The Project Gutenberg eBook ofNew Collected Rhymes

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofNew Collected RhymesThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: New Collected RhymesAuthor: Andrew LangRelease date: May 1, 1999 [eBook #1746]Most recently updated: September 8, 2014Language: EnglishOriginal publication: Longmans, Green and Co.,, 1905Credits: Transcribed from the 1905 Longmans, Green and Co. edition by David Price*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEW COLLECTED RHYMES ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: New Collected RhymesAuthor: Andrew LangRelease date: May 1, 1999 [eBook #1746]Most recently updated: September 8, 2014Language: EnglishOriginal publication: Longmans, Green and Co.,, 1905Credits: Transcribed from the 1905 Longmans, Green and Co. edition by David Price

Title: New Collected Rhymes

Author: Andrew Lang

Release date: May 1, 1999 [eBook #1746]Most recently updated: September 8, 2014

Language: English

Original publication: Longmans, Green and Co.,, 1905

Credits: Transcribed from the 1905 Longmans, Green and Co. edition by David Price

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEW COLLECTED RHYMES ***

Transcribed from the 1905 Longmans, Green and Co. edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

BYANDREW LANG

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDONNEW YORK AND BOMBAY

1905

Thispoor little flutter of rhymes would not have been let down the wind: the project would have been abandoned but for the too flattering encouragement of a responsible friend. I trust that he may not “live to rue the day,” like Keith of Craigentolly in the ballad.

The “Loyal Lyrics” on Charles and James and the White Rose must not be understood as implying a rebellious desire for the subversion of the present illustrious dynasty.

“These are but symbols that I sing,These names of Prince, and rose, and King;Types of things dear that do not die,But reign in loyal memory.Across the watersurely theyAbide their twenty-ninth of May;And we shall hail their happy reign,When Life comes to his own again,”—

over the water that divides us from the voices and faces of our desires and dreams.

Of the ballads,The Young RuthvenandThe Queen of Spainwere written in competition with the street minstrels of the close of the sixteenth century. The legend on whichThe Young Ruthvenis based is well known;The Queen of Spainis the story of theFlorencia, a ship of the Spanish Armada, wrecked in Tobermory Bay, as it was told to me by a mariner in the Sound of Mull. InKeith of Craigentollythe family and territorial names of the hero or villain are purposely altered, so as to avoid injuring susceptibilities and arousing unavailing regrets.

DEDICATORY

PAGE

In Augustinum Dobson

LOYAL LYRICS

How the Maid Marched from Blois

Lone Places of the Deer

An Old Song

Jacobite“Auld Lang Syne”

The Prince’s Birthday

The Tenth of June, 1715

White Rose Day

Red and White Roses

The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond

Kenmure

Culloden

The Last of the Leal

Jeanne d’Arc

CRICKET RHYMES

To Helen

Ballade of Dead Cricketers

Brahma

CRITICAL OF LIFE, ART, AND LITERATURE

Gainsborough Ghosts

A Remonstrance with the Fair

Rhyme of Rhymes

Rhyme of Oxford Cockney Rhymes

Rococo

The New Orpheus to his Eurydice

The Food of Fiction

“A Highly Valuable Chain of Thoughts”

Matrimony

Piscatori Piscator

The Contented Angler

Off my Game

The Property of a Gentleman who has Given up Collecting

The Ballade of the Subconscious Self

Ballade of the Optimist

Zimbabwe

Love’s Cryptogram

Tusitala

Disdainful Diaphenia

Tall Salmacis

JUBILEE POEMS

What Francesco said of the Jubilee

The Poet and the Jubilee

On any Beach

Ode of Jubilee

Jubilee before Revolution

FOLK SONGS

French Peasant Songs

BALLADS

The Young Ruthven

The Queen o’ Spain and the Bauld McLean

Keith of Craigentolly

101

Jam Rude Donatum.

DearPoet, now turned out to grass(Like him who reigned in Babylon),Forget the seasons overlaidBy business and the Board of Trade:And sing of old-world lad and lassAs in the summers that are gone.

Back to the golden prime of Anne!When you ambassador had been,And brought o’er sea the King again,Beatrix Esmond in his train,Ah, happy bard to hold her fan,And happy land with such a Queen!

We live too early, or too late,You should have shared the pint of Pope,And taught, well pleased, the shining shellTo murmur of the fair Lepel,And changed the stars of St. John’s fateTo some more happy horoscope.

By duchesses with roses crowned,And fed with chicken and champagne,Urbane and witty, and too waryTo risk the feud of Lady Mary,You should have walked the courtly groundOf times that cannot come again.

Bring back these years in verse or prose,(I very much prefer your verse!)As on some Twenty-Ninth of MayRestore the splendour and the sway,Forget the sins, the wars, the woes—The joys alone must you rehearse.

Forget the dunces (there is noneSo stupid as to snarl atyou);So may your years with pen and bookRun pleasant as an English brookThrough meadows floral in the sun,And shadows fragrant of the dew.

And thus at ending of your span—As all must end—the world shall say,“His best he gave: he left us notA line that saints could wish to blot,For he was blameless, though a man,And though the poet, he was gay!”

(Supposed to be narrated by James Power, or Polwarth, her Scottish banner-painter.)

TheMaiden called for her great destrier,But he lashed like a fiend when the Maid drew near:“Lead him forth to the Cross!” she cried, and he stoodLike a steed of bronze by the Holy Rood!

Then I saw the Maiden mount and ride,With a good steel sperthe that swung by her side,And girt with the sword of the Heavenly Bride,That is sained with crosses five for a sign,The mystical sword of St. Catherine.And the lily banner was blowing wide,With the flowers of France on the field of fameAnd, blent with the blossoms, the Holy Name!And the Maiden’s blazon was shown on a shield,Argent,a dove,on an azure field;That banner was wrought by this hand, ye see,For the love of the Maid and chivalry.

Her banner was borne by a page of grace,With hair of gold, and a lady’s face;And behind it the ranks of her men were dressed—Never a man but was clean confessed,Jackman and archer, lord and knight,Their souls were clean and their hearts were light:There was never an oath, there was never a laugh,And La Hire swore soft by his leading staff!Had we died in that hour we had won the skies,And the Maiden had marched us through Paradise!

A moment she turned to the people there,Who had come to gaze on the Maiden fair;A moment she glanced at the ring she wore,She murmured the Holy Name it bore,Then, “For France and the King, good people pray!”She spoke, and she cried to us, “On and away!”And the shouts broke forth, and the flowers rained down,And the Maiden led us to Orleans town.

Loneplaces of the deer,Corrie, and Loch, and Ben,Fount that wells in the cave,Voice of the burn and the wave,Softly you sing and clearOf Charlie and his men!

Here has he lurked, and hereThe heather has been his bed,The wastes of the islands knewAnd the Highland hearts were trueTo the bonny, the brave, the dear,The royal, the hunted head.

1750.

Oh, it’s hame, hame, hame,And it’s hame I wadna be,Till the Lord calls King JamesTo his ain countrie,Bids the wind blaw frae France,Till the Firth keps the faem,And Loch Garry and LochielBring Prince Charlie hame.

May the lads Prince Charlie ledThat were hard on Willie’s track,When frae Laffen field he fled,Wi’ the claymore at his back,May they stand on Scottish soilWhen the White Rose bears the gree,And the Lord calls the KingTo his ain countrie!

Bid the seas arise and standLike walls on ilka side,Till our Highland lad pass throughWith Jehovah for his guide.Dry up the River Forth,As Thou didst the Red Sea,When Israel cam hameTo his ain countrie.[11]

Lochiel’s Regiment, 1747.

Thoughnow we take King Lewie’s feeAnd drink King Lewie’s wine,We’ll bring the King frae ower the sea,As in auld lang syne.

For, he that did proud Pharaoh crush,And save auld Jacob’s line,Will speak to Charlie in the Bush,Like Moses, lang syne.

For oft we’ve garred the red coats run,Frae Garry to the Rhine,Frae Baugé brig to Falkirk moor,No that lang syne.

The Duke may with the Devil drink,And wi’ the deil may dine,But Charlie’s dine in Holyrood,As in auld lang syne.

For he who did proud Pharaoh crush,To save auld Jacob’s line,Shall speak to Charlie in the Bush,Like Moses, lang syne.

Rome, 31stDecember, 1721.

(A new-born star shone, which is figured on an early Medal of Prince Charles.)

Awonderfulstar shone forthFrom the frozen skies of the NorthUpon Rome, for an Old Year’s night:And a flower on the dear white RoseBroke, in the season of snows,To bloom for a day’s delight.

Lost is the star in the night,And the Rose of a day’s delightFled “where the roses go”:But the fragrance and light from afar,Born of the Rose and the Star,Breathe o’er the years and the snow.

(Being a Song writ for a lady born on June 10th, the birthday of his Most Sacred Majesty King James III. and VIII.)

Dayof the King and the flower!And the girl of my heart’s delight,The blackbird sings in the bower,And the nightingale sings in the nightA song to the roses white.

Day of the flower and the King!When shall the sails of whiteShine on the seas and bringIn the day, in the dawn, in the night,The King to his land and his right?

Day of my love and my may,After the long years’ flight,Born on the King’s birthday,Born for my heart’s delight,With the dawn of the roses white!

Black as the blackbird’s wingIs her hair, and her brow as whiteAs the white rose blossoming,And her eyes as the falcon’s brightAnd her heart is leal to the right.

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

June10, 1688.

’Twasa day of faith and flowers,Of honour that could not die,Of Hope that counted the hours,Of sorrowing Loyalty:And theBlackbirdsang in the closes,TheBlackbirdpiped in the spring,For the day of the dawn of the Roses,The dawn of the day of the King!

White roses over the heather,And down by the Lowland lea,And far in the faint blue weather,A white sail guessed on the sea!But the deep night gathers and closes,Shall ever a morning bringThe lord of the leal white roses,The face of the rightful King?

Redroses under the sunFor the King who is lord of land;But he dies when his day is done,For his memory careth noneWhen the glass runs empty of sand.

White roses under the moonFor the King without lands to give;But he reigns with the reign of June,With the rose and the Blackbird’s tune,And he lives while Faith shall live.

Red roses for beef and beer;Red roses for wine and gold;But they drank of the water clear,In exile and sorry cheer,To the kings of our sires of old.

Red roses for wealth and might;White roses for hopes that flee;And the dreams of the day and the night,For the Lord of our heart’s delight—For the King that is o’er the sea.

1746.

There’san ending o’ the dance, and fair Morag’s safe in France,And the Clans they hae paid the lawing,And the wuddy has her ain, and we twa are left alane,Free o’ Carlisle gaol in the dawing.

So ye’ll tak the high road, and I’ll tak the laigh road,An’ I’ll be in Scotland before ye:But me and my true love will never meet again,By the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond.

For my love’s heart brake in twa, when she kenned the Cause’s fa’,And she sleeps where there’s never nane shall waken,Where the glen lies a’ in wrack, wi’ the houses toom and black,And her father’s ha’s forsaken.

While there’s heather on the hill shall my vengeance ne’er be still,While a bush hides the glint o’ a gun, lad;Wi’ the men o’ Sergeant Môr shall I work to pay the score,Till I wither on the wuddy in the sun, lad!

So ye’ll tak the high road, and I’ll tak the laigh road,An’ I’ll be in Scotland before ye:But me and my true love will never meet again,By the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond.

1715.

“Theheather’s in a blaze, Willie,The White Rose decks the tree,The Fiery Cross is on the braes,And the King is on the sea!

“Remember great Montrose, Willie,Remember fair Dundee,And strike one stroke at the foreign foesOf the King that’s on the sea.

“There’s Gordons in the North, Willie,Are rising frank and free,Shall a Kenmure Gordon not go forthFor the King that’s on the sea?

“A trusty sword to draw, Willie,A comely weird to dree,For the Royal Rose that’s like the snaw,And the King that’s on the sea!”

He cast ae look across his lands,Looked over loch and lea,He took his fortune in his hands,For the King was on the sea.

Kenmures have fought in GallowayFor Kirk and Presbyt’rie,This Kenmure faced his dying day,For King James across the sea.

It little skills what faith men vaunt,If loyal men they beTo Christ’s ain Kirk and Covenant,Or the King that’s o’er the sea.

Dark, dark was the day when we looked on CullodenAnd chill was the mist drop that clung to the tree,The oats of the harvest hung heavy and sodden,No light on the land and no wind on the sea.

There was wind, there was rain, there was fire on their faces,When the clans broke the bayonets and died on the guns,And ’tis Honour that watches the desolate placesWhere they sleep through the change of the snows and the suns.

Unfed and unmarshalled, outworn and outnumbered,All hopeless and fearless, as fiercely they fought,As when Falkirk with heaps of the fallen was cumbered,As when Gledsmuir was red with the havoc they wrought.

Ah,woe worth you,Sleat,and the faith that you vowed,Ah,woe worth you,Lovat,Traquair,and Mackay;And woe on the false fairy flag of Macleod,And the fat squires who drank,but who dared not to die!

Where the graves of Clan Chattan are clustered together,Where Macgillavray died by the Well of the Dead,We stooped to the moorland and plucked the pale heatherThat blooms where the hope of the Stuart was sped.

And a whisper awoke on the wilderness, sighing,Like the voice of the heroes who battled in vain,“Not for Tearlach alone the red claymore was plying,But to bring back the old life that comes not again.”

December31, 1787.

Here’sa health to every manBore the brunt of wind and weather;Winnowed sore by Fortune’s fan,Faded faith of chief and clan:Nairne and Caryl stand together;Here’s a health to every manBore the brunt of wind and weather!

Oh, round Charlie many ran,When his foot was on the heather,When his sword shone in the van.Now at ending of his span,Gask and Caryl stand together!

Ne’er a hope from plot or plan,Ne’er a hope from rose or heather;Ay, the King’s a broken man;Few will bless, and most will ban.Nairne and Caryl stand together!

Help is none from Crown or clan,France is false, a fluttered feather;But Kings are not made by man,Till God end what God began,Nairne and Caryl stand together,Gask and Caryl stand together;Here’s a health to every manBore the brunt of wind and weather!

Thehonour of a loyal boy,The courage of a paladin,With maiden’s mirth, the soul of joy,These dwelt her happy breast within.From shame, from doubt, from fear, from sin,As God’s own angels was she free;Old worlds shall end, and new beginTo be

Ere any come like her who foughtFor France, for freedom, for the King;Who counsel of redemption broughtWhence even the armed Archangel’s wingMight weary sore in voyaging;Who heard her Voices cry “Be free!”Such Maid no later human springShall see!

Saints Michael, Catherine, Margaret,Who sowed the seed that Thou must reap,If eyes of angels may be wet,And if the Saints have leave to weep,In Paradise one pain they keep,Maiden! one mortal memory,One sorrow that can never sleep,For Thee!

(After seeing her bowl with her usual success.)

St. Leonard’s Hall.

Helen, thy bowling is to meLike that wise Alfred Shaw’s of yore,Which gently broke the wickets three:From Alfred few could smack a four:Most difficult to score!

The music of the moaning sea,The rattle of the flying bails,The grey sad spires, the tawny sails—What memories they bring to me,Beholding thee!

Upon our old monastic pitch,How sportsmanlike I see thee stand!The leather in thy lily hand,Oh, Helen of the yorkers, whichAre nobly planned!

Ah, where be Beldham now, and Brett,Barker, and Hogsflesh, where be they?Brett, of all bowlers fleetest yetThat drove the bails in disarray?And Small that would, like Orpheus, playTill wild bulls followed his minstrelsy?[32]Booker, and Quiddington, and May?Beneath the daisies, there they lie!

And where is Lambert, that would getThe stumps with balls that broke astray?And Mann, whose balls would ricochetIn almost an unholy way(So do baseballers “pitch” to-day)George Lear, that seldom let a bye,And Richard Nyren, grave and gray?Beneath the daisies, there they lie!

Tom Sueter, too, the ladies’ pet,Brown that would bravest hearts affray;Walker, invincible when set,(Tom, of the spider limbs and splay);Think ye that we could match them, pray,These heroes of Broad-halfpenny,With Buck to hit, and Small to stay?Beneath the daisies, there they lie!

Envoy.

Prince, canst thou moralise the lay?How all things change below the sky!Of Fry and Grace shall mortals say,“Beneath the daisies, there they lie!”

After Emerson.

Ifthe wild bowler thinks he bowls,Or if the batsman thinks he’s bowled,They know not, poor misguided souls,They too shall perish unconsoled.Iam the batsman and the bat,Iam the bowler and the ball,The umpire, the pavilion cat,The roller, pitch, and stumps, and all.

In The Grosvenor Gallery.

Theysmile upon the western wall,The lips that laughed an age agone,The fops, the dukes, the beauties all,Le Brun that sang, and Carr that shone.We gaze with idle eyes: we conThe faces of an elder time—Alas! andoursis flitting on;Oh, moral for an empty rhyme!

Think, when the tumult and the crowdHave left the solemn rooms and chill,When dilettanti are not loud,When lady critics are not shrill—Ah, think how strange upon the stillDim air may sound these voices faint;Once more may Johnson talk his fillAnd fair Dalrymple charm the Saint!

Of us they speak as we of them,Like us, perchance, they criticise:Our wit, they vote, is Brummagem;Our beauty—dim to Devon’s eyes!Their silks and lace our cloth despise,Their pumps—our boots that pad the mud,What modern fop with Walpole vies?With St. Leger what modern blood?

Ah, true, we lack the charm, the wit,Our very greatest, sure, are small;And Mr. Gladstone is not Pitt,And Garrick comes not when we call.Yet—pass an age—and, after all,Evenwemay please the folk that lookWhen we are faces on the wall,And voices in a history book!

In Art the statesman yet shall live,With collars keen, with Roman nose;To Beauty yet shall Millais giveThe roses that outlast the rose:The lords of verse, the slaves of prose,On canvas yet shall seem alive,And charm the mob that comes and goes,And lives—in 1985.

Thereare thoughts that the mind cannot fathom,The mind of the animal male;But woman abundantly hath ’em,And mostly her notions prevail.And why ladies read what theydoreadIs a thing that no man may explain,And if any one asks for a true redeHe asketh in vain.

Ah, why is each “passing depression”Of stories that gloomily boreReceived as the subtle expressionOf almost unspeakable lore?In the dreary, the sickly, the grimySay, why do our women delight,And wherefore so constantly ply meWithShips in the Night?

Dear ladies, in vain you approach us,With books to your taste in your hands;For, alas! though you offer to coach us,Yet the soul of no man understandsWhy the grubby is always the moral,Why the nasty’s preferred to the nice,While you keep up a secular quarrelWith a gay little Vice;

Yes, a Vice with her lips full of laughter,A Vice with a rose in her hair,You condemn in the present and after,To darkness of utter despair:But a sin, if no rapture redeem it,But a passion that’s pale and played out,Or in surgical hands—you esteem itWorth scribbling about!

What is sauce for the goose, for the ganderIs sauce, ye inconsequent fair!It is better to laugh than to maunder,And better is mirth than despair;And though Life’s not all beer and all skittles,Yet the Sun, on occasion, can shine,And,mon Dieu! he’s a fool who belittlesThis cosmos of Thine!

There are cakes, there is ale—ay, and gingerShall be hot in the mouth, as of old:And a villain, with cloak and with whinger,And a hero, in armour of gold,And a maid with a face like a lily,With a heart that is stainless and gay,Make a tale worth a world of the sillySad trash of to-day!

Wildon the mountain peak the windRepeats its old refrain,Like ghosts of mortals who have sinned,And fain would sin again.

For “wind” I do not rhyme to “mind,”Like many mortal men,“Again” (when one reflects) ’twere kindTo rhyme as if “agen.”

I never met a single soulWhospokeof “wind” as “wined,”And yet we use it, on the whole,To rhyme to “find” and “blind.”

Wesay, “Now don’t do thatagen,”When people give us pain;In poetry, nine times in ten,It rhymes to “Spain” or “Dane.”

Oh, which are wrong or which are right?Oh, which are right or wrong?The sounds in prose familiar, quite,Or those we meet in song?

To hold that “love” can rhyme to “prove”Requires some force of will,Yet in the ancient lyric grooveWe meet them rhyming still.

This was our learned fathers’ wontIn prehistoric times,We follow it, or if we don’t,We oft run short of rhymes.

(Exhibited in theOxford Magazine.)

ThoughKeats rhymed “ear” to “Cytherea,”And Morris “dawn” to “morn,”A worse example, it is clear,By Oxford Dons is “shorn.”G—y, of Magdalen, goes beyondThese puny Cockneys far,And to “Magrath” rhymes—Muse despond!—“Magrath” he rhymes to “star”!

Another poet, X. Y. Z.,Employs the word “researcher,”And then,—his blood be on his head,—He makes it rhyme to “nurture.”Ah, never was the English tongueSo flayed, and racked, and tortured,Since one I love (who should be hung)Made “tortured” rhyme to “orchard.”

Unkindly G—y’s raging penNext craves a rhyme to “sooner;”Rejecting “Spooner,” (best of men,)He fastens onlacuna(r).Nay, worse, in his infatuate mindHe ends a line “explainer,”Nor any rhyme can G—y findUntil he reaches Jena(r).

Yes, G—y shines the worst of all,He needs to rhyme “embargo;”The man had “Margot” at his call,He had the good shipArgo;Largo he had; yet doth he seekFurther, and no embargoRestrains him from the odious, weak,And Cockney rhyme, “Chicago”!

Ye Oxford Dons that Cockneys be,Among your gardens tidy,If you would ask a maid to tea,D’ye call the girl “a lydy”?And if you’d sing of Mr. Fry,And need a rhyme to “swiper,”Are you so cruel as to tryTo fill the blank with “paper”?

Oh, Hoxford was a pleasant pliceTo many a poet dear,And Saccharissa had the griceIn Hoxford to appear.But Waller, if to CythereaHe prayed at any time,Did not implore “her friendly ear,”And think he had a rhyme.

Now, if you ask to what are dueThe horrors which I mention,I think we owe them to the U-Niversity extension.From Hoxton and from Poplar comeThe ’Arriets and ’Arries,And so the Oxford Muse is dumb,Or, when she sings, miscarries.

(“My name is also named ‘Played Out.’”)

When first we heard Rossetti sing,We twanged the melancholy lyre,We sang like this,like anything,When first we heard Rossetti sing.And all our song was faded Spring,And dead delight and dark desire,When first we heard Rossetti sing,We twanged the melancholy lyre.

(And this is how we twanged it)—

The New Orpheus to his Eurydice.

Whywilt thou woo, ah, strange Eurydice,A languid laurell’d Orpheus in the shades,For here is company of shadowy maids,Hero, and Helen and Psamathoë:

And life is like the blossom on the tree,And never tumult of the world invades,The low light wanes and waxes, flowers and fades,And sleep is sweet, and dreams suffice for me;

“Go back, and seek the sunlight,” as of old,The wise ghost-mother of Odysseus said,Here am I half content, and scarce a-cold,But one light fits the living, one the dead;Good-bye, be glad, forget! thou canst not holdIn thy kind arms, alas! this powerless head.

When first we heard Rossetti sing,We also wrote this kind of thing!

Tobreakfast, dinner, or to lunchMy steps are languid, once so speedy;E’en though, like the old gent inPunch,“Not hungry, but, thank goodness! greedy.”I gaze upon the well-spread board,And have to own—oh, contradiction!Though every dainty it afford,There’s nothing like the food of fiction.

“The better half”—how good the sound!Of Scott’s or Ainsworth’s “venison pasty,”In cups of old Canary drowned,(Which probably was very nasty).The beefsteak pudding made by RuthTo cheer Tom Pinch in his affliction,Ah me, in all the world of truth,There’s nothing like the food of fiction!

The cakes and ham and buttered toastThat graced the board of Gabriel Varden,In Bracebridge Hall the Christmas roast,Fruits from the Goblin Market Garden.And if you’d eat of luscious sweetsAnd yet escape from gout’s infliction,Just read “St. Agnes’ Eve” by Keats—There’s nothing like the food of fiction.

What cups of tea were ever brewedLike Sairey Gamp’s—the dear old sinner?What savoury mess was ever stewedLike that for Short’s and Codlin’s dinner?What was the flavour of that “poy”—To use the Fotheringay’s own diction—Pendennis ate, the love-sick boy?There’s nothing like the food of fiction.

Prince, you are young—but you will findAfter life’s years of fret and friction,That hunger wanes—but never mind!There’s nothing like the food of fiction.

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

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

But ’tis an unideal,Sad world in which we’re born,And things will “go contrairy”With Martin and with Mary:And every day the realComes bleakly in with morn,And cigarettes have ashes,And every rose a thorn.

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

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

If she have no objections toThis task, and if her hair—In keeping with her eyes of blue—Be delicately fair,Ah,then, let her a photo sendOf all her charms divine,To him who rests her faithful friend,Her own T. 99.

In Memory of Thomas Tod Stoddart.

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

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

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

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

Or, if he mark a rising trout,He straightway is caught up,And then he takes his flasket out,And drinks a rousing cup.Or if a trout he chance to hook,Weeded and broke is he,And then he finds a godly bookInstructive company.

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

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

“Why is it that I play at all?Let memory remind meHow once I smote upon my ball,And bunkered it—behind me.I mostly slice into the whins,And my excuse is lame—It cannot cover half my sins—I’m off my game!

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

Ohblessed be the cart that takesAway my books, my curse, my clog,Blessed the auctioneer who makesTheir inefficient catalogue.

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

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

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

I never read the cataloguesOf rubbish that come thick as rooks,But most I loathe the dreary dogsThat write in prose, or worse, on books.

Large paper surely cannot hideTheir grammar, nor excuse their rhyme,The anecdotes that they provideAre older than the dawn of time.

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

* * * *

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

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

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

It is he, from his cerebral den,Who raps upon table and chair,Who frightens the housemaid, and thenSlinks back, like a thief, to his lair:’Tis the Brownie (according to Mair)Who rattles the pots on the shelf,But the Psychical sages declare“It is just the Subconscious Self.”

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

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

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

And, sometimes on a summer’s dayTo self and every mortal illWe give the slip, we steal away,To walk beside some sedgy rill:The darkening years, the cares that kill,A little while are well forgot;When deep in broom upon the hill,We’d rather be alive than not.

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

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

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

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

The pestilence, the desert spear,Smote them; they passed, with none to tellThe names of them who laboured here:Stark walls and crumbling crucible,Strait gates, and graves, and ruined well,Abide, dumb monuments of old,We know but that men fought and fell,Like us, like us, for love of Gold.

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

Elle.

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

Lui.

Oh, I had written this many a year,And my letters you had read.Had you only told me the spell, my dear,Ere ever we twain were wed!But I have a lady and you have a lord,And their eyes are of the green,And we dared not trust to the written word,Lest our long, long love be seen!

Elle.

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

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