Chapter I: Preface

THIS poor 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 water_ surely they
Abide 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 Ruthven_ and _The Queen of Spain_ were written in competition with the street minstrels of the close of the sixteenth century. The legend on which _The Young Ruthven_ is based is well known; _The Queen of Spain_ is the story of the _Florencia_, a ship of the Spanish Armada, wrecked in Tobermory Bay, as it was told to me by a mariner in the Sound of Mull. In _Keith of Craigentolly_ the family and territorial names of the hero or villain are purposely altered, so as to avoid injuring susceptibilities and arousing unavailing regrets.

CONTENTS

DEDICATORY PAGE IN AUGUSTINUM DOBSON 3 LOYAL LYRICS HOW THE MAID MARCHED FROM BLOIS 7 LONE PLACES OF THE DEER 9 AN OLD SONG 10 JACOBITE “AULD LANG SYNE” 12 THE PRINCE’S BIRTHDAY 14 THE TENTH OF JUNE, 1715 15 WHITE ROSE DAY 17 RED AND WHITE ROSES 18 THE BONNIE BANKS O’ LOCH LOMOND 19 KENMURE 21 CULLODEN 23 THE LAST OF THE LEAL 25 JEANNE D’ARC 27 CRICKET RHYMES TO HELEN 31 BALLADE OF DEAD CRICKETERS 32 BRAHMA 34 CRITICAL OF LIFE, ART, AND LITERATURE GAINSBOROUGH GHOSTS 37 A REMONSTRANCE WITH THE FAIR 39 RHYME OF RHYMES 42 RHYME OF OXFORD COCKNEY RHYMES 44 ROCOCO 47 THE NEW ORPHEUS TO HIS EURYDICE 47 THE FOOD OF FICTION 59 “A HIGHLY VALUABLE CHAIN OF THOUGHTS” 51 MATRIMONY 53 PISCATORI PISCATOR 55 THE CONTENTED ANGLER 56 OFF MY GAME 58 THE PROPERTY OF A GENTLEMAN WHO HAS GIVEN UP COLLECTING 60 THE BALLADE OF THE SUBCONSCIOUS SELF 62 BALLADE OF THE OPTIMIST 64 ZIMBABWE 66 LOVE’S CRYPTOGRAM 68 TUSITALA 70 DISDAINFUL DIAPHENIA 72 TALL SALMACIS 73 JUBILEE POEMS WHAT FRANCESCO SAID OF THE JUBILEE 72 THE POET AND THE JUBILEE 79 ON ANY BEACH 81 ODE OF JUBILEE 82 JUBILEE BEFORE REVOLUTION 84 FOLK SONGS FRENCH PEASANT SONGS 89 BALLADS THE YOUNG RUTHVEN 93 THE QUEEN O’ SPAIN AND THE BAULD MCLEAN 97 KEITH OF CRAIGENTOLLY 101

DEDICATORY

_In Augustinum Dobson_.

JAM RUDE DONATUM.

DEAR Poet, now turned out to grass
(Like him who reigned in Babylon),
Forget the seasons overlaid
By business and the Board of Trade:
And sing of old-world lad and lass
As 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 shell
To murmur of the fair Lepel,
And changed the stars of St. John’s fate
To some more happy horoscope.

By duchesses with roses crowned,
And fed with chicken and champagne,
Urbane and witty, and too wary
To risk the feud of Lady Mary,
You should have walked the courtly ground
Of 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 May
Restore the splendour and the sway,
Forget the sins, the wars, the woes—
The joys alone must you rehearse.

Forget the dunces (there is none
So stupid as to snarl at _you_);
So may your years with pen and book
Run pleasant as an English brook
Through 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 not
A line that saints could wish to blot,
For he was blameless, though a man,
And though the poet, he was gay!”

LOYAL LYRICS

_How the Maid Marched from Blois_.

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

THE Maiden 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 stood
Like 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 fame
And, 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.

_Lone Places of the Deer_.

LONE places 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 clear
Of Charlie and his men!

Here has he lurked, and here
The heather has been his bed,
The wastes of the islands knew
And the Highland hearts were true
To the bonny, the brave, the dear,
The royal, the hunted head.

_An Old Song_.

1750.

OH, it’s hame, hame, hame,
And it’s hame I wadna be,
Till the Lord calls King James
To his ain countrie,
Bids the wind blaw frae France,
Till the Firth keps the faem,
And Loch Garry and Lochiel
Bring Prince Charlie hame.

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

Bid the seas arise and stand
Like walls on ilka side,
Till our Highland lad pass through
With Jehovah for his guide.
Dry up the River Forth,
As Thou didst the Red Sea,
When Israel cam hame
To his ain countrie. {11}

_Jacobite_ “_Auld Lang Syne_.”

LOCHIEL’S REGIMENT, 1747.

THOUGH now we take King Lewie’s fee
And 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.

_The Prince’s Birthday_.

ROME, 31ST DECEMBER, 1721.

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

A WONDERFUL star shone forth
From the frozen skies of the North
Upon Rome, for an Old Year’s night:
And a flower on the dear white Rose
Broke, 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 delight
Fled “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.

_The Tenth of June_, 1715.

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

DAY of 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 night
A song to the roses white.

Day of the flower and the King!
When shall the sails of white
Shine on the seas and bring
In 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 wing
Is her hair, and her brow as white
As the white rose blossoming,
And her eyes as the falcon’s bright
And her heart is leal to the right.

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

_White Rose Day_.

JUNE 10, 1688.

’TWAS a day of faith and flowers,
Of honour that could not die,
Of Hope that counted the hours,
Of sorrowing Loyalty:
And the _Blackbird_ sang in the closes,
The _Blackbird_ piped 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 bring
The lord of the leal white roses,
The face of the rightful King?

_Red and White Roses_.

RED roses under the sun
For the King who is lord of land;
But he dies when his day is done,
For his memory careth none
When the glass runs empty of sand.

White roses under the moon
For 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.

_The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond_.

1746.

THERE’S an 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.

_Kenmure_.

1715.

“THE heather’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 foes
Of 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 forth
For 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 Galloway
For 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 be
To Christ’s ain Kirk and Covenant,
Or the King that’s o’er the sea.

_Culloden_.

DARK, dark was the day when we looked on Culloden
And 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 places
Where 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 heather
That 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.”

_The Last of the Leal_.

DECEMBER 31, 1787.

HERE’S a health to every man
Bore 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 man
Bore 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 man
Bore the brunt of wind and weather!

_Jeanne d’Arc_.

THE honour 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 begin
To be

Ere any come like her who fought
For France, for freedom, for the King;
Who counsel of redemption brought
Whence even the armed Archangel’s wing
Might weary sore in voyaging;
Who heard her Voices cry “Be free!”
Such Maid no later human spring
Shall 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!

CRICKET RHYMES

_To Helen_.

(After seeing her bowl with her usual success.)

ST. LEONARD’S HALL.

HELEN, thy bowling is to me
Like 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, which
Are nobly planned!

_Ballade of Dead Cricketers_.

AH, where be Beldham now, and Brett,
Barker, and Hogsflesh, where be they?
Brett, of all bowlers fleetest yet
That drove the bails in disarray?
And Small that would, like Orpheus, play
Till wild bulls followed his minstrelsy? {32}
Booker, and Quiddington, and May?
Beneath the daisies, there they lie!

And where is Lambert, that would get
The stumps with balls that broke astray?
And Mann, whose balls would ricochet
In 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!”

_Brahma_.

AFTER EMERSON.

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

CRITICAL OF LIFE, ART, AND LITERATURE

_Gainsborough Ghosts_.

IN THE GROSVENOR GALLERY.

THEY smile 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 con
The faces of an elder time—
Alas! and _ours_ is flitting on;
Oh, moral for an empty rhyme!

Think, when the tumult and the crowd
Have left the solemn rooms and chill,
When dilettanti are not loud,
When lady critics are not shrill—
Ah, think how strange upon the still
Dim air may sound these voices faint;
Once more may Johnson talk his fill
And 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,
Even _we_ may please the folk that look
When 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 give
The 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.

_A Remonstrance with the Fair_.

THERE are 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 they _do_ read
Is a thing that no man may explain,
And if any one asks for a true rede
He asketh in vain.

Ah, why is each “passing depression”
Of stories that gloomily bore
Received as the subtle expression
Of almost unspeakable lore?
In the dreary, the sickly, the grimy
Say, why do our women delight,
And wherefore so constantly ply me
With _Ships 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 understands
Why the grubby is always the moral,
Why the nasty’s preferred to the nice,
While you keep up a secular quarrel
With 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 it
Worth scribbling about!

What is sauce for the goose, for the gander
Is 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 belittles
This cosmos of Thine!

There are cakes, there is ale—ay, and ginger
Shall 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 silly
Sad trash of to-day!

_Rhyme of Rhymes_.

WILD on the mountain peak the wind
Repeats 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 kind
To rhyme as if “agen.”

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

We _say_, “Now don’t do that _agen_,”
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 groove
We meet them rhyming still.

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

_Rhyme of Oxford Cockney Rhymes_.

(Exhibited in the _Oxford Magazine_.)

THOUGH Keats 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 beyond
These 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 tongue
So flayed, and racked, and tortured,
Since one I love (who should be hung)
Made “tortured” rhyme to “orchard.”

Unkindly G—y’s raging pen
Next craves a rhyme to “sooner;”
Rejecting “Spooner,” (best of men,)
He fastens on _lacuna_(_r_).
Nay, worse, in his infatuate mind
He ends a line “explainer,”
Nor any rhyme can G—y find
Until 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 ship _Argo_;
Largo he had; yet doth he seek
Further, and no embargo
Restrains 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 try
To fill the blank with “paper”?

Oh, Hoxford was a pleasant plice
To many a poet dear,
And Saccharissa had the grice
In Hoxford to appear.
But Waller, if to Cytherea
He prayed at any time,
Did not implore “her friendly ear,”
And think he had a rhyme.

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

_Rococo_.

(“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_.

WHY wilt 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 hold
In thy kind arms, alas! this powerless head.

_When first we heard Rossetti sing_,
_We also wrote this kind of thing_!

_The Food of Fiction_.

TO breakfast, dinner, or to lunch
My steps are languid, once so speedy;
E’en though, like the old gent in _Punch_,
“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 Ruth
To 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 toast
That 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 sweets
And 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 brewed
Like Sairey Gamp’s—the dear old sinner?
What savoury mess was ever stewed
Like 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 find
After life’s years of fret and friction,
That hunger wanes—but never mind!
There’s nothing like the food of fiction.

“_A Highly Valuable chain of Thoughts_.”

HAD cigarettes no ashes,
And roses ne’er a thorn,
No man would be a funker
Of 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 ever
Escape into the river.
No gut the salmon smashes
Would 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 real
Comes bleakly in with morn,
And cigarettes have ashes,
And every rose a thorn.

_Matrimony_.

(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 hear
From 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 love
His Protestant to be!
But ere the sacred rites are done
(And by no Priest of Rome)
He’d ask, if she a Remington
Type-writer works—at home?

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

_Piscatori Piscator_.

IN MEMORY OF THOMAS TOD STODDART.

AN angler 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 reply
Of his pure unrepining reed,
Who lies where he was fain to lie,
Like Scott, within the sound of Tweed.

_The Contented Angler_.

THE Angler hath a jolly life
Who 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 wait
In 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 flies
To 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 book
Instructive company.

_Off My Game_.

“I’M of 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 fall
On 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 me
How 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!”

_The Property of a Gentleman who has given up Collecting_.

OH blessed be the cart that takes
Away my books, my curse, my clog,
Blessed the auctioneer who makes
Their inefficient catalogue.

Blessed the purchasers who pay
However 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 catalogues
Of rubbish that come thick as rooks,
But most I loathe the dreary dogs
That write in prose, or worse, on books.

Large paper surely cannot hide
Their grammar, nor excuse their rhyme,
The anecdotes that they provide
Are 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!

_The Ballade of the Subconscious Self_.

WHO suddenly calls to our ken
The 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 Men
Who consult the Australian bear,
And ’tis he, with his lights on the fen,
Who helps Jack o’ Lanthorn to snare
The peasants of Devon, who swear
Under 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 then
Slinks 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.

_Ballade of the Optimist_.

HEED not the folk who sing or say
In 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; still
We’d rather be alive than not.

What though we wish the cats at play
Would some one else’s garden till;
Though Sophonisba drop the tray
And 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 day
To self and every mortal ill
We 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 fulfil
The task thy braggart tongue begot,
We eat our leek with better will,
We’d rather be alive than not.

_Zimbabwe_.

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

INTO the darkness whence they came,
They passed, their country knoweth none,
They and their gods without a name
Partake the same oblivion.
Their work they did, their work is done,
Whose gold, it may be, shone like fire
About 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 rolled
Skyward to seek Jehovah’s face;
The golden Ark that did encase
The Law within Jerusalem,
The lilies and the rings to grace
The High Priest’s robe and diadem.

The pestilence, the desert spear,
Smote them; they passed, with none to tell
The 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.

_Love’s Cryptogram_.

[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.