingOn barren shore I own,My kingdom is the blue wave,My boatie is my throne!I’ll never want a dainty dishTo breakfast or to dine,While men may man my boatieAnd fish swim in Loch Fyne!Hò mo bhàta laghach,’S tu mo bhàta grinn.Hò mo bhàta laghach,’S tu mo bhàta grinn.Hò mo bhàta laghach,’S tu mo bhàta grinn:Mo bhàta boidheach laghach,Thogadh taobh Loch Fin.
JOHN STUART BLACKIE
I’ve wander’d east and west,And a soldier I hae been;The scars upon my breastTell the wars that I have seen.But now I’m old and worn,And my locks are thinly spread,And I’m come to die in peace,By the Gareloch Head.When I was young and strong,Oft a wandering I would go,By the rough shores of Loch Long,Up to lone Glencroe.But now I’m fain to rest,And my resting-place I’ve made,On the green and gentle bosomOf the Gareloch Head.’Twas here my Jeanie grew,Like a lamb amid the flocks,With her eyes of bonnie blue,And her gowden locks.And here we often met,When with lightsome foot we sped,O’er the green and grassy knollsAt the Gareloch Head.’Twas here she pined and died—O! the salt tear in my e’eForbids my heart to hideWhat Jeanie was to me!’Twas here my Jeanie died,And they scoop’d her lowly bed,’Neath the green and grassy turfAt the Gareloch Head.Like a leaf in leafy June,From the leafy forest torn,She fell, and I’ll fall soonLike a sheaf of yellow corn.For I’m sere and weary now,And I soon shall make my bedWith my Jeanie ’neath the turfAt the Gareloch Head.
I’ve wander’d east and west,And a soldier I hae been;The scars upon my breastTell the wars that I have seen.But now I’m old and worn,And my locks are thinly spread,And I’m come to die in peace,By the Gareloch Head.When I was young and strong,Oft a wandering I would go,By the rough shores of Loch Long,Up to lone Glencroe.But now I’m fain to rest,And my resting-place I’ve made,On the green and gentle bosomOf the Gareloch Head.’Twas here my Jeanie grew,Like a lamb amid the flocks,With her eyes of bonnie blue,And her gowden locks.And here we often met,When with lightsome foot we sped,O’er the green and grassy knollsAt the Gareloch Head.’Twas here she pined and died—O! the salt tear in my e’eForbids my heart to hideWhat Jeanie was to me!’Twas here my Jeanie died,And they scoop’d her lowly bed,’Neath the green and grassy turfAt the Gareloch Head.Like a leaf in leafy June,From the leafy forest torn,She fell, and I’ll fall soonLike a sheaf of yellow corn.For I’m sere and weary now,And I soon shall make my bedWith my Jeanie ’neath the turfAt the Gareloch Head.
I’ve wander’d east and west,And a soldier I hae been;The scars upon my breastTell the wars that I have seen.But now I’m old and worn,And my locks are thinly spread,And I’m come to die in peace,By the Gareloch Head.
When I was young and strong,Oft a wandering I would go,By the rough shores of Loch Long,Up to lone Glencroe.But now I’m fain to rest,And my resting-place I’ve made,On the green and gentle bosomOf the Gareloch Head.
’Twas here my Jeanie grew,Like a lamb amid the flocks,With her eyes of bonnie blue,And her gowden locks.And here we often met,When with lightsome foot we sped,O’er the green and grassy knollsAt the Gareloch Head.
’Twas here she pined and died—O! the salt tear in my e’eForbids my heart to hideWhat Jeanie was to me!’Twas here my Jeanie died,And they scoop’d her lowly bed,’Neath the green and grassy turfAt the Gareloch Head.
Like a leaf in leafy June,From the leafy forest torn,She fell, and I’ll fall soonLike a sheaf of yellow corn.For I’m sere and weary now,And I soon shall make my bedWith my Jeanie ’neath the turfAt the Gareloch Head.
ROBERT BUCHANAN
Wherever men sinned and wept,I wandered in my quest;At last in a Garden of GodI saw the Flower of the World.This Flower had human eyes,Its breath was the breath of the mouth;Sunlight and starlight came,And the Flower drank bliss from both.Whatever was base and unclean,Whatever was sad and strange,Was piled around its roots;It drew its strength from the same.Whatever was formless and basePass’d into fineness and form;Whatever was lifeless and meanGrew into beautiful bloom.Then I thought “O Flower of the World,Miraculous Blossom of things,Light as a faint wreath of snowThou tremblest to fall in the wind:“O beautiful Flower of the World,Fall not nor wither away;He is coming—He cannot be far—The Lord of the Flow’rs and the Stars.”And I cried, “O Spirit divine!That walkest the Garden unseen,Come hither, and bless, ere it dies,The beautiful Flower of the World.”
Wherever men sinned and wept,I wandered in my quest;At last in a Garden of GodI saw the Flower of the World.This Flower had human eyes,Its breath was the breath of the mouth;Sunlight and starlight came,And the Flower drank bliss from both.Whatever was base and unclean,Whatever was sad and strange,Was piled around its roots;It drew its strength from the same.Whatever was formless and basePass’d into fineness and form;Whatever was lifeless and meanGrew into beautiful bloom.Then I thought “O Flower of the World,Miraculous Blossom of things,Light as a faint wreath of snowThou tremblest to fall in the wind:“O beautiful Flower of the World,Fall not nor wither away;He is coming—He cannot be far—The Lord of the Flow’rs and the Stars.”And I cried, “O Spirit divine!That walkest the Garden unseen,Come hither, and bless, ere it dies,The beautiful Flower of the World.”
Wherever men sinned and wept,I wandered in my quest;At last in a Garden of GodI saw the Flower of the World.
This Flower had human eyes,Its breath was the breath of the mouth;Sunlight and starlight came,And the Flower drank bliss from both.
Whatever was base and unclean,Whatever was sad and strange,Was piled around its roots;It drew its strength from the same.
Whatever was formless and basePass’d into fineness and form;Whatever was lifeless and meanGrew into beautiful bloom.
Then I thought “O Flower of the World,Miraculous Blossom of things,Light as a faint wreath of snowThou tremblest to fall in the wind:
“O beautiful Flower of the World,Fall not nor wither away;He is coming—He cannot be far—The Lord of the Flow’rs and the Stars.”
And I cried, “O Spirit divine!That walkest the Garden unseen,Come hither, and bless, ere it dies,The beautiful Flower of the World.”
ROBERT BUCHANAN
I have come from a mystical Land of LightTo a Strange Country;The Land I have left is forgotten quiteIn the Land I see.The round Earth rolls beneath my feet,And the still Stars glow,The murmuring Waters rise and retreat,The Winds come and go.Sure as a heart-beat all things seemIn this Strange Country;So sure, so still, in a dazzle of dream,All things flow free.’Tis life, all life, be it pleasure or pain,In the Field and the Flood,In the beating Heart, in the burning Brain,In the Flesh and the Blood.Deep as Death is the daily strifeOf this Strange Country:All things thrill up till they blossom in Life,And flutter and flee.Nothing is stranger than the rest,From the pole to the pole,The weed by the way, the eggs in the nest,The Flesh and the Soul.Look in mine eyes, O Man I meetIn this Strange Country!Lie in my arms, O Maiden sweet,With thy mouth kiss me!Go by, O King, with thy crownèd browAnd thy sceptred hand—Thou art a straggler too, I vow,From the same strange Land.O wondrous Faces that upstartIn this Strange Country!O Souls, O Shades, that become a partOf my Soul and me!What are ye working so fast and fleet,O Humankind?“We are building Cities for those whose feetAre coming behind;“Our stay is short, we must fly againFrom this Strange Country;But others are growing, women and men,Eternally!”Child, what art thou? and what amI?But a breaking wave!Rising and rolling on, we hieTo the shore of the grave.I have come from a mystical Land of LightTo this Strange Country;This dawn I came, I shall go to-night,Ay me! ay me!I hold my hand to my head and stand’Neath the air’s blue arc,I try to remember the mystical Land,But all is dark.And all around me swim Shapes like mineIn this Strange Country;—They break in the glamour of gleams divine,And they moan “Ay me!”Like waves in the cold Moon’s silvern breathThey gather and roll,Each crest of white is a birth or a death,Each sound is a Soul.Oh, whose is the Eye that gleams so brightO’er this Strange Country?It draws us along with a chain of light,As the Moon the Sea!
I have come from a mystical Land of LightTo a Strange Country;The Land I have left is forgotten quiteIn the Land I see.The round Earth rolls beneath my feet,And the still Stars glow,The murmuring Waters rise and retreat,The Winds come and go.Sure as a heart-beat all things seemIn this Strange Country;So sure, so still, in a dazzle of dream,All things flow free.’Tis life, all life, be it pleasure or pain,In the Field and the Flood,In the beating Heart, in the burning Brain,In the Flesh and the Blood.Deep as Death is the daily strifeOf this Strange Country:All things thrill up till they blossom in Life,And flutter and flee.Nothing is stranger than the rest,From the pole to the pole,The weed by the way, the eggs in the nest,The Flesh and the Soul.Look in mine eyes, O Man I meetIn this Strange Country!Lie in my arms, O Maiden sweet,With thy mouth kiss me!Go by, O King, with thy crownèd browAnd thy sceptred hand—Thou art a straggler too, I vow,From the same strange Land.O wondrous Faces that upstartIn this Strange Country!O Souls, O Shades, that become a partOf my Soul and me!What are ye working so fast and fleet,O Humankind?“We are building Cities for those whose feetAre coming behind;“Our stay is short, we must fly againFrom this Strange Country;But others are growing, women and men,Eternally!”Child, what art thou? and what amI?But a breaking wave!Rising and rolling on, we hieTo the shore of the grave.I have come from a mystical Land of LightTo this Strange Country;This dawn I came, I shall go to-night,Ay me! ay me!I hold my hand to my head and stand’Neath the air’s blue arc,I try to remember the mystical Land,But all is dark.And all around me swim Shapes like mineIn this Strange Country;—They break in the glamour of gleams divine,And they moan “Ay me!”Like waves in the cold Moon’s silvern breathThey gather and roll,Each crest of white is a birth or a death,Each sound is a Soul.Oh, whose is the Eye that gleams so brightO’er this Strange Country?It draws us along with a chain of light,As the Moon the Sea!
I have come from a mystical Land of LightTo a Strange Country;The Land I have left is forgotten quiteIn the Land I see.
The round Earth rolls beneath my feet,And the still Stars glow,The murmuring Waters rise and retreat,The Winds come and go.
Sure as a heart-beat all things seemIn this Strange Country;So sure, so still, in a dazzle of dream,All things flow free.
’Tis life, all life, be it pleasure or pain,In the Field and the Flood,In the beating Heart, in the burning Brain,In the Flesh and the Blood.
Deep as Death is the daily strifeOf this Strange Country:All things thrill up till they blossom in Life,And flutter and flee.
Nothing is stranger than the rest,From the pole to the pole,The weed by the way, the eggs in the nest,The Flesh and the Soul.
Look in mine eyes, O Man I meetIn this Strange Country!Lie in my arms, O Maiden sweet,With thy mouth kiss me!
Go by, O King, with thy crownèd browAnd thy sceptred hand—Thou art a straggler too, I vow,From the same strange Land.
O wondrous Faces that upstartIn this Strange Country!O Souls, O Shades, that become a partOf my Soul and me!
What are ye working so fast and fleet,O Humankind?“We are building Cities for those whose feetAre coming behind;
“Our stay is short, we must fly againFrom this Strange Country;But others are growing, women and men,Eternally!”
Child, what art thou? and what amI?But a breaking wave!Rising and rolling on, we hieTo the shore of the grave.
I have come from a mystical Land of LightTo this Strange Country;This dawn I came, I shall go to-night,Ay me! ay me!
I hold my hand to my head and stand’Neath the air’s blue arc,I try to remember the mystical Land,But all is dark.
And all around me swim Shapes like mineIn this Strange Country;—They break in the glamour of gleams divine,And they moan “Ay me!”
Like waves in the cold Moon’s silvern breathThey gather and roll,Each crest of white is a birth or a death,Each sound is a Soul.
Oh, whose is the Eye that gleams so brightO’er this Strange Country?It draws us along with a chain of light,As the Moon the Sea!
Now, sitting by her side, worn out with weeping,Behold, I fell to sleep, and had a vision,Wherein I heard a wondrous Voice intoning:Crying aloud, “The Master on His throneOpeneth now the seventh seal of wonder,And beckoneth back the angel men name Death.And at His feet the mighty Angel kneeleth,Breathing not; and the Lord doth look upon him,Saying, ’Thy wanderings on earth are ended.’”And lo! the mighty Shadow sitteth idleEven at the silver gates of heaven,Drowsily looking in on quiet waters,And puts his silence among men no longer.*The world was very quiet. Men in trafficCast looks over their shoulders; pallid seamenShivered to walk upon the decks alone;And women barred their doors with bars of iron,In the silence of the night; and at the sunriseTrembled behind the husbandmen afield.I could not see a kirkyard near or far;I thirsted for a green grave, and my visionWas weary for the white gleam of a tombstone.But hearkening dumbly, ever and anonI heard a cry out of a human dwelling,And felt the cold wind of a lost one’s going.One struck a brother fiercely, and he fell,And faded in a darkness; and that otherTore his hair, and was afraid, and could not perish.One struck his aged mother on the mouth,And she vanished with a gray grief from his hearthstone.One melted from her bairn, and on the groundWith sweet unconscious eyes the bairn lay smiling.And many made a weeping among mountains,And hid themselves in caverns, and were drunken.I heard a voice from out the beauteous earth,Whose side rolled up from winter into summer,Crying, “I am grievous for my children.”I heard a voice from out the hoary ocean,Crying, “Burial in the breast of me were better,—Yea, burial in the salt flags and green crystals.”I heard a voice from out the hollow ether,Saying, “The thing ye cursed hath been abolished—Corruption, and decay, and dissolution!”And the world shrieked, and the summer-time was bitter,And men and women feared the air behind them;And for lack of its green graves the world was hateful.*Now at the bottom of a snowy mountainI came upon a woman thin with sorrow,Whose voice was like the crying of a sea-gull:Saying, “O Angel of the Lord, come hither,And bring me him I seek for on thy bosom,That I may close his eyelids and embrace him.“I curse thee that I cannot look upon him!I curse thee that I know not he is sleeping!Yet know that he has vanished upon God!“I laid my little girl upon a wood-bier,And very sweet she seemed, and near unto me;And slipping flowers into her shroud was comfort.“I put my silver mother in the darkness,And kissed her, and was solaced by her kisses,And set a stone, to mark the place, above her.“And green, green were their quiet sleeping places,So green that it was pleasant to rememberThat I and my tall man would sleep beside them.“The closing of dead eyelids is not dreadful,For comfort comes upon us when we close them,And tears fall, and our sorrow grows familiar;“And we can sit above them where they slumber,And spin a dreamy pain into a sweetness,And know indeed that we are very near them.“But to reach out empty arms is surely dreadful,And to feel the hollow empty world is awful,And bitter grow the silence and the distance.“There is no space for grieving or for weeping;No touch, no cold, no agony to strive with,And nothing but a horror and a blankness!”*Now behold I saw a woman in a mud-hutRaking the white spent embers with her fingers,And fouling her bright hair with the white ashes.Her mouth was very bitter with the ashes;Her eyes with dust were blinded; and her sorrowSobbed in the throat of her like gurgling water.And, all around, the voiceless hills were hoary,But red light scorched their edges; and above herThere was a soundless trouble of the vapours.“Whither, and O whither,” said the woman,“O Spirit of the Lord, hast Thou conveyed them,My little ones, my little son and daughter?“For, lo! we wandered forth at early morning,And winds were blowing round us, and their mouthsBlew rose-buds to the rose-buds, and their eyes“Looked violets at the violets, and their hairMade sunshine in the sunshine, and their passingLeft a pleasure in the dewy leaves behind them;“And suddenly my little son looked upward,And his eyes were dried like dew-drops; and his goingWas like a blow of fire upon my face.“And my little son was gone. My little daughterLooked round me for him, clinging to my vesture;But the Lord had drawn him from me, and I knew it“By the sign He gives the stricken, that the lost oneLingers nowhere on the earth, on hill or valley,Neither underneath the grasses nor the tree-roots.“And my shriek was like the splitting of an ice-reef,And I sank among my hair, and all my palmWas moist and warm where the little hand had filled it.“Then I fled and sought him wildly, hither and thither—Though I knew that he was stricken from me whollyBy the token that the Spirit gives the stricken.“I sought him in the sunlight and the starlight,I sought him in great forests, and in watersWhere I saw mine own pale image looking at me.“And I forgot my little bright-haired daughter,Though her voice was like a wild-bird’s far behind me,Till the voice ceased, and the universe was silent.“And stilly, in the starlight, came I backwardTo the forest where I missed him; and no voicesBrake the stillness as I stooped down in the starlight,“And saw two little shoes filled up with dew,And no mark of little footsteps any farther,And knew my little daughter had gone also.”*But beasts died; yea, the cattle in the yoke,The milk-cow in the meadow, and the sheep,And the dog upon the doorstep: and men envied.And birds died; yea, the eagle at the sun-gate,The swan upon the waters, and the farm-fowl,And the swallows on the housetops: and men envied.And reptiles; yea, the toad upon the roadside,The slimy, speckled snake among the grass,The lizard on the ruin: and men envied.The dog in lonely places cried not overThe body of his master; but it missed him,And whined into the air, and died, and rotted.The traveller’s horse lay swollen in the pathway,And the blue fly fed upon it; but no travellerWas there; nay, not his footprint on the ground.The cat mewed in the midnight, and the blindGave a rustle, and the lamp burned blue and faint,And the father’s bed was empty in the morning.The mother fell to sleep beside the cradle,Rocking it, while she slumbered, with her foot,And wakened,—and the cradle there was empty.I saw a two-years’ child, and he was playing;And he found a dead white bird upon the doorway,And laughed, and ran to show it to his mother,The mother moaned, and clutched him, and was bitter,And flung the dead white bird across the threshold;And another white bird flitted round and round it,And uttered a sharp cry, and twittered and twittered,And lit beside its dead mate, and grew busy,Strewing it over with green leaves and yellow.*So far, so far to seek for were the limitsOf affliction; and men’s terror grew a homelessTerror, yea, and a fatal sense of blankness.There was no little token of distraction,There was no visible presence of bereavement,Such as the mourner easeth out his heart on.There was no comfort in the slow farewell,Nor gentle shutting of belovèd eyes,Nor beautiful broodings over sleeping features.There were no kisses on familiar faces,No weaving of white grave-clothes, no last ponderingOver the still wax cheeks and folded fingers.There was no putting tokens under pillows,There was no dreadful beauty slowly fading,Fading like moonlight softly into darkness.There were no churchyard paths to walk on, thinkingHow near the well-beloved ones are lying.There were no sweet green graves to sit and muse on,Till grief should grow a summer meditation,The shadow of the passing of an angel,And sleeping should seem easy, and not cruel.Nothing but wondrous parting and a blankness.
Now, sitting by her side, worn out with weeping,Behold, I fell to sleep, and had a vision,Wherein I heard a wondrous Voice intoning:Crying aloud, “The Master on His throneOpeneth now the seventh seal of wonder,And beckoneth back the angel men name Death.And at His feet the mighty Angel kneeleth,Breathing not; and the Lord doth look upon him,Saying, ’Thy wanderings on earth are ended.’”And lo! the mighty Shadow sitteth idleEven at the silver gates of heaven,Drowsily looking in on quiet waters,And puts his silence among men no longer.*The world was very quiet. Men in trafficCast looks over their shoulders; pallid seamenShivered to walk upon the decks alone;And women barred their doors with bars of iron,In the silence of the night; and at the sunriseTrembled behind the husbandmen afield.I could not see a kirkyard near or far;I thirsted for a green grave, and my visionWas weary for the white gleam of a tombstone.But hearkening dumbly, ever and anonI heard a cry out of a human dwelling,And felt the cold wind of a lost one’s going.One struck a brother fiercely, and he fell,And faded in a darkness; and that otherTore his hair, and was afraid, and could not perish.One struck his aged mother on the mouth,And she vanished with a gray grief from his hearthstone.One melted from her bairn, and on the groundWith sweet unconscious eyes the bairn lay smiling.And many made a weeping among mountains,And hid themselves in caverns, and were drunken.I heard a voice from out the beauteous earth,Whose side rolled up from winter into summer,Crying, “I am grievous for my children.”I heard a voice from out the hoary ocean,Crying, “Burial in the breast of me were better,—Yea, burial in the salt flags and green crystals.”I heard a voice from out the hollow ether,Saying, “The thing ye cursed hath been abolished—Corruption, and decay, and dissolution!”And the world shrieked, and the summer-time was bitter,And men and women feared the air behind them;And for lack of its green graves the world was hateful.*Now at the bottom of a snowy mountainI came upon a woman thin with sorrow,Whose voice was like the crying of a sea-gull:Saying, “O Angel of the Lord, come hither,And bring me him I seek for on thy bosom,That I may close his eyelids and embrace him.“I curse thee that I cannot look upon him!I curse thee that I know not he is sleeping!Yet know that he has vanished upon God!“I laid my little girl upon a wood-bier,And very sweet she seemed, and near unto me;And slipping flowers into her shroud was comfort.“I put my silver mother in the darkness,And kissed her, and was solaced by her kisses,And set a stone, to mark the place, above her.“And green, green were their quiet sleeping places,So green that it was pleasant to rememberThat I and my tall man would sleep beside them.“The closing of dead eyelids is not dreadful,For comfort comes upon us when we close them,And tears fall, and our sorrow grows familiar;“And we can sit above them where they slumber,And spin a dreamy pain into a sweetness,And know indeed that we are very near them.“But to reach out empty arms is surely dreadful,And to feel the hollow empty world is awful,And bitter grow the silence and the distance.“There is no space for grieving or for weeping;No touch, no cold, no agony to strive with,And nothing but a horror and a blankness!”*Now behold I saw a woman in a mud-hutRaking the white spent embers with her fingers,And fouling her bright hair with the white ashes.Her mouth was very bitter with the ashes;Her eyes with dust were blinded; and her sorrowSobbed in the throat of her like gurgling water.And, all around, the voiceless hills were hoary,But red light scorched their edges; and above herThere was a soundless trouble of the vapours.“Whither, and O whither,” said the woman,“O Spirit of the Lord, hast Thou conveyed them,My little ones, my little son and daughter?“For, lo! we wandered forth at early morning,And winds were blowing round us, and their mouthsBlew rose-buds to the rose-buds, and their eyes“Looked violets at the violets, and their hairMade sunshine in the sunshine, and their passingLeft a pleasure in the dewy leaves behind them;“And suddenly my little son looked upward,And his eyes were dried like dew-drops; and his goingWas like a blow of fire upon my face.“And my little son was gone. My little daughterLooked round me for him, clinging to my vesture;But the Lord had drawn him from me, and I knew it“By the sign He gives the stricken, that the lost oneLingers nowhere on the earth, on hill or valley,Neither underneath the grasses nor the tree-roots.“And my shriek was like the splitting of an ice-reef,And I sank among my hair, and all my palmWas moist and warm where the little hand had filled it.“Then I fled and sought him wildly, hither and thither—Though I knew that he was stricken from me whollyBy the token that the Spirit gives the stricken.“I sought him in the sunlight and the starlight,I sought him in great forests, and in watersWhere I saw mine own pale image looking at me.“And I forgot my little bright-haired daughter,Though her voice was like a wild-bird’s far behind me,Till the voice ceased, and the universe was silent.“And stilly, in the starlight, came I backwardTo the forest where I missed him; and no voicesBrake the stillness as I stooped down in the starlight,“And saw two little shoes filled up with dew,And no mark of little footsteps any farther,And knew my little daughter had gone also.”*But beasts died; yea, the cattle in the yoke,The milk-cow in the meadow, and the sheep,And the dog upon the doorstep: and men envied.And birds died; yea, the eagle at the sun-gate,The swan upon the waters, and the farm-fowl,And the swallows on the housetops: and men envied.And reptiles; yea, the toad upon the roadside,The slimy, speckled snake among the grass,The lizard on the ruin: and men envied.The dog in lonely places cried not overThe body of his master; but it missed him,And whined into the air, and died, and rotted.The traveller’s horse lay swollen in the pathway,And the blue fly fed upon it; but no travellerWas there; nay, not his footprint on the ground.The cat mewed in the midnight, and the blindGave a rustle, and the lamp burned blue and faint,And the father’s bed was empty in the morning.The mother fell to sleep beside the cradle,Rocking it, while she slumbered, with her foot,And wakened,—and the cradle there was empty.I saw a two-years’ child, and he was playing;And he found a dead white bird upon the doorway,And laughed, and ran to show it to his mother,The mother moaned, and clutched him, and was bitter,And flung the dead white bird across the threshold;And another white bird flitted round and round it,And uttered a sharp cry, and twittered and twittered,And lit beside its dead mate, and grew busy,Strewing it over with green leaves and yellow.*So far, so far to seek for were the limitsOf affliction; and men’s terror grew a homelessTerror, yea, and a fatal sense of blankness.There was no little token of distraction,There was no visible presence of bereavement,Such as the mourner easeth out his heart on.There was no comfort in the slow farewell,Nor gentle shutting of belovèd eyes,Nor beautiful broodings over sleeping features.There were no kisses on familiar faces,No weaving of white grave-clothes, no last ponderingOver the still wax cheeks and folded fingers.There was no putting tokens under pillows,There was no dreadful beauty slowly fading,Fading like moonlight softly into darkness.There were no churchyard paths to walk on, thinkingHow near the well-beloved ones are lying.There were no sweet green graves to sit and muse on,Till grief should grow a summer meditation,The shadow of the passing of an angel,And sleeping should seem easy, and not cruel.Nothing but wondrous parting and a blankness.
Now, sitting by her side, worn out with weeping,Behold, I fell to sleep, and had a vision,Wherein I heard a wondrous Voice intoning:
Crying aloud, “The Master on His throneOpeneth now the seventh seal of wonder,And beckoneth back the angel men name Death.
And at His feet the mighty Angel kneeleth,Breathing not; and the Lord doth look upon him,Saying, ’Thy wanderings on earth are ended.’”
And lo! the mighty Shadow sitteth idleEven at the silver gates of heaven,Drowsily looking in on quiet waters,And puts his silence among men no longer.*The world was very quiet. Men in trafficCast looks over their shoulders; pallid seamenShivered to walk upon the decks alone;
And women barred their doors with bars of iron,In the silence of the night; and at the sunriseTrembled behind the husbandmen afield.
I could not see a kirkyard near or far;I thirsted for a green grave, and my visionWas weary for the white gleam of a tombstone.
But hearkening dumbly, ever and anonI heard a cry out of a human dwelling,And felt the cold wind of a lost one’s going.
One struck a brother fiercely, and he fell,And faded in a darkness; and that otherTore his hair, and was afraid, and could not perish.
One struck his aged mother on the mouth,And she vanished with a gray grief from his hearthstone.One melted from her bairn, and on the ground
With sweet unconscious eyes the bairn lay smiling.And many made a weeping among mountains,And hid themselves in caverns, and were drunken.
I heard a voice from out the beauteous earth,Whose side rolled up from winter into summer,Crying, “I am grievous for my children.”
I heard a voice from out the hoary ocean,Crying, “Burial in the breast of me were better,—Yea, burial in the salt flags and green crystals.”
I heard a voice from out the hollow ether,Saying, “The thing ye cursed hath been abolished—Corruption, and decay, and dissolution!”
And the world shrieked, and the summer-time was bitter,And men and women feared the air behind them;And for lack of its green graves the world was hateful.*Now at the bottom of a snowy mountainI came upon a woman thin with sorrow,Whose voice was like the crying of a sea-gull:
Saying, “O Angel of the Lord, come hither,And bring me him I seek for on thy bosom,That I may close his eyelids and embrace him.
“I curse thee that I cannot look upon him!I curse thee that I know not he is sleeping!Yet know that he has vanished upon God!
“I laid my little girl upon a wood-bier,And very sweet she seemed, and near unto me;And slipping flowers into her shroud was comfort.
“I put my silver mother in the darkness,And kissed her, and was solaced by her kisses,And set a stone, to mark the place, above her.
“And green, green were their quiet sleeping places,So green that it was pleasant to rememberThat I and my tall man would sleep beside them.
“The closing of dead eyelids is not dreadful,For comfort comes upon us when we close them,And tears fall, and our sorrow grows familiar;
“And we can sit above them where they slumber,And spin a dreamy pain into a sweetness,And know indeed that we are very near them.
“But to reach out empty arms is surely dreadful,And to feel the hollow empty world is awful,And bitter grow the silence and the distance.
“There is no space for grieving or for weeping;No touch, no cold, no agony to strive with,And nothing but a horror and a blankness!”*Now behold I saw a woman in a mud-hutRaking the white spent embers with her fingers,And fouling her bright hair with the white ashes.
Her mouth was very bitter with the ashes;Her eyes with dust were blinded; and her sorrowSobbed in the throat of her like gurgling water.
And, all around, the voiceless hills were hoary,But red light scorched their edges; and above herThere was a soundless trouble of the vapours.
“Whither, and O whither,” said the woman,“O Spirit of the Lord, hast Thou conveyed them,My little ones, my little son and daughter?
“For, lo! we wandered forth at early morning,And winds were blowing round us, and their mouthsBlew rose-buds to the rose-buds, and their eyes
“Looked violets at the violets, and their hairMade sunshine in the sunshine, and their passingLeft a pleasure in the dewy leaves behind them;
“And suddenly my little son looked upward,And his eyes were dried like dew-drops; and his goingWas like a blow of fire upon my face.
“And my little son was gone. My little daughterLooked round me for him, clinging to my vesture;But the Lord had drawn him from me, and I knew it
“By the sign He gives the stricken, that the lost oneLingers nowhere on the earth, on hill or valley,Neither underneath the grasses nor the tree-roots.
“And my shriek was like the splitting of an ice-reef,And I sank among my hair, and all my palmWas moist and warm where the little hand had filled it.
“Then I fled and sought him wildly, hither and thither—Though I knew that he was stricken from me whollyBy the token that the Spirit gives the stricken.
“I sought him in the sunlight and the starlight,I sought him in great forests, and in watersWhere I saw mine own pale image looking at me.
“And I forgot my little bright-haired daughter,Though her voice was like a wild-bird’s far behind me,Till the voice ceased, and the universe was silent.
“And stilly, in the starlight, came I backwardTo the forest where I missed him; and no voicesBrake the stillness as I stooped down in the starlight,
“And saw two little shoes filled up with dew,And no mark of little footsteps any farther,And knew my little daughter had gone also.”*But beasts died; yea, the cattle in the yoke,The milk-cow in the meadow, and the sheep,And the dog upon the doorstep: and men envied.
And birds died; yea, the eagle at the sun-gate,The swan upon the waters, and the farm-fowl,And the swallows on the housetops: and men envied.
And reptiles; yea, the toad upon the roadside,The slimy, speckled snake among the grass,The lizard on the ruin: and men envied.
The dog in lonely places cried not overThe body of his master; but it missed him,And whined into the air, and died, and rotted.
The traveller’s horse lay swollen in the pathway,And the blue fly fed upon it; but no travellerWas there; nay, not his footprint on the ground.
The cat mewed in the midnight, and the blindGave a rustle, and the lamp burned blue and faint,And the father’s bed was empty in the morning.
The mother fell to sleep beside the cradle,Rocking it, while she slumbered, with her foot,And wakened,—and the cradle there was empty.
I saw a two-years’ child, and he was playing;And he found a dead white bird upon the doorway,And laughed, and ran to show it to his mother,
The mother moaned, and clutched him, and was bitter,And flung the dead white bird across the threshold;And another white bird flitted round and round it,
And uttered a sharp cry, and twittered and twittered,And lit beside its dead mate, and grew busy,Strewing it over with green leaves and yellow.*So far, so far to seek for were the limitsOf affliction; and men’s terror grew a homelessTerror, yea, and a fatal sense of blankness.
There was no little token of distraction,There was no visible presence of bereavement,Such as the mourner easeth out his heart on.
There was no comfort in the slow farewell,Nor gentle shutting of belovèd eyes,Nor beautiful broodings over sleeping features.
There were no kisses on familiar faces,No weaving of white grave-clothes, no last ponderingOver the still wax cheeks and folded fingers.
There was no putting tokens under pillows,There was no dreadful beauty slowly fading,Fading like moonlight softly into darkness.
There were no churchyard paths to walk on, thinkingHow near the well-beloved ones are lying.There were no sweet green graves to sit and muse on,
Till grief should grow a summer meditation,The shadow of the passing of an angel,And sleeping should seem easy, and not cruel.
Nothing but wondrous parting and a blankness.
*
*
But I woke,And, lo! the burthen was uplifted,And I prayed within the chamber where she slumbered,And my tears flowed fast and free, but were not bitter.I eased my heart three days by watching near her,And made her pillow sweet with scent and flowers,And could bear at last to put her in the darkness.And I heard the kirk-bells ringing very slowly,And the priests were in their vestments, and the earthDripped awful on the hard wood, yet I bore it.And I cried, “O unseen Sender of Corruption,I bless Thee for the wonder of Thy mercy,Which softeneth the mystery and the parting.“I bless Thee for the change and for the comfort,The bloomless face, shut eyes, and waxen fingers,—For Sleeping, and for Silence, and Corruption.”
But I woke,And, lo! the burthen was uplifted,And I prayed within the chamber where she slumbered,And my tears flowed fast and free, but were not bitter.I eased my heart three days by watching near her,And made her pillow sweet with scent and flowers,And could bear at last to put her in the darkness.And I heard the kirk-bells ringing very slowly,And the priests were in their vestments, and the earthDripped awful on the hard wood, yet I bore it.And I cried, “O unseen Sender of Corruption,I bless Thee for the wonder of Thy mercy,Which softeneth the mystery and the parting.“I bless Thee for the change and for the comfort,The bloomless face, shut eyes, and waxen fingers,—For Sleeping, and for Silence, and Corruption.”
But I woke,And, lo! the burthen was uplifted,And I prayed within the chamber where she slumbered,And my tears flowed fast and free, but were not bitter.
I eased my heart three days by watching near her,And made her pillow sweet with scent and flowers,And could bear at last to put her in the darkness.
And I heard the kirk-bells ringing very slowly,And the priests were in their vestments, and the earthDripped awful on the hard wood, yet I bore it.
And I cried, “O unseen Sender of Corruption,I bless Thee for the wonder of Thy mercy,Which softeneth the mystery and the parting.
“I bless Thee for the change and for the comfort,The bloomless face, shut eyes, and waxen fingers,—For Sleeping, and for Silence, and Corruption.”
ROBERT BUCHANAN
Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! Daughter of a Fay!I had not been a wedded wife a twelvemonth and a day,I had not nurs’d my little one a month upon my knee,When down among the blue-bell banks rose elfins three times three,They gripp’d me by the raven hair, I could not cry for fear,They put a hempen rope around my waist and dragg’d me here,They made me sit and give thee suck as mortal mothers can,Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! strange and weak and wan!Dim Face, Grim Face! lie ye there so still?Thy red, red lips are at my breast, and thou may’st suck thy fill;But know ye, tho’ I hold thee firm, and rock thee to and fro,’Tis not to soothe thee into sleep, but just to still my woe?And know ye, when I lean so calm against the wall of stone,’Tis when I shut my eyes and try to think thou art mine own?And know ye, tho’ my milk be here, my heart is far away,Dim Face, Grim Face! Daughter of a Fay!Gold Hair, Cold Hair! Daughter to a King!Wrapp’d in bands of snow-white silk with jewels glittering,Tiny slippers of the gold upon thy feet so thin,Silver cradle velvet-lin’d for thee to slumber in,Pygmy pages, crimson-hair’d, to serve thee on their knees,To fan thy face with ferns and bring thee honey bags of bees,—I was but a peasant lass, my babe had but the milk,Gold Hair, Cold Hair! raimented in silk!Pale Thing, Frail Thing! dumb and weak and thin,Altho’ thou ne’er dost utter sigh thou’rt shadow’d with a sin;Thy minnie scorns to suckle thee, thy minnie is an elf,Upon a bed of rose’s-leaves she lies and fans herself;And though my heart is aching so for one afar from me,I often look into thy face and drop a tear for thee,And I am but a peasant born, a lowly cottar’s wife,Pale Thing, Frail Thing! sucking at my life!Weak Thing, Meek Thing! take no blame from me,Altho’ my babe may moan for lack of what I give to thee;For though thou art a faëry child, and though thou art my woe,To feel thee sucking at my breast is all the bliss I know;It soothes me, though afar away I hear my daughter call,My heart were broken if I felt no little lips at all!If I had none to tend at all, to be its nurse and slave,Weak Thing, Meek Thing! I should shriek and rave!Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! lying on my knee!If soon I be not taken back unto mine own countree,To feel my own babe’s little lips, as I am feeling thine,To smooth the golden threads of hair, to see the blue eyes shine,—I’ll lean my head against the wall and close my weary eyes,And think my own babe draws the milk with balmy pants and sighs,And smile and bless my little one and sweetly pass away,Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! Daughter of a Fay!
Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! Daughter of a Fay!I had not been a wedded wife a twelvemonth and a day,I had not nurs’d my little one a month upon my knee,When down among the blue-bell banks rose elfins three times three,They gripp’d me by the raven hair, I could not cry for fear,They put a hempen rope around my waist and dragg’d me here,They made me sit and give thee suck as mortal mothers can,Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! strange and weak and wan!Dim Face, Grim Face! lie ye there so still?Thy red, red lips are at my breast, and thou may’st suck thy fill;But know ye, tho’ I hold thee firm, and rock thee to and fro,’Tis not to soothe thee into sleep, but just to still my woe?And know ye, when I lean so calm against the wall of stone,’Tis when I shut my eyes and try to think thou art mine own?And know ye, tho’ my milk be here, my heart is far away,Dim Face, Grim Face! Daughter of a Fay!Gold Hair, Cold Hair! Daughter to a King!Wrapp’d in bands of snow-white silk with jewels glittering,Tiny slippers of the gold upon thy feet so thin,Silver cradle velvet-lin’d for thee to slumber in,Pygmy pages, crimson-hair’d, to serve thee on their knees,To fan thy face with ferns and bring thee honey bags of bees,—I was but a peasant lass, my babe had but the milk,Gold Hair, Cold Hair! raimented in silk!Pale Thing, Frail Thing! dumb and weak and thin,Altho’ thou ne’er dost utter sigh thou’rt shadow’d with a sin;Thy minnie scorns to suckle thee, thy minnie is an elf,Upon a bed of rose’s-leaves she lies and fans herself;And though my heart is aching so for one afar from me,I often look into thy face and drop a tear for thee,And I am but a peasant born, a lowly cottar’s wife,Pale Thing, Frail Thing! sucking at my life!Weak Thing, Meek Thing! take no blame from me,Altho’ my babe may moan for lack of what I give to thee;For though thou art a faëry child, and though thou art my woe,To feel thee sucking at my breast is all the bliss I know;It soothes me, though afar away I hear my daughter call,My heart were broken if I felt no little lips at all!If I had none to tend at all, to be its nurse and slave,Weak Thing, Meek Thing! I should shriek and rave!Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! lying on my knee!If soon I be not taken back unto mine own countree,To feel my own babe’s little lips, as I am feeling thine,To smooth the golden threads of hair, to see the blue eyes shine,—I’ll lean my head against the wall and close my weary eyes,And think my own babe draws the milk with balmy pants and sighs,And smile and bless my little one and sweetly pass away,Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! Daughter of a Fay!
Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! Daughter of a Fay!I had not been a wedded wife a twelvemonth and a day,I had not nurs’d my little one a month upon my knee,When down among the blue-bell banks rose elfins three times three,They gripp’d me by the raven hair, I could not cry for fear,They put a hempen rope around my waist and dragg’d me here,They made me sit and give thee suck as mortal mothers can,Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! strange and weak and wan!
Dim Face, Grim Face! lie ye there so still?Thy red, red lips are at my breast, and thou may’st suck thy fill;But know ye, tho’ I hold thee firm, and rock thee to and fro,’Tis not to soothe thee into sleep, but just to still my woe?And know ye, when I lean so calm against the wall of stone,’Tis when I shut my eyes and try to think thou art mine own?And know ye, tho’ my milk be here, my heart is far away,Dim Face, Grim Face! Daughter of a Fay!
Gold Hair, Cold Hair! Daughter to a King!Wrapp’d in bands of snow-white silk with jewels glittering,Tiny slippers of the gold upon thy feet so thin,Silver cradle velvet-lin’d for thee to slumber in,Pygmy pages, crimson-hair’d, to serve thee on their knees,To fan thy face with ferns and bring thee honey bags of bees,—I was but a peasant lass, my babe had but the milk,Gold Hair, Cold Hair! raimented in silk!
Pale Thing, Frail Thing! dumb and weak and thin,Altho’ thou ne’er dost utter sigh thou’rt shadow’d with a sin;Thy minnie scorns to suckle thee, thy minnie is an elf,Upon a bed of rose’s-leaves she lies and fans herself;And though my heart is aching so for one afar from me,I often look into thy face and drop a tear for thee,And I am but a peasant born, a lowly cottar’s wife,Pale Thing, Frail Thing! sucking at my life!
Weak Thing, Meek Thing! take no blame from me,Altho’ my babe may moan for lack of what I give to thee;For though thou art a faëry child, and though thou art my woe,To feel thee sucking at my breast is all the bliss I know;It soothes me, though afar away I hear my daughter call,My heart were broken if I felt no little lips at all!If I had none to tend at all, to be its nurse and slave,Weak Thing, Meek Thing! I should shriek and rave!
Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! lying on my knee!If soon I be not taken back unto mine own countree,To feel my own babe’s little lips, as I am feeling thine,To smooth the golden threads of hair, to see the blue eyes shine,—I’ll lean my head against the wall and close my weary eyes,And think my own babe draws the milk with balmy pants and sighs,And smile and bless my little one and sweetly pass away,Bright Eyes, Light Eyes! Daughter of a Fay!