Chapter I: Front Matter

[Picture: Book cover]

[Picture: Ban and Arrière ban frontispiece]

Ban and Arrière Ban

A RALLY OF FUGITIVE RHYMES

BY ANDREW LANG

* * * * *

LONDON
LONGMANS, GREEN & CO.
AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16TH STREET
1894

* * * * *

[_All rights reserved_]

* * * * *

Edinburgh: T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty

* * * * *

TO ELEANOR CHARLOTTE SELLAR

‘_Ban and Arrière Ban_!’ _a host_
_Broken_, _beaten_, _all unled_,
_They return as doth a ghost_
_From the dead_.

_Sad or glad my rallied rhymes_,
_Sought our dusty papers through_,
_For the sake of other times_
_Come to you_.

_Times and places new we know_,
_Faces fresh and seasons strange_
_But the friends of long ago_
_Do not change_.

MANY of the verses in this collection have appeared in Magazines: ‘How they held the Bass’ was in ‘Blackwood’s Magazine’; the ‘Ballad of the Philanthropist’ in ‘Punch’; ‘Calais Sands’ in ‘The Magazine of Art’ (Messrs. Cassell and Co.); and others are recaptured from ‘Longman’s Magazine,’ ‘Scribner’s,’ ‘The Illustrated London News,’ ‘The English Illustrated Magazine,’ ‘Wit and Wisdom’ (lines from Omar Khayyam), ‘The St. James’s Gazette,’ and possibly other serials. Some pieces are from commendatory verses for books, as for Mr. Jacobs’s ‘Æsop’; some are from Mr. Rider Haggard’s ‘World’s Desire,’ and ‘Cleopatra,’ two are from Kirk’s ‘Secret Commonwealth’ (Nutt, 1893), and ‘Neiges d’Antan,’ are from the author’s ‘Ballads and Lyrics of Old France,’ now long out of print.

CONTENTS

PAGE A Scot to Jeanne d’Arc 1 How they held the Bass for King James—1691–1693 4 Three portraits of Prince Charles 11 From Omar Khayyam 14 Æsop 16 Les Roses de Sâdi 18 The Haunted Tower 19 Boat-song 22 Lost Love 24 The Promise of Helen 26 The Restoration of Romance 27 Central American Antiquities 30 On Calais Sands 32 Ballade of Yule 34 Poscimur 36 On his Dead Sea-Mew 38 From Meleager 39 On the Garland Sent to Rhodocleia 40 A Galloway Garland 41 Celia’s Eyes 43 Britannia 44 Gallia 45 The Fairy Minister 46 To Robert Louis Stevenson 48 For Mark Twain’s Jubilee 50 POEMS WRITTEN UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF WORDSWORTH Mist 55 Lines 56 Lines 58 Ode to Golf 60 Freshman’s Term 62 A Toast 64 Death in June 66 To Correspondents 68 Ballade of Difficult Rhymes 70 Ballant o’ Ballantrae 72 Song by the Sub-Conscious Self 74 The Haunted Homes of England 75 The Disappointment 77 To the Gentle Reader 80 The Sonnet 84 The Tournay of the Heroes 85 Ballad of the Philanthropist 91 NEIGES D’ANTAN In Ercildoune 97 For a Rose’s Sake 100 The Brigand’s Grave 102 The New-Liveried Year 104 More Strong than Death 105 Silentia Lunae 107 His Lady’s Tomb 108 The Poet’s Apology 109 Notes 115

ERRATUM

READER, a blot hath escaped the watchfulness of the setter forth: if thou wilt thou mayst amend it. The sonnet on the forty-fourth page, against all right Italianate laws, hath but thirteen lines withal: add another to thy liking, if thou art a Maker; or, if thou art none, even be content with what is set before thee. If it be scant measure, be sure it is choicely good.

A SCOT TO JEANNE D’ARC

DARK Lily without blame,
Not upon us the shame,
Whose sires were to the Auld Alliance true,
They, by the Maiden’s side,
Victorious fought and died,
One stood by thee that fiery torment through,
Till the White Dove from thy pure lips had passed,
And thou wert with thine own St. Catherine at the last.

Once only didst thou see
In artist’s imagery,
Thine own face painted, and that precious thing
Was in an Archer’s hand
From the leal Northern land.
Alas, what price would not thy people bring
To win that portrait of the ruinous
Gulf of devouring years that hide the Maid from us!

Born of a lowly line,
Noteless as once was thine,
One of that name I would were kin to me,
Who, in the Scottish Guard
Won this for his reward,
To fight for France, and memory of thee:
Not upon us, dark Lily without blame,
Not on the North may fall the shadow of that shame.

On France and England both
The shame of broken troth,
Of coward hate and treason black must be;
If England slew thee, France
Sent not one word, one lance,
One coin to rescue or to ransom thee.
And still thy Church unto the Maid denies
The halo and the palms, the Beatific prize.

But yet thy people calls
Within the rescued walls
Of Orleans; and makes its prayer to thee;
What though the Church have chidden
These orisons forbidden,
Yet art thou with this earth’s immortal Three,
With him in Athens that of hemlock died,
And with thy Master dear whom the world crucified.

HOW THEY HELD THE BASS FOR KING JAMES—1691–1693

Time of Narrating—1743

YE hae heard Whigs crack o’ the Saints in the Bass, my faith, a
gruesome tale;
How the Remnant paid at a tippeny rate, for a quart o’ ha’penny ale!
But I’ll tell ye anither tale o’ the Bass, that’ll hearten ye up to
hear,
Sae I pledge ye to Middleton first in a glass, and a health to the
Young Chevalier!

The Bass stands frae North Berwick Law a league or less to sea,
About its feet the breakers beat, abune the sea-maws flee,
There’s castle stark and dungeon dark, wherein the godly lay,
That made their rant for the Covenant through mony a weary day.
For twal’ years lang the caverns rang wi’ preaching, prayer, and
psalm,
Ye’d think the winds were soughing wild, when a’ the winds were calm,
There wad they preach, each Saint to each, and glower as the soldiers
pass,
And Peden wared his malison on a bonny leaguer lass,
As she stood and daffed, while the warders laughed, and wha sae blithe
as she,
But a wind o’ ill worked his warlock will, and flang her out to sea.
Then wha sae bright as the Saints that night, and an angel came, say
they,
And sang in the cell where the Righteous dwell, but he took na a Saint
away.
There yet might they be, for nane could flee, and nane daur’d break
the jail,
And still the sobbing o’ the sea might mix wi’ their warlock wail,
But then came in black echty-echt, and bluidy echty-nine,
Wi’ Cess, and Press, and Presbytery, and a’ the dule sin’ syne,
The Saints won free wi’ the power o’ the key, and cavaliers maun pine!
It was Halyburton, Middleton, and Roy and young Dunbar,
That Livingstone took on Cromdale haughs, in the last fight of the
war:
And they were warded in the Bass, till the time they should be slain,
Where bluidy Mitchell, and Blackader, and Earlston lang had lain;
Four lads alone, ’gainst a garrison, but Glory crowns their names,
For they brought it to pass that they took the Bass, and they held it
for King James!

It isna by preaching half the night, ye’ll burst a dungeon door,
It wasna by dint o’ psalmody they broke the hold, they four,
For lang years three that rock in the sea bade Wullie Wanbeard gae
swing,
And England and Scotland fause may be, but the Bass Rock stands for
the King!

There’s but ae pass gangs up the Bass, it’s guarded wi’ strong gates
four,
And still as the soldiers went to the sea, they steikit them, door by
door,
And this did they do when they helped a crew that brought their coals
on shore.
Thither all had gone, save three men alone: then Middleton gripped his
man,
Halyburton felled the sergeant lad, Dunbar seized the gunner, Swan;
Roy bound their hands, in hempen bands, and the Cavaliers were free.
And they trained the guns on the soldier loons that were down wi’ the
boat by the sea!
Then Middleton cried frae the high cliff-side, and his voice garr’d
the auld rocks ring,
‘Will ye stand or flee by the land or sea, for I hold the Bass for the
King?’

They had nae desire to face the fire; it was mair than men might do,
So they e’en sailed back in the auld coal-smack, a sorry and
shame-faced crew,
And they hirpled doun to Edinburgh toun, wi’ the story of their
shames,
How the prisoners bold had broken hold, and kept the Bass for King
James.

King James he has sent them guns and men, and the Whigs they guard the
Bass,
But they never could catch the Cavaliers, who took toll of ships that
pass,
They fared wild and free as the birds o’ the sea, and at night they
went on the wing,
And they lifted the kye o’ Whigs far and nigh, and they revelled and
drank to the King.

Then Wullie Wanbeard sends his ships to siege the Bass in form,
And first shall they break the fortress down, and syne the Rock
they’ll storm.
After twa days’ fight they fled in the night, and glad eneuch to go,
With their rigging rent, and their powder spent, and many a man laid
low.

So for lang years three did they sweep the sea, but a closer watch was
set,
Till nae food had they, but twa ounce a day o’ meal was the maist
they’d get.
And men fight but tame on an empty wame, so they sent a flag o’ truce,
And blithe were the Privy Council then, when the Whigs had heard that
news.
Twa Lords they sent wi’ a strang intent to be dour on each Cavalier,
But wi’ French cakes fine, and his last drap o’ wine, did Middleton
make them cheer,
On the muzzles o’ guns he put coats and caps, and he set them aboot
the wa’s,
And the Whigs thocht then he had food and men to stand for the
Rightfu’ Cause.
So he got a’ he craved, and his men were saved, and nane might say
them nay,
Wi’ sword by side, and flag o’ pride, free men might they gang their
way,
They might fare to France, they might bide at hame, and the better
their grace to buy,
Wullie Wanbeard’s purse maun pay the keep o’ the men that did him
defy!

Men never hae gotten sic terms o’ peace since first men went to war,
As got Halyburton, and Middleton, and Roy, and the young Dunbar.
Sae I drink to ye here, _To the Young Chevalier_! I hae said ye an
auld man’s say,
And there may hae been mightier deeds of arms, but there never was
nane sae gay!

THREE PORTRAITS OF PRINCE CHARLES

1731

BEAUTIFUL face of a child,
Lighted with laughter and glee,
Mirthful, and tender, and wild,
My heart is heavy for thee!

1744

Beautiful face of a youth,
As an eagle poised to fly forth,
To the old land loyal of truth,
To the hills and the sounds of the North:
Fair face, daring and proud,
Lo! the shadow of doom, even now,
The fate of thy line, like a cloud,
Rests on the grace of thy brow!

1773

Cruel and angry face,
Hateful and heavy with wine,
Where are the gladness, the grace,
The beauty, the mirth that were thine?

Ah, my Prince, it were well,—
Hadst thou to the gods been dear,—
To have fallen where Keppoch fell,
With the war-pipe loud in thine ear!
To have died with never a stain
On the fair White Rose of Renown,
To have fallen, fighting in vain,
For thy father, thy faith, and thy crown!
More than thy marble pile,
With its women weeping for thee,
Were to dream in thine ancient isle,
To the endless dirge of the sea!
But the Fates deemed otherwise,
Far thou sleepest from home,
From the tears of the Northern skies,
In the secular dust of Rome.

* * *

A city of death and the dead,
But thither a pilgrim came,
Wearing on weary head
The crowns of years and fame:
Little the Lucrine lake
Or Tivoli said to him,
Scarce did the memories wake
Of the far-off years and dim.
For he stood by Avernus’ shore,
But he dreamed of a Northern glen
And he murmured, over and o’er,
‘_For Charlie and his men_:’
And his feet, to death that went,
Crept forth to St. Peter’s shrine,
And the latest Minstrel bent
O’er the last of the Stuart line.

FROM OMAR KHAYYAM

RHYMED FROM THE PROSE VERSION OF
MR. JUSTIN HUNTLY M‘CARTHY

THE Paradise they bid us fast to win
Hath Wine and Women; is it then a sin
To live as we shall live in Paradise,
And make a Heaven of Earth, ere Heaven begin?

The wise may search the world from end to end,
From dusty nook to dusty nook, my friend,
And nothing better find than girls and wine,
Of all the things they neither make nor mend.

Nay, listen thou who, walking on Life’s way,
Hast seen no lovelock of thy love’s grow grey
Listen, and love thy life, and let the Wheel
Of Heaven go spinning its own wilful way.

Man is a flagon, and his soul the wine,
Man is a lamp, wherein the Soul doth shine,
Man is a shaken reed, wherein that wind,
The Soul, doth ever rustle and repine.

Each morn I say, to-night I will repent,
Repent! and each night go the way I went—
The way of Wine; but now that reigns the rose,
Lord of Repentance, rage not, but relent.

I wish to drink of wine—so deep, so deep—
The scent of wine my sepulchre shall steep,
And they, the revellers by Omar’s tomb,
Shall breathe it, and in Wine shall fall asleep.

Before the rent walls of a ruined town
Lay the King’s skull, whereby a bird flew down
‘And where,’ he sang, ‘is all thy clash of arms?
Where the sonorous trumps of thy renown?’

ÆSOP

HE sat among the woods, he heard
The sylvan merriment: he saw
The pranks of butterfly and bird,
The humours of the ape, the daw.

And in the lion or the frog—
In all the life of moor and fen,
In ass and peacock, stork and dog,
He read similitudes of men.

‘Of these, from those,’ he cried, ‘we come,
Our hearts, our brains descend from these.’
And lo! the Beasts no more were dumb,
But answered out of brakes and trees:

‘Not ours,’ they cried; ‘Degenerate,
If ours at all,’ they cried again,
‘Ye fools, who war with God and Fate,
Who strive and toil: strange race of men.

‘For _we_ are neither bond nor free,
For _we_ have neither slaves nor kings,
But near to Nature’s heart are we,
And conscious of her secret things.

‘Content are we to fall asleep,
And well content to wake no more,
We do not laugh, we do not weep,
Nor look behind us and before;

‘But were there cause for moan or mirth,
’Tis _we_, not you, should sigh or scorn,
Oh, latest children of the Earth,
Most childish children Earth has borne.’

* * *

They spoke, but that misshapen slave
Told never of the thing he heard,
And unto men their portraits gave,
In likenesses of beast and bird!

LES ROSES DE SÂDI

THIS morning I vowed I would bring thee my Roses,
They were thrust in the band that my bodice encloses,
But the breast-knots were broken, the Roses went free.
The breast-knots were broken; the Roses together
Floated forth on the wings of the wind and the weather,
And they drifted afar down the streams of the sea.

And the sea was as red as when sunset uncloses,
But my raiment is sweet from the scent of the Roses,
Thou shalt know, Love, how fragrant a memory can be.

THE HAUNTED TOWER

SUGGESTED BY A POEM OF THÉOPHILE GAUTIER

IN front he saw the donjon tall
Deep in the woods, and stayed to scan
The guards that slept along the wall,
Or dozed upon the bartizan.
He marked the drowsy flag that hung
Unwaved by wind, unfrayed by shower,
He listened to the birds that sung
_Go forth and win the haunted tower_!
The tangled brake made way for him,
The twisted brambles bent aside;
And lo, he pierced the forest dim,
And lo, he won the fairy bride!
For _he_ was young, but ah! we find,
All we, whose beards are flecked with grey,
Our fairy castle’s far behind,
We watch it from the darkling way:
’Twas ours, that palace, in our youth,
We revelled there in happy cheer:
Who scarce dare visit now in sooth,
Le Vieux Château de Souvenir!
For not the boughs of forest green
Begird that castle far away,
There is a mist where we have been
That weeps about it, cold and grey.
And if we seek to travel back
’Tis through a thicket dim and sere,
With many a grave beside the track,
And many a haunting form of fear.
Dead leaves are wet among the moss,
With weed and thistle overgrown—
A ruined barge within the fosse,
A castle built of crumbling stone!
The drawbridge drops from rusty chains,
There comes no challenge from the hold;
No squire, nor dame, nor knight remains,
Of all who dwelt with us of old.
And there is silence in the hall
No sound of songs, no ray of fire;
But gloom where all was glad, and all
Is darkened with a vain desire.
And every picture’s fading fast,
Of fair Jehanne, or Cydalise.
Lo, the white shadows hurrying past,
Below the boughs of dripping trees!

* * *

Ah rise, and march, and look not back,
Now the long way has brought us here;
We may not turn and seek the track
To the old Château de Souvenir!

BOAT-SONG

ADRIFT, with starlit skies above,
With starlit seas below,
We move with all the suns that move,
With all the seas that flow:
For, bond or free, earth, sky, and sea,
Wheel with one central will,
And thy heart drifteth on to me,
And only Time stands still.

Between two shores of death we drift,
Behind are things forgot,
Before, the tide is racing swift
To shores man knoweth not.
Above, the sky is far and cold,
Below, the moaning sea
Sweeps o’er the loves that were of old,
But thou, Love, love thou me.

Ah, lonely are the ocean ways,
And dangerous the deep,
And frail the fairy barque that strays
Above the seas asleep.
Ah, toil no more with helm or oar,
We drift, or bond or free,
On yon far shore the breakers roar,
But thou, Love, love thou me!

LOST LOVE

WHO wins his Love shall lose her,
Who loses her shall gain,
For still the spirit woos her,
A soul without a stain;
And Memory still pursues her
With longings not in vain!

He loses her who gains her,
Who watches day by day
The dust of time that stains her,
The griefs that leave her grey,
The flesh that yet enchains her
Whose grace hath passed away!

Oh, happier he who gains not
The Love some seem to gain:
The joy that custom stains not
Shall still with him remain,
The loveliness that wanes not,
The Love that ne’er can wane.

In dreams she grows not older
The lands of Dream among,
Though all the world wax colder,
Though all the songs be sung,
In dreams doth he behold her
Still fair and kind and young.

THE PROMISE OF HELEN

WHOM hast thou longed for most,
True love of mine?
Whom hast thou loved and lost?
Lo, she is thine!

She that another wed
Breaks from her vow;
She that hath long been dead
Wakes for thee now.

Dreams haunt the hapless bed,
Ghosts haunt the night,
Life crowns her living head,
Love and Delight.

Nay, not a dream nor ghost,
Nay, but Divine,
She that was loved and lost
Waits to be thine!

THE RESTORATION OF ROMANCE.

TO H. R. H., R. L. S., A. C. D., AND S. W.

KING Romance was wounded deep,
All his knights were dead and gone,
All his court was fallen on sleep,
In a vale of Avalon!
_Nay_, men said, _he will not come_,
_Any night or any morn_.
_Nay_, _his puissant voice is dumb_,
_Silent his enchanted horn_!

King Romance was forfeited,
Banished from his Royal home,
With a price upon his head,
Driven with sylvan folk to roam.
_King Romance is fallen_, _banned_,
Cried his foemen overbold,
_Broken is the wizard wand_,
_All the stories have been told_!

Then you came from South and North,
From Tugela, from the Tweed,
Blazoned his achievements forth,
King Romance is come indeed!
All his foes are overthrown,
All their wares cast out in scorn,
King Romance hath won his own,
And the lands where he was born!

Marsac at adventure rides,
Felon men meet felon scathe,
Micah Clarke is taking sides
For King Monmouth and the Faith;
For a Cause or for a lass
Men are willing to be slain,
And the dungeons of the Bass
Hold a prisoner again.

King Romance with wand of gold
Sways the realms he ruled of yore.
Hills Dalgetty roamed of old,
Valleys of enchanted Kôr:
Waves his sceptre o’er the isles,
Claims the pirates’ treasuries,
Through innumerable miles
Of the siren-haunted seas!

Elfin folk of coast and cave,
Laud him in the woven dance,
All the tribes of wold and wave
Bow the knee to King Romance!
Wand’ring voices Chaucer knew
On the mountain and the main,
Cry the haunted forest through,
_King Romance has come again_!

CENTRAL AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES

IN SOUTH KENSINGTON MUSEUM

‘YOUTH and crabbed age
Cannot live together;’
So they say.

On this little page
See you when and whether
That they may.

Age was very old—
Stones from Chichimec
Hardly wrung;

Youth had hair of gold
Knotted on her neck—
Fair and young!

Age was carved with odd
Slaves, and priests that slew them—
God and Beast;

Man and Beast and God—
There she sat and drew them,
King and Priest!

There she sat and drew
Many a monstrous head
And antique;

Horrors from Peru,
_Huacas_ doubly dead,
Dead cacique!

Ere Pizarro came
These were lords of men
Long ago;

Gods without a name,
Born or how or when,
None may know!

Now from Yucatan
These doth Science bear
Over seas;

And methinks a man
Finds youth doubly fair,
Sketching these!

ON CALAIS SANDS

ON Calais Sands the grey began,
Then rosy red above the grey,
The morn with many a scarlet van
Leap’d, and the world was glad with May!
The little waves along the bay
Broke white upon the shelving strands;
The sea-mews flitted white as they
On Calais Sands!

On Calais Sands must man with man
Wash honour clean in blood to-day;
On spaces wet from waters wan
How white the flashing rapiers play,
Parry, riposte! and lunge! The fray
Shifts for a while, then mournful stands
The Victor: life ebbs fast away
On Calais Sands!

On Calais Sands a little space
Of silence, then the plash and spray,
The sound of eager waves that ran
To kiss the perfumed locks astray,
To touch these lips that ne’er said ‘Nay,’
To dally with the helpless hands;
Till the deep sea in silence lay
On Calais Sands!

Between the lilac and the may
She waits her love from alien lands;
Her love is colder than the clay
On Calais Sands!

BALLADE OF YULE

_This life’s most jolly_, Amiens said,
Heigh-ho, the Holly! So sang he.
As the good Duke was comforted
In forest exile, so may we!
The years may darken as they flee,
And Christmas bring his melancholy:
But round the old mahogany tree
We drink, we sing _Heigh-ho_, _the Holly_!

Though some are dead and some are fled
To lands of summer over sea,
The holly berry keeps his red,
The merry children keep their glee;
They hoard with artless secresy
This gift for Maude, and that for Molly,
And Santa Claus he turns the key
On Christmas Eve, _Heigh-ho_, _the Holly_!

Amid the snow the birds are fed,
The snow lies deep on lawn and lea,
The skies are shining overhead,
The robin’s tame that was so free.
Far North, at home, the ‘barley bree’
They brew; they give the hour to folly,
How ‘Rab and Allan cam to pree,’
They sing, we sing _Heigh-ho_, _the Holly_!

ENVOI

Friend, let us pay the wonted fee,
The yearly tithe of mirth: be jolly!
It is a duty so to be,
Though half we sigh, _Heigh-ho_, _the Holly_!

POSCIMUR

FROM HORACE

HUSH, for they call! If in the shade,
My lute, we twain have idly strayed,
And song for many a season made,
Once more reply;
Once more we’ll play as we have played,
My lute and I!

Roman the song: the strain you know,
The Lesbian wrought it long ago.
Now singing as he charged the foe,
Now in the bay,
Where safe in the shore-water’s flow
His galleys lay.

So sang he Bacchus and the Nine,
And Venus and her boy divine,
And Lycus of the dusky eyne,
The dusky hair;
So shalt thou sing, ah, Lute of mine,
Of all things fair;

Apollo’s glory! Sounding shell,
Thou lute, to Jove desirable,
When soft thine accents sigh and swell
At festival—
Delight more dear than words can tell,
Attend my call!

ON HIS DEAD SEA-MEW

FROM THE GREEK

I

BIRD of the graces, dear sea-mew, whose note
Was like the halcyon’s song,
In death thy wings and thy sweet spirit float
Still paths of the night along!

II THE SAILOR’S GRAVE

Tomb of a shipwrecked seafarer am I,
But thou, sail on!
For homeward safe did other vessels fly,
Though we were gone.

FROM MELEAGER