A LILT OF THE ROADBeing the doggerel Itinerary of a Holiday in September, 1908To St. Albans' town we came;Roman Albanus — hence the name.Whose shrine commemorates the faithWhich led him to a martyr's death.A high cathedral marks his grave,With noble screen and sculptured nave.From thence to Hatfield lay our way,Where the proud Cecils held their sway,And ruled the country, more or less,Since the days of Good Queen Bess.Next through Hitchin's Quaker holdTo Bedford, where in days of oldJohn Bunyan, the unorthodox,Did a deal in local stocks.Then from Bedford's peaceful nookOur pilgrim's progress still we tookUntil we slackened up our paceIn Saint Neots' market-place.Next day, the motor flying fast,Through Newark, Tuxford, Retfordpassed,Until at Doncaster we foundThat we had crossed broad Yorkshire'sbound.Northward and ever North we pressed,The Brontë Country to our West.Still on we flew without a wait,Skirting the edge of Harrowgate,And through a wild and dark ravine,As bleak a pass as we have seen,Until we slowly circled downAnd settled into Settle town.On Sunday, in the pouring rain,We started on our way again.Through Kirkby Lonsdale on we drove,The weary rain-clouds still above,Until at last at WindermereWe felt our final port was near,Thence the lake with wooded beachStretches far as eye can reach.There above its shining breastWe enjoyed our welcome rest.Tuesday saw us — still in rain —Buzzing on our road again.Rydal first, the smallest lake,Famous for great Wordsworth's sake;Grasmere next appeared in sight,Grim Helvellyn on the right,Till we made our downward wayTo the streets of Keswick gray.Then amid a weary wasteOn to Penrith Town we raced,And for many a flying mile,Past the ramparts of Carlisle,Till we crossed the border lineOf the land of Auld lang syne.Here we paused at Gretna Green,Where many curious things were seenAt the grimy blacksmith's shop,Where flying couples used to stopAnd forge within the smithy doorThe chain which lasts for evermore.They'd soon be back again, I think,If blacksmith's skill could break the link.Ecclefechan held us next,Where old Tom Carlyle was vexedBy the clamour and the strifeOf this strange and varied life.We saw his pipe, we saw his hat,We saw the stone on which he sat.The solid stone is resting there,But where the sitter? Where, oh! where?Over a dreary wildernessWe had to take our path by guess,For Scotland's glories don't includeThe use of signs to mark the road.For forty miles the way ran steepOver bleak hills with scattered sheep,Until at last, 'neath gloomy skies,We saw the stately towers riseWhere noble Edinburgh lies —No city fairer or more grandHas ever sprung from human hand.But I must add (the more's the pity)That though in fair Dunedin's cityScotland's taste is quite delightful,The smaller Scottish towns are frightful.When in other lands I roamAnd sing "There is no place like home."In this respect I must confessThat no place has its ugliness.Here on my mother's granite breastWe settled down and took our rest.On Saturday we ventured forthTo push our journey to the North.Past Linlithgow first we sped,Where the Palace rears its head,Then on by Falkirk, till we passThe famous valley and morassKnown as Bannockburn in story,Brightest scene of Scottish glory.On pleasure and instruction bentWe made the Stirling hill ascent,And saw the wondrous vale beneath,The lovely valley of Monteith,Stretching under sunlit skiesTo where the Trossach hills arise.Thence we turned our willing carWestward ho! to Callander,Where childish memories awokeIn the wood of ash and oak,Where in days so long gone byI heard the woodland pigeons cry,And, consternation in my face,Legged it to some safer place.Next morning first we viewed a mound,Memorial of some saint renowned,And then the mouldered ditch and rampWhich marked an ancient Roman camp.Then past Lubnaig on we went,Gazed on Ben Ledi's steep ascent,And passed by lovely stream and valleyThrough Dochart Glen to reach Dalmally,Where on a rough and winding trackWe wished ourselves in safety back;Till on our left we gladly sawThe spreading waters of Loch Awe,And still more gladly — truth to tell —A very up-to-date hotel,With Conan's church within its ground,Which gave it quite a homely sound.Thither we came upon the Sunday,Viewed Kilchurn Castle on the Monday,And Tuesday saw us sally forthBound for Oban and the North.We came to Oban in the rain,I need not mention it again,For you may take it as a factThat in that Western Highland tractIt sometimes spouts and sometimes drops,But never, never, never stops.From Oban on we thought it wellTo take the steamer for a spell.But ere the motor went aboardThe Pass of Melfort we explored.A lovelier vale, more full of peace,Was never seen in classic Greece;A wondrous gateway, reft and torn,To open out the land of Lome.Leading on for many a mileTo the kingdom of Argyle.Wednesday saw us on our waySteaming out from Oban Bay,(Lord, it was a fearsome day!)To right and left we looked uponAll the lands of Stevenson —Moidart, Morven, and Ardgour,Ardshiel, Appin, and Mamore —If their tale you wish to learnThen to "Kidnapped" you must turn.Strange that one man's eager brainCan make those dead lands live again!From the deck we saw Glencoe,Where upon that night of woeWilliam's men did such a deedAs even now we blush to read.Ben Nevis towered on our right,The clouds concealed it from our sight,But it was comforting to sayThat over there Ben Nevis lay'.Finally we made the landAt Fort William's sloping strand,And in our car away we wentAlong that lasting monument,The good broad causeway which was madeBy King George's General Wade.He built a splendid road, no doubt,Alas! he left the sign-posts out.And so we wandered, sad to say,Far from our appointed way,Till twenty mile of rugged trackIn a circle brought us back.But the incident we viwedIn a philosophic mood.Tired and hungry but sereneWe settled at the Bridge of Spean.Our journey now we onward pressToward the town of Inverness,Through a country all aliveWith memories of "forty-five."The noble clans once gathered here,Where now are only grouse and deer.Alas, that men and crops and herdsShould ever yield their place to birds!And that the splendid Highland raceBe swept aside to give more spaceFor forests where the deer may strayFor some rich owner far away,Whose keeper guards the lonely glenWhich once sent out a hundred men!When from Inverness we turned,Feeling that a rest was earned.We stopped at Nairn, for golf links famed,"Scotland's Brighton" it is named,Though really, when the phrase we heard,It seemed a little bit absurd,For Brighton's size compared to NairnIs just a mother to her bairn.We halted for a day of rest,But took one journey to the WestTo view old Cawdor's tower and moatOf which unrivalled Shakespeare wrote,Where once Macbeth, the schemer deep,Slew royal Duncan in his sleep,But actors since avenged his deathBy often murdering Macbeth.Hard by we saw the circles grayWhere Druid priests were wont to pray.Three crumbling monuments we found,With Stonehenge monoliths around,But who had built and who had plannedWe tried in vain to understand,As future learned men may searchThe reasons for our village church.This was our limit, for next dayWe turned upon, our homeward way,Passing first Culloden's plainWhere the tombstones of the slainLoom above the purple heather.There the clansmen lie together —Men from many an outland skerry,Men from Athol and Glengarry,Camerons from wild Mamore,MacDonalds from the Irish Shore,Red MacGregors and McLeodsWith their tartans for their shrouds,Menzies, Malcolms from the islands,Frasers from the upper Highlands —Callous is the passer byWho can turn without a sighFrom the tufts of heather deepWhere the noble clansmen sleep.Now we swiftly made our wayTo Kingussie in Strathspey,Skirting many a nameless lochAs we flew through Badenoch,Till at Killiecrankie's Pass,Heather changing into grassWe descended once againTo the fertile lowland plain,And by Perth and old DunblaneReached the banks of Allan Water,Famous for the miller's daughter,Whence at last we circled backTill we crossed our Stirling track.So our little journey ended,Gladness and instruction blended —Not a care to spoil our pleasure,Not a thought to break our leisure,Drifting on from Sussex hedgesUp through Yorkshire's fells and ledgesPast the deserts and morassesOf the dreary Border passes,Through the scenes of Scottish storyPast the fields of battles gory.In the future it will seemTo have been a happy dream,But unless my hopes are vainWe may dream it soon again.
To St. Albans' town we came;Roman Albanus — hence the name.Whose shrine commemorates the faithWhich led him to a martyr's death.A high cathedral marks his grave,With noble screen and sculptured nave.From thence to Hatfield lay our way,Where the proud Cecils held their sway,And ruled the country, more or less,Since the days of Good Queen Bess.Next through Hitchin's Quaker holdTo Bedford, where in days of oldJohn Bunyan, the unorthodox,Did a deal in local stocks.Then from Bedford's peaceful nookOur pilgrim's progress still we tookUntil we slackened up our paceIn Saint Neots' market-place.Next day, the motor flying fast,Through Newark, Tuxford, Retfordpassed,Until at Doncaster we foundThat we had crossed broad Yorkshire'sbound.Northward and ever North we pressed,The Brontë Country to our West.Still on we flew without a wait,Skirting the edge of Harrowgate,And through a wild and dark ravine,As bleak a pass as we have seen,Until we slowly circled downAnd settled into Settle town.On Sunday, in the pouring rain,We started on our way again.Through Kirkby Lonsdale on we drove,The weary rain-clouds still above,Until at last at WindermereWe felt our final port was near,Thence the lake with wooded beachStretches far as eye can reach.There above its shining breastWe enjoyed our welcome rest.Tuesday saw us — still in rain —Buzzing on our road again.Rydal first, the smallest lake,Famous for great Wordsworth's sake;Grasmere next appeared in sight,Grim Helvellyn on the right,Till we made our downward wayTo the streets of Keswick gray.Then amid a weary wasteOn to Penrith Town we raced,And for many a flying mile,Past the ramparts of Carlisle,Till we crossed the border lineOf the land of Auld lang syne.Here we paused at Gretna Green,Where many curious things were seenAt the grimy blacksmith's shop,Where flying couples used to stopAnd forge within the smithy doorThe chain which lasts for evermore.They'd soon be back again, I think,If blacksmith's skill could break the link.Ecclefechan held us next,Where old Tom Carlyle was vexedBy the clamour and the strifeOf this strange and varied life.We saw his pipe, we saw his hat,We saw the stone on which he sat.The solid stone is resting there,But where the sitter? Where, oh! where?Over a dreary wildernessWe had to take our path by guess,For Scotland's glories don't includeThe use of signs to mark the road.For forty miles the way ran steepOver bleak hills with scattered sheep,Until at last, 'neath gloomy skies,We saw the stately towers riseWhere noble Edinburgh lies —No city fairer or more grandHas ever sprung from human hand.But I must add (the more's the pity)That though in fair Dunedin's cityScotland's taste is quite delightful,The smaller Scottish towns are frightful.When in other lands I roamAnd sing "There is no place like home."In this respect I must confessThat no place has its ugliness.Here on my mother's granite breastWe settled down and took our rest.On Saturday we ventured forthTo push our journey to the North.Past Linlithgow first we sped,Where the Palace rears its head,Then on by Falkirk, till we passThe famous valley and morassKnown as Bannockburn in story,Brightest scene of Scottish glory.On pleasure and instruction bentWe made the Stirling hill ascent,And saw the wondrous vale beneath,The lovely valley of Monteith,Stretching under sunlit skiesTo where the Trossach hills arise.Thence we turned our willing carWestward ho! to Callander,Where childish memories awokeIn the wood of ash and oak,Where in days so long gone byI heard the woodland pigeons cry,And, consternation in my face,Legged it to some safer place.Next morning first we viewed a mound,Memorial of some saint renowned,And then the mouldered ditch and rampWhich marked an ancient Roman camp.Then past Lubnaig on we went,Gazed on Ben Ledi's steep ascent,And passed by lovely stream and valleyThrough Dochart Glen to reach Dalmally,Where on a rough and winding trackWe wished ourselves in safety back;Till on our left we gladly sawThe spreading waters of Loch Awe,And still more gladly — truth to tell —A very up-to-date hotel,With Conan's church within its ground,Which gave it quite a homely sound.Thither we came upon the Sunday,Viewed Kilchurn Castle on the Monday,And Tuesday saw us sally forthBound for Oban and the North.We came to Oban in the rain,I need not mention it again,For you may take it as a factThat in that Western Highland tractIt sometimes spouts and sometimes drops,But never, never, never stops.From Oban on we thought it wellTo take the steamer for a spell.But ere the motor went aboardThe Pass of Melfort we explored.A lovelier vale, more full of peace,Was never seen in classic Greece;A wondrous gateway, reft and torn,To open out the land of Lome.Leading on for many a mileTo the kingdom of Argyle.Wednesday saw us on our waySteaming out from Oban Bay,(Lord, it was a fearsome day!)To right and left we looked uponAll the lands of Stevenson —Moidart, Morven, and Ardgour,Ardshiel, Appin, and Mamore —If their tale you wish to learnThen to "Kidnapped" you must turn.Strange that one man's eager brainCan make those dead lands live again!From the deck we saw Glencoe,Where upon that night of woeWilliam's men did such a deedAs even now we blush to read.Ben Nevis towered on our right,The clouds concealed it from our sight,But it was comforting to sayThat over there Ben Nevis lay'.Finally we made the landAt Fort William's sloping strand,And in our car away we wentAlong that lasting monument,The good broad causeway which was madeBy King George's General Wade.He built a splendid road, no doubt,Alas! he left the sign-posts out.And so we wandered, sad to say,Far from our appointed way,Till twenty mile of rugged trackIn a circle brought us back.But the incident we viwedIn a philosophic mood.Tired and hungry but sereneWe settled at the Bridge of Spean.Our journey now we onward pressToward the town of Inverness,Through a country all aliveWith memories of "forty-five."The noble clans once gathered here,Where now are only grouse and deer.Alas, that men and crops and herdsShould ever yield their place to birds!And that the splendid Highland raceBe swept aside to give more spaceFor forests where the deer may strayFor some rich owner far away,Whose keeper guards the lonely glenWhich once sent out a hundred men!When from Inverness we turned,Feeling that a rest was earned.We stopped at Nairn, for golf links famed,"Scotland's Brighton" it is named,Though really, when the phrase we heard,It seemed a little bit absurd,For Brighton's size compared to NairnIs just a mother to her bairn.We halted for a day of rest,But took one journey to the WestTo view old Cawdor's tower and moatOf which unrivalled Shakespeare wrote,Where once Macbeth, the schemer deep,Slew royal Duncan in his sleep,But actors since avenged his deathBy often murdering Macbeth.Hard by we saw the circles grayWhere Druid priests were wont to pray.Three crumbling monuments we found,With Stonehenge monoliths around,But who had built and who had plannedWe tried in vain to understand,As future learned men may searchThe reasons for our village church.This was our limit, for next dayWe turned upon, our homeward way,Passing first Culloden's plainWhere the tombstones of the slainLoom above the purple heather.There the clansmen lie together —Men from many an outland skerry,Men from Athol and Glengarry,Camerons from wild Mamore,MacDonalds from the Irish Shore,Red MacGregors and McLeodsWith their tartans for their shrouds,Menzies, Malcolms from the islands,Frasers from the upper Highlands —Callous is the passer byWho can turn without a sighFrom the tufts of heather deepWhere the noble clansmen sleep.Now we swiftly made our wayTo Kingussie in Strathspey,Skirting many a nameless lochAs we flew through Badenoch,Till at Killiecrankie's Pass,Heather changing into grassWe descended once againTo the fertile lowland plain,And by Perth and old DunblaneReached the banks of Allan Water,Famous for the miller's daughter,Whence at last we circled backTill we crossed our Stirling track.So our little journey ended,Gladness and instruction blended —Not a care to spoil our pleasure,Not a thought to break our leisure,Drifting on from Sussex hedgesUp through Yorkshire's fells and ledgesPast the deserts and morassesOf the dreary Border passes,Through the scenes of Scottish storyPast the fields of battles gory.In the future it will seemTo have been a happy dream,But unless my hopes are vainWe may dream it soon again.