Chapter V: She mastered young Vindictive--Oh! the gallant lass was she,

And kept him straight and won the race as near as near could be;

But he killed her at the brook against a pollard willow-tree,

Oh! he killed her at the brook, the brute, for all the world to see,

And no one but the baby cried for poor Lorraine, Lorrèe.

----C. Kingsley.

A BALLAD FOR A BOY

|When George the Third was reigning a hundred

years ago,

He ordered Captain Farmer to chase the foreign

foe.

"You're not afraid of shot," said he, "you're

not afraid of wreck,

So cruise about the west of France in the frigate

called _Quebec_.

"Quebec was once a Frenchman's town, but

twenty years ago

King George the Second sent a man called

General Wolfe, you know,

To clamber up a precipice and look into Quebec,

As you'd look down a hatchway when standing

on the deck.

"If Wolfe could beat the Frenchmen then so

you can beat them now.

Before he got inside the town he died, I must

allow.

But since the town was won for us it is a lucky

name,

And you'll remember Wolfe's good work, and

you shall do the same."

Then Farmer said, "I'll try, sir," and Farmer

bowed so low

That George could see his pigtail tied in a velvet

bow.

George gave him his commission, and that it

might be safer,

Signed "King of Britain, King of France," and

sealed it with a wafer.

Then proud was Captain Farmer in a frigate of

his own,

And grander on his quarter-deck than George

upon the throne.

He'd two guns in his cabin, and on the spar-deck

ten,

And twenty on the gun-deck, and more than ten

score men.

And as a huntsman scours the brakes with six-

teen brace of dogs,

With two-and-thirty cannon the ship explored

the fogs.

From Cape la Hogue to Ushant, from Roche-

forte to Belleisle,

She hunted game till reef and mud were rubbing

on her keel.

The fogs are dried, the frigate's side is bright

with melting tar,

The lad up in the foretop sees square white sails

afar;

The east wind drives three square-sailed masts

from out the Breton bay,

And "Clear for action!" Farmer shouts, and

reefers yell "Hooray!"

The Frenchmen's captain had a name I wish I

could pronounce;

A Breton gentleman was he, and wholly free

from bounce,

One like those famous fellows who died by guil-

lotine

For honour and the fleurs-de-lys, and Antoinette

the Queen.

The Catholic for Louis, the Protestant for George,

Each captain drew as bright a sword as saintly

smiths could forge;

And both were simple seamen, but both could

understand

How each was bound to win or die for flag and

native land.

The French ship was la Surveillante, which means

the watchful maid;

She folded up her head-dress and began to

cannonade.

Her hull was clean, and ours was foul; we had

to spread more sail.

On canvas, stays, and topsail yards her bullets

came like hail.

Sore smitten were both captains, and many lads

beside,

And still to cut our rigging the foreign gunners

tried.

A sail-clad spar came flapping down athwart a

blazing gun;

We could not quench the rushing flames, and so

the Frenchman won.

Our quarter-deck was crowded, the waist was

all aglow;

Men hung upon the taffrail half scorched, but

loth to go;

Our captain sat where once he stood, and would

not quit his chair.

He bade his comrades leap for life, and leave

him bleeding there.

The guns were hushed on either side, the French-

men lowered boats,

They flung us planks and hencoops, and every-

thing that floats.

They risked their lives, good fellows! to bring

their rivals aid.

'Twas by the conflagration the peace was

strangely made.

_La Surveillante_ was like a sieve; the victors had

no rest.

They had to dodge the east wind to reach the

port of Brest,

And where the waves leapt lower, and the

riddled ship went slower,

In triumph, yet in funeral guise, came fisher-

boats to tow her.

They dealt with us as brethren, they mourned

for Farmer dead;

And as the wounded captives passed each Breton

bowed the head.

Then spoke the French Lieutenant, "'Twas fire

that won, not we.

You never struck your flag to us; you'll go to

England free."

'Twas the sixth day of October, seventeen

hundred seventy-nine,

A year when nations ventured against us to '

combine,

Quebec was burnt and Farmer slain, by us re-

membered not;

But thanks be to the French book wherein

they're not forgot.

Now you, if you've to fight the French, my

youngster, bear in mind

Those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and kind;

Think of the Breton gentlemen who took our

lads to Brest,

And treat some rescued Breton as a comrade and

a guest.

----William Cory.

KEITH OF RAVELSTON

|The murmur of the mourning ghost

That keeps the shadowy kine;

'Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!'

Ravelston, Ravelston,

The merry path that leads

Down the golden morning hill

And through the silver meads;

Ravelston, Ravelston,

The stile beneath the tree,

The maid that kept her mother's kine,

The song that sang she!

She sang her song, she kept her kine,

She sat beneath the thorn,

When Andrew Keith of Ravelston

Rode thro' the Monday morn.

His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring,

His belted jewels shine!

Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

Year after year, where Andrew came,

Comes evening down the glade,

And still there sits a moonshine ghost

Where sat the sunshine maid.

Her misty hair is faint and fair,

She keeps the shadowy kine;

Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

I lay my hand upon the stile,

The stile is lone and cold;

The burnie that goes babbling by

Says nought that can be told.

Yet, stranger! here, from year to year,

She keeps her shadowy kine;

Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

Step out three steps, where Andrew stood --

Why blanch thy cheeks for fear?

The ancient stile is not alone,

'Tis not the burn I hear!

She makes her immemorial moan,

She keeps her shadowy kine;

Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

----S. Dobell.

DAFT JEAN

|She cam' by the cottage, she cam' by the ha,

The laird's ha o' Wutherstanelaw,

The cottar's cot by the birken shaw;

An' aye she gret,

To ilk ane she met,

For the trumpet had blawn an her lad was awa.

Daft Jean,

The waesome wean,

"Black, black," sang she,

"Black, black my weeds shall be,

My love has widowed me!

Black, black!" sang she.

Daft Jean,

The waesome wean,

She cam' by the cottage, she cam' by the ha',

The laird's ha o Wutherstanelaw,

The cottar's cot by the birken shaw;

Nae mair she creepit,

Nae mair she weepit,

She stept'mang the lasses the queen o' them a',

The queen o' them a',

The queen o' them a',

She stept mang the lasses the queen o' them a.

For the fight it was fought i' the fiel' far awa,

An' claymore in han' for his love an' his Ian',

The lad she lo ed best he was foremost to fa'.

"White, white," sang she,

"White, white, my weeds shall be,

I am no widow," sang she,

"White, white, my wedding shall be,

White, white!" sang she.

Daft Jean,

The waesome wean,

She gaed na' to cottage, she gaed na' to ha',

But forth she creepit,

While a' the house weepit,

Into the snaw i' the eerie night-fa.'

At morn we found her,

The lammies stood round her,

The snaw was her pillow, her sheet was the snaw;

Pale she was lying,

Singing and dying,

A' for the laddie wha fell far awa'.

"White, white," sang she,

"My love has married me,

White, white, my weeds shall be,

White, white, my wedding shall be,

White, white," sang she!

----S. Dobell.

THE YERL O' WATERYDECK

|The wind it blew, and the ship it flew,

And it was "Hey for hame!"

But up an' cried the skipper til his crew,

"Haud her oot ower the saut sea faem."

Syne up an' spak the angry king:

"Haud on for Dumferline!"

Quo the skipper, "My lord, this maunna be--

I'm king on this boat o' mine."

A

He tuik the helm intil his han';

He left the shore un er the lee;

Syne croodit sail, an', east an' south,

Stude awa richt oot to sea.

Quo the king, "Leise-majesty, I trow!

Here lies some ill-set plan.

'Bout ship!" Quo the skipper, "Yer grace

forgets

Ye are king but o' the lan'!"

Oot he heild to the open sea

Quhill the north wind flaughtered and fell;

Syne the east had a bitter word to say

That waukent a watery hell.

He turned her heid intil the north:

Quo the nobles: "He's droon, by the mass!"

Quo the skipper: "Haud aff yerlady-hans,

Or yell never see the Bass."

The king creepit down the cabin-stair

To drink the gude French wine;

An' up cam his dochter, the princess fair,

An' luikit ower the brine.

She turnt her face to the drivin' snaw,

To the snaw but and the weet;

It claucht her snood, an' awa' like a clud

Her hair drave oot i' the sleet.

She turnt her face frae the drivin' win --

"Quhat's that aheid?" quo' she,

The skipper he threw himsel' frae the win',

An' he brayt the helm alee.

"Put to yer han', my lady fair!

Haud up her heid," quo' he;

"Gin she dinna face the win' a wee mair,

It s faurweel to you an' me!"

To the tiller the lady she laid her han,

An' the ship brayt her cheek to the blast;

They joukit the berg, but her quarter scraped,

An' they luikit at ither aghast.

Quo the skipper: "Ye are a lady fair,

An' a princess gran' to see;

But war ye a beggàr, a man wud sail

To the hell i' yer company."

She liftit a pale an' a queenly face;

Her een flashed, an' syne they swam:

"An' what for no to the hevin?" she says--

An' she turnt awa' frae him.

Bot she tuik na her han' frae the gude ship's

helm

Till the day begouth to daw;

An' the skipper he spak, but what was said

It was said atween them twa.

An' syne the gude ship she lay to,

Wi' Scotian' hyne un'er the lee;

An' the king cam up the cabin-stair,

Wi' wan face an' bluidshot ee.

Laigh loutit the skipper upo' the deck;

"Stan' up, stan' up," quo' the king;

"Ye're an honest loun--an' beg me a boon

Quhan ye gie me back this ring."

Lowne blew the win'; the stars cam oot;

The ship turnt frae the north;

An' or ever the sun was up an aboot,

They war intil the firth o' Forth.

Quhan the gude ship hung at the pier-heid,

And the king stude steady o' the Ian'--

"Doon wi' ye, skipper--doon!" he said,

"Hoo daur ye afore me stan'?"

The skipper he loutit on his knee;

The king his blade he drew:

Quo the king, "Noo mynt ye to contre me?--

I'm aboord _my_ vessel noo!

"Gien I hadna been yer verra gude lord

I wad hae thrawn yer neck!

Bot--ye wha loutit Skipper o' Doon,

Rise up Yerl o' Waterydeck."

The skipper he rasena: "Yer grace is great;

Yèr wull it can heize or ding;

Wi' ae wee word ye hae made me a yerl--

Wi' anither mak me a king."

"I canna mak ye a king," quo' he,

"The Lord alane can do that;

I snowk leise-majesty, my man!

Quhat the Sathan wad ye be at?"

Glowert at the skipper the doutsum king,

Jalousin' aneth his croon;

Quo' the skipper, "Here is yer grace's ring--

An' yer dochter is my boon."

The black blude shot intil the king's face--

He wasna bonny to see:

"The rascal skipper! he lichtlies oor grace!--

Gar hang him heigh on yon tree."

Up sprang the skipper an' aboord his ship;

Cleikit up a bytin' blade;

An' hackit at the cable that held her to the

pier,

An' thoucht it maist ower weel made.

The king he blew shill in a siller whustle;

An' tramp, tramp, doon the pier,

Cam twenty men on twenty horses,

Clankin' wi' spur and spear.

At the king's fute fell his dochter fair:

"His life ye wadna spill!"

"Ye daur stan' twixt my hert an' my hate?"

"I daur, wi' a richt gude will!"

"Ye was aye to yer faither a thrawart bairn;

But, my lady, here stan's the king;

Luikna him i' the angry face,

A monarch's anither thing."

"I lout to my father for his grace,

Low on my bendit knee;

But I stan' an' luik the king i' the face,

For the skipper is king o' me."

She turnt, she sprang upo' the deck;

The cable splashed i' the Forth,

Her wings sae braid the gude ship spread

And flew east, an' syne flew north.

Now was not this a king's dochter--

A lady that feared no skaith?

An' a woman wi' quhilk a man micht sail

Prood intil the port o' Death?

----G. Macdonald.

OLD SIR WALTER

(_A Story of 1734._)

|Stout Sir Walter was old but hearty:

A velvet cap on his long grey hair,

A full white rose at his gold-laced button:

Many were laughing, but none looked gayer.

Such a beast was his jet black hunter,

Silver-spotted with foam and froth,

Brawny in flank and fiery-blooded,

Stung by the spur to a curbless wrath!

Gaily blowing his horn, he scrambled

Over the stone wall four feet two;

See saw over the old park railing,

Shaking the thistle-head rich with dew.

A long black face the sour Whig huntsman

Pulled, when he saw Sir Walter come

Trotting up gay by the oak wood cover.

Why when he cheered did they all sit dumb?

Why when he flung up his hat and shouted,

"God save King George!" they bawling cried,

As a Justice, drawing a long-sealed parchment,

Rode up grim to Sir Walters side.

"In King Georges name, arrest him, lieges!

This is the villain who fought at Boyne:

He sliced the feather from off my beaver,

And ran his sword twice into my groin."

Then out whipp'd blades: the horns they

sounded,

The field came flocking in thick and fast,

But Sir Walter flogged at the barking rabble,

And through them all like a whirlwind passed.

"A hundred guineas to seize the traitor!"

Cried the Justice, purple and white with rage,

Then such a spurring, whipping, and flogging,

Was never seen in the strangest age.

The hunter whipped off Spot and Fowler,

Viper and Fury, and all the pack,

And set them fast, with their red tongues lolling

And white teeth fix'd, on Sir Walter's track.

Loud on the wind came blast of bugle,

All together the hounds gave tongue,

They swept like a hail-storm down by the gibbet,

Where the black rags still in the cold storm

hung.

The rain cut faces like long whip lashes,

The wind blew strong in its wayward will,

And powdering fast, the men and horses

Thundering swept down Frampton Hill.

There half the grooms at last pull'd bridle,

Swearing'twould ruin their bits of blood;

Three Whig rogues flew out of the saddle,

And two were plumped in the river mud.

Three men stuck to the leading rebel;

The first was a Whig lord, fat and red,

The next a yellow-faced lean attorney,

And the last a Justice, as some one said.

Slap at the fence went old Sir Walter,

Slap at the ditch by the pollard-tree,

Crash through the hazels, over the water,

And wherever he went, there went the three.

Into the hill-fence broke Sir Walter,

Right through the tangle of branch and

thorns,

Swish'd the rasper up by the windmill,

In spite of the cries and blowing of horns.

Lines of flames trailed all the scarlet

Streaming, the dogs half a mile before,

Whoop! with a cry all after Sir Walter,

Driving wildly along the shore.

Over the timber flew old Sir Walter,

Light as a swallow, sure and swift,

For his sturdy arm and his "pull and hustle"

Could help a nag at the deadest lift.

Off went his gold-laced hat and bugle,

His scarlet cloak he then let fall,

And into the river spurr'd old Sir Walter,

Boldly there, in the sight of all.

There was many a sore on back and wither,

Many a spur that ran with red,

But none of them caught the stout Sir Walter,

Though they counted of horses sixty head.

There was many a fetlock cut and wounded,

Many a hock deep lam'd with thorns,

Many a man that two years after

Shuddered to hear the sound of horns.

But on the fallow, the long clay fallow,

Foundered his black mare, Lilly Lee,

And Sir Walter sat on the tough old saddle,

Waiting the coming of all the three.

Never such chase of stag or vermin,

Along the park pale, in and out;

On they thundered, fast over the railing,

Driving the fence in splints about.

The first he shot with his long steel pistol,

The second he slew with his Irish sword,

The third he threw in the brook, and mounted

Quick on the steed of the fat Whig lord.

Then off to the ship at the nearest harbour,

Gallop'd Sir Walter, sure and fleet.

He died, 'tis true, in an old French garret,

But his heart went true to the latest beat.

A white rose, stifled and very sickly,

Pined for air at the window-sill,

But the last fond look of the brave old trooper

Was fixed on the dying emblem--still,

All alone in the dusky garret,

He turn d to the flower with a father's pride,

"God save King James!" the old man mur-

mured,

"God--save--the--King!" he moaned and

died.

----G. W. Thornbury.

SISTER HELEN

|Why did you melt your waxen man,

Sister Helen?

To-day is the third since you began."

"The time was long, yet the time ran,

Little brother."

(_0 Mother, Mary Mother,

Three days to-day, between Hell and Heaven!_)

"But if you have done your work aright,

Sister Helen,

You'll let me play, for you said I might."

"Be very still in your play to-night,

Little brother."

(_0 Mother, Mary Mother,

Third night, to-night, between Hell and Heaven!_)

"You said it must melt ere vesper-bell,

Sister Helen;

If now it be molten, all is well."

"Even so,--nay, peace! you cannot tell,

Little brother."

(_0 Mothery Mary Mother,Owhat is this, between Hell and Heaven?_)

"Oh the waxen knave was plump to-day,

Sister Helen;

How like dead folk he has dropped away!"

"Nay now, of the dead what can you say,

Little brother?"

(_O Mother y Mary Mother y

What of the dead, between Hell and Heaven?_)

"See, see, the sunken pile of wood,

Sister Helen,

Shines through the thinned wax red as blood!"

"Nay now, when looked you yet on blood,

Little brother?"

(_O Mother, Mary Mother,

How pale she is, between Hell and Heaven!_)

"Now close your eyes, for they're sick and sore,

Sister Helen;

And I'll play without the gallery door."

"Aye, let me rest,--I'll lie on the floor,

Little brother."

(_O Mother, Mary Mother,

What rest to-night, between Hell and Heaven?_)

"Here high up in the balcony,

Sister Helen,

The moon flies face to face with me."

"Aye, look and say whatever you see,

Little brother."

(_O Mother, Mary Mother,

What sight to-night, between Hell and Heaven?_)

"Outside it's merry in the wind's wake,

Sister Helen;

In the shaken trees the chill stars shake."

"Hush, heard you a horse-tread as you spake,

Little brother."

(_O Mother, Mary Mother,

What sound to-night, between Hell and Heaven?_)

"I hear a horse-tread, and I see,

Sister Helen,

Three horsemen that ride terribly."

"Little brother, whence come the three,

Little brother?"

(_O Mother, Mary Mother,

Whence should they come, between Hell and Heaven?_)

"They come by the hill-verge from Boyne Bar,

Sister Helen,

And one draws nigh, but two are afar."

"Look, look, do you know them who they are,

Little brother?"

(_O Mother, Mary Mother,

Who should they be, between Hell and Heaven?_)

"Oh, it's Keith of Eastholm rides so fast,

Sister Helen,

For I know the white mane on the blast."

"The hour has come, has come at last,

Little brother!"

(_O Mother, Mary Mother,

Her hour at last, between Hell and Heaven!_)

"He has made a sign and called Halloo!

Sister Helen,

And he says that he would speak with you."

"Oh, tell him I fear the frozen dew,

Little brother."

(_O Mother, Mary Mother,

Why laughs she thus, between Hell and Heaven?_)

"The wind is loud, but I hear him cry,

Sister Helen,

That Keith of Ewern's like to die."

"And he and thou, and thou and I,

Little brother."

(_OMother, Mary Mother,

And they and we, between Hell and Heaven!_)

"Three days ago, on his marriage-morn,

Sister Helen,

He sickened, and lies since then forlorn."

"For bridegroom's side is the bride a thorn,

Little brother."

(_O Mother y Mary Mother,

Cold bridal cheer, between Hell and Heaven!_)

"Three days and nights he has lain abed,

Sister Helen,

And he prays in torment to be dead."

"The thing may chance, if he have prayed,

Little brother."

(_O Mother, Mary Mother,

If he have prayedy between Hell and Heaven!_)

"But he has not ceased to cry to-day,

Sister Helen,

That you should take your curse away."

"_My_ prayer was heard,--he need but pray,

Little brother!"

(_O Mother, Mary Mother,

Shall God not hear, between Hell and Heaven?_)

"But he says, till you take back your ban,

Sister Helen,

His soul would pass, yet never can."

"Nay then, shall I slay a living man,

Little brother?"

(_O Mother y Mary Mother,

A living soul y between Hell and Heaven!_)

"But he calls for ever on your name,

Sister Helen,

And says that he melts before a flame."

"My heart for his pleasure fared the same,

Little brother."

(_O Mother, Mary Mother,

Fire at the hearty between Hell and Heaven!_)

"Here's Keith of Westholm riding fast,

Sister Helen,

For I know the white plume on the blast."

"The hour, the sweet hour I forecast,

Little brother!"

(_O Mothery Mary Mother,

Is the hour sweet, between Hell and Heaven?_)

"He stops to speak, and.he stills his horse,

Sister Helen;

But his words are drowned in the wind's course."

"Nay hear, nay hear, you must hear perforce,

Little brother!"

(_O Mother, Mary Mother,

What word now heard, between Hell and Heaven?_)

"Oh he says that Keith of Ewern's cry,

Sister Helen,

Is ever to see you ere he die."

"In all that his soul sees, there am I,

Little brother!"

(_O Mother y Mary Mother y

The souls one sight, between Hell and Heaven!_)

"He sends a ring and a broken coin,

Sister Helen,

And bids you mind the banks of Boyne."

"What else he broke will he ever join,

Little brother?"

(_O Mother, Mary Mother,

No, never joined, between Hell and Heaven!_)

"He yields you these and craves full fain,

Sister Helen,

You pardon him in his mortal pain."

"What else he took will he give again,

Little brother?"

(_O Mother, Mary Mother,

Not twice to give, between Hell and Heaven!_)

"He calls your name in an agony,

Sister Helen,

That even dead Love must weep to see."

"Hate, born of Love, is blind as he,

Little brother!"

(_O Mother, Mary Mother,

Love turned to hate, between Hell and Heaven!_)

"Oh it's Keith of Keith now that rides fast,

Sister Helen,

For I know the white hair on the blast."

"The short short hour will soon be past,

Little brother!"

(_O Mother y Mary Mother,

Will soon be past, between Hell and Heaven!_)

"He looks at me and he tries to speak,

Sister Helen,

But oh! his voice is sad and weak!"

"What here should the mighty Baron seek,

Little brother?"

(_O Mother, Mary Mother,

Is this the end, between Hell and Heaven?_)

"Oh his son still cries, if you forgive,

Sister Helen,

The body dies but the soul shall live."

"Fire shall forgive me as I forgive,

Little brother!"

(_O Mothery Mary Mother,

As she forgives, between Hell and Heaven!_)

"Oh he prays you, as his heart would rive,

Sister Helen,

To save his dear sons soul alive.''

"Fire cannot slay it, it shall thrive,

Little brother!"

(_O Mother, Mary Mother,

Alas y alas y between Hell and Heaven!_)

"He cries to you, kneeling in the road,

Sister Helen,

To go with him for the love of God!"

"The way is long to his son's abode,

Little brother."

(_O Mother, Mary Mother,

The way is long9 between Hell and Heaven!_)

"A lady's here, by a dark steed brought,

Sister Helen,

So darkly clad, I saw her not."

"See her now or never see aught,

Little brother!"

(+O Mothery Mary Mother,

What more to see, between Hell and Heaven?_)

"Her hood falls back, and the moon shines fair,

Sister Helen,

On the Lady of Ewern's golden hair."

"Blest hour of my power and her despair,

Little brother!"

(_O Mother, Mary Mother,

Hour blest and bannd, between Hell and Heaven!_)

"Pale, pale her cheeks, that in pride did glow,

Sister Helen,

'Neath the bridal-wreath three days ago."

"One morn for pride and three days for woe,

Little brother."

(_O Mothery Mary Mother

Three days, three nights, between Hell and Heaven!_)

"Her clasped hands stretch from her bending head,

Sister Helen;

With the loud wind's wail her sobs are wed."

"What wedding-strains hath her bridal-bed,

Little brother?"

(_O Mother y Mary Mother y

What strain but death's, between Hell and Heaven!_)

"She may not speak, she sinks in a swoon,

Sister Helen,--

She lifts her lips and gasps on the moon."

"Oh! might I but hear her soul's blithe tune,

Little brother!"

(_O Mother y Mary Mother,

Her woe s dumb cry, between Hell and Heaven!_)

"They've caught her to Westholm's saddle-bow,

Sister Helen,

And her moonlit hair gleams white in its flow."

"Let it turn whiter than winter snow,

Little brother!"

(_O Mother, Mary Mother,

Woe-withered gold, between Hell and Heaven!_)

"O Sister Helen, you heard the bell,

Sister Helen!

More loud than the vesper-chime it fell."

"No vesper-chime, but a dying-knell,

Little brother!"

(_O Mother y Mary Mother,

His dying knell, between Hell and Heaven!_)

"Alas! but I fear the heavy sound,

Sister Helen;

Is it in the sky or in the ground?"

"Say, have they turned their horses round,

Little brother?"

(_O Mother9 Mary Mother,

What would she more, between Hell and Heaven?_)

"They have raised the old man from his knee,

Sister Helen,

And they ride in silence hastily."

"More fast the naked soul doth flee,

Little brother!"

(_O Mothery Mary Mother,

The naked soul, between Hell and Heaven!_)

"Flank to flank are the three steeds gone,

Sister Helen,

But the lady's dark steed goes alone."

"And lonely her bridegroom's soul hath flown,

Little brother."

_(O Mother y Mary Mother,

The lonely ghost, between Hell and Heaven!_)

"Oh the wind is sad in the iron chill,

Sister Helen,

And weary sad they look by the hill."

"But he and I are sadder still,

Little brother!"

(_O Mother, Mary Mother,

Most sad of ally between Hell and Heaven!_)

"See, see, the wax has dropped from its place,

Sister Helen,

And the flames are winning up apace!"

"Yet here they burn but for a space,

Little brother!"

(_O Mother y Mary Mother,

Here for a space, between Hell and Heaven!_)

"Ah! what white thing at the door has cross'd,

Sister Helen?

Ah! what is this that sighs in the frost?"

"A soul that's lost as mine is lost,

Little brother!"

(_O Mother y Mary Mother,

Lost y lost y all lost y between Hell and Heaven!)

----D. G. Rossetti.

THE BLACKBIRD'S SONG

|Magdalen at Michael's gate

Tirled at the pin;

On Joseph's thorn, sang the blackbird,

"Let her in! let her in!"

"Hast thou seen the wounds?" said Michael,

"Know'st thou thy sin?"

"It is evening, evening," sang the blackbird,

"Let her in! let her in!"

"Yes I have seen the wounds,

And I know my sin."

"She knows it well, well, well," sang the

blackbird,

"Let her in! let her in!"

"Thou bringest no offerings," said Michael,

"Nought save sin.''

And the blackbird sang, "She is sorry, sorry,

sorry,

Let her in! let her in!"

When he had sung himself to sleep,

And night did begin,

One came and opened Michael's gate,

And Magdalen went in.

----H. Kingsley.

MAIDEN SONG

|Long ago and long ago,

And long ago still,

There dwelt three merry maidens

Upon a distant hill.

One was tall Meggan,

And one was dainty May,

But one was fair Margaret,

More fair than I can say,

Long ago and long ago.

When Meggan plucked the thorny rose,

And when May pulled the brier,

Half the birds would swoop to see,

Half the beasts draw nigher;

Half the fishes of the streams

Would dart up to admire:

And when Margaret plucked a flag-flower,

Or poppy hot aflame,

All the beasts, and all the birds,

And all the fishes came

To her hand more soft than snow.

Strawberry leaves and May-dew

In brisk morning air,

Strawberry leaves and May-dew

Make maidens fair.

"I go for strawberry leaves,"

Meggan said one day:

"Fair Margaret can bide at home,

But you come with me, May;

Up the hill and down the hill,

Along the winding way

You and I are used to go."

So these two fair sisters

Went with innocent will

Up the hill and down again,

And round the homestead hill:

While the fairest sat at home,

Margaret like a queen,

Like a blush-rose, like the moon

In her heavenly sheen,

Fragrant-breathed as milky cow

Or field of blossoming bean,

Graceful as an ivy bough

Born to cling and lean;

Thus she sat to sing and sew.

When she raised her lustrous eyes

A beast peeped at the door;

When she downward cast her eyes

A fish gasped on the floor;

When she turned away her eyes

A bird perched on the sill,

Warbling out its heart of love,

Warbling warbling still,

With pathetic pleadings low.

Light-foot May with Meggan

Sought the choicest spot,

Clothed with thyme-alternate grass:

Then, while day waxed hot,

Sat at ease to play and rest,

A gracious rest and play;

The loveliest maidens near or far,

When Margaret was away,

Who sat at home to sing and sew.

Sun-glow flushed their comely cheeks,

Wind-play tossed their hair,

Creeping things among the grass

Stroked them here and there;

Meggan piped a merry note,

A fitful wayward lay,

While shrill as birds on topmost twig

Piped merry May;

Honey-smooth the double flow.

Sped a herdsman from the vale,

Mounting like a flame,

All on fire to hear and see,

With floating locks he came.

Looked neither north nor south,

Neither east nor west,

But sat him down at Meggan's feet

As love-bird on his nest,

And wooed her with a silent awe,

With trouble not expressed;

She sang the tears into his eyes,

The heart out of his breast:

So he loved her, listening so.

She sang the heart out of his breast,

The words out of his tongue;

Hand and foot and pulse he paused

Till her song was sung.

Then he spoke up from his place

Simple words and true:

"Scanty goods have I to give,

Scanty skill to woo;

But I have a will to work,

And a heart for you:

Bid me stay or bid me go."

Then Meggan mused within herself:

"Better be first with him,

Than dwell where fairer Margaret sits,

Who shines my brightness dim,

For ever second where she sits,

However fair I be.

I will be lady of his love,

And he shall worship me;

I will be lady of his herds

And stoop to his degree,

At home where kids and fatlings grow."

Goof^

Sped a shepherd from the height

Headlong down to look,

(White lambs followed, lured by love

Of their shepherd's crook):

He turned neither east nor west,

Neither north nor south,

But knelt right down to May, for love

Of her sweet-singing mouth;

Forgot his flocks, his panting flocks

In parching hill-side drouth;

Forgot himself for weal or woe.

Trilled her song and swelled her song

With maiden coy caprice

In a labyrinth of throbs,

Pauses, cadences;

Clear-noted as a dropping brook,

Soft-noted like the bees,

Wild-noted as the shivering wind

Forlorn through forest trees:

Love-noted like the wood-pigeon

Who hides herself for love,

Yet cannot keep her secret safe,

But coos and coos thereof:

Thus the notes rang loud or low.

He hung breathless on her breath;

Speechless, who listened well;

Could not speak or think or wish

Till silence broke the spell.

Then he spoke, and spread his hands,

Pointing here and there:

"See my sheep and see the lambs,

Twin lambs which they bear.

And myself I offer you,

All my flocks and care,

Your sweet song hath moved me so."

In her fluttered heart young May

Mused a dubious while,

"If he loves me as he says"--

Her lips curved with a smile:

"Where Margaret shines like the sun

I shine but like a moon;

If sister Meggan makes her choice

I can make mine as soon;

At cockcrow we were sister-maids,

We may be brides at noon."

Said Meggan, "Yes;" May said not "No."

Fair Margaret stayed alone at home,

Awhile she sang her song,

Awhile sat silent, then she thought:

"My sisters loiter long."

That sultry noon had waned away,

Shadows had waxen great:

"Surely," she thought within herself,

"My sisters loiter late!"

She rose, and peered out at the door,

With patient heart to wait,

And heard a distant nightingale

Complaining of its mate;

Then down the garden slope she walked,

Down to the garden gate,

Leaned on the rail and waited so.

The slope was lightened by her eyes

Like summer lightning fair,

Like rising of the haloed moon

Lightened her glimmering hair,

While her face lightened like the sun

Whose dawn is rosy white.

Thus crowned with maiden majesty

She peered into the night,

Looked up the hill and down the hill,

To left hand and to right,

Flashing like fire-flies to and fro.

Waiting thus in weariness

She marked the nightingale

Telling, if any one would heed,

Its old complaining tale.

Then lifted she her voice and sang,

Answering the bird:

Then lifted she her voice and sang,

Such notes were never heard

From any bird when Spring's in blow.

The king of all that country,

Coursing far, coursing near,

Curbed his amber-bitted steed

Coursed amain to hear;

All his princes in his train,

Squire, and knight, and peer,

With his crown upon his head,

His sceptre in his hand,

Down he fell at Margaret's knees

Lord king of all that land,

To her highness bending low.

Every beast and bird and fish,

Came mustering to the sound,

Every man and every maid

From miles of country round:

Meggan on her herdsman's arm,

With her shepherd, May,

Flocks and herds trooped at their heels

Along the hill-side way;

No foot too feeble for the ascent,

Not any head too grey;

Some were swift, and none were slow.

So Margaret sang her sisters home

In their marriage mirth;

Sang free birds out of the sky,

Beasts along the earth,

Sang up fishes of the deep--

All breathing things that move

Sang from far and sang from near

To her lovely love;

Sang together friend and foe;

Sang a golden-bearded king

Straightway to her feet,

Sang him silent where he knelt

In eager anguish sweet.

But when the clear voice died away,

When longest echoes died,

He stood up like a royal man

And claimed her for his bride.

So three maids were wooed and won

In a brief May-tide,

Long ago and long ago.

----Christina Rossetti.

LOVE FROM THE NORTH

|I had a love in soft south land,

Beloved through April far in May;

He waited on my lightest breath,

And never dared to say me nay.

He saddened if my cheer was sad,

But gay he grew if I was gay;

We never differed on a hair,

My yes his yes, my nay his nay.

The wedding hour was come, the aisles

Were flushed with sun and flowers that day;

I pacing balanced in my thoughts:

"It's quite too late to think of nay."--

My bridegroom answered in his turn,

Myself had almost answered "Yea

When through the flashing nave I heard

A struggle and resounding "Nay,"

Bridesmaids and bridegroom shrank in fear,

But I stood high who stood at bay:

"And if I answer yea, fair sir,

What man art thou to bar with nay?"

He was a strong man from the north,

Light-locked, with eyes of dangerous grey:

"Put yea by for another time

In which I will not say thee nay."

He took me in his strong white arms,

He bore me on his horse away

O'er crag, morass, and hair-breadth pass,

But never asked me yea or nay.

He made me fast with book and bell,

With links of love he makes me stay;

Till now I've neither heart nor power

Nor will nor wish to say him nay.

----Christina Rossetti.

MAUDE CLARE

|Out of the church she followed them

With a lofty step and mien:

His bride was like a village maid,

Maude Clare was like a queen.

"Son Thomas," his lady mother said,

With smiles, almost with tears:

"May Nell and you but live as true

As we have done for years;

"Your father thirty years ago

Had just your tale to tell;

But he was not so pale as you,

Nor I so pale as Nell."

6

My lord was pale with inward strife,

And Nell was pale with pride;

My lord gazed long on pale Maude Clare

Or ever he kissed the bride.

"Lo, I have brought my gift, my lord,

Have brought my gift," she said:

"To bless the hearth, to bless the board,

To bless the marriage-bed.

"Here's my half of the golden chain

You wore about your neck,

That day we waded ankle-deep

For lilies in the beck:

"Here's my half of the faded leaves

We plucked from budding bough,

With feet among the lily leaves,--

The lilies are budding now."

He strove to match her scorn with scorn,

He faltered in his place;

"Lady," he said,--"Maude Clare," he said,--

"Maude Clare:"--and hid his face.

She turn'd to Nell: "My Lady Nell,

I have a gift for you;

Though, were it fruit, the bloom were gone,

Or, were it flowers, the dew.

"Take my share of a fickle heart,

Mine of a paltry love:

Take it or leave it as you will,

I wash my hands thereof."

"And what you leave," said Nell, "I'll take,

And what you spurn, I'll wear;

For he's my lord for better and worse,

And him I love, Maude Clare.

"Yea, though you re taller by the head,

More wise, and much more fair;

I'll love him till he loves me best,

Me best of all, Maude Clare."

----Christina Rossetti.

THE SEVEN FIDDLERS

|A blue robe on their shoulder,

And an ivory bow in hand,

Seven fiddlers came with their fiddles

A-fiddling through the land,

And they fiddled a tune on their fiddles

That none could understand.

For none who heard their fiddling

Might keep his ten toes still,

E en the cripple threw down his crutches,

And danced against his will:

Young and old they all fell a-dancing,

While the fiddlers fiddled their fill.

They fiddled down to the ferry--

The ferry by Severn-side,

And they stept aboard the ferry,

None else to row or guide,

And deftly steered the pilot,

And stoutly the oars they plied.

Then suddenly in the mid-channel

These fiddlers ceased to row,

And the pilot spake to his fellows

In a tongue that none may know:

"Let us home to our fathers and brothers,

And the maidens we love below."

Then the fiddlers seized their fiddles,

And sang to their fiddles a song:

"We are coming, coming, oh brothers,

To the home we have left so long,

For the world still loves the fiddler,

And the fiddler's tune is strong."

Then they stept from out the ferry

Into the Severn-sea,

Down into the depths of the waters

Where the homes of the fiddlers be,

And the ferry-boat drifted slowly

Forth to the ocean free!

But where those jolly fiddlers

Walked down into the deep,

The ripples are never quiet,

But for ever dance and leap,

Though the Severn-sea be silent,

And the winds be all asleep.

----Sebastian Evans.

SIR NICHOLAS AT MARSTON MOOR

|To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the clarion's

note is high;

To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! the big drum

makes reply:

Ere this hath Lucas marched with his gallant

cavaliers,

And the bray of Rupert's trumpets grows

fainter on our ears.

To horse, to horse, Sir Nicholas! White Guy is

at the door,

And the vulture whets his beak o'er the field of

Marston Moor.

Up rose the Lady Alice from her brief and

broken prayer,

And she brought a silken standard down the

narrow turret stair.

Oh, many were the tears that those radiant eyes

had shed,

As she worked the bright word "Glory"in the

gay and glancing thread;

And mournful was the smile which o'er those

beauteous features ran,

As she said, "It is your lady's gift; unfurl it in

the van."

"It shall flutter, noble wench, where the best

and boldest ride,

Through the steel-clad files of Skippon, and the

black dragoons of Pride;

The recreant soul of Fairfax will feel a sicklier

qualm,

And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a louder

psalm,

When they see my lady's gew-gaw flaunt

bravely on their wing,

And hear her loyal soldier's shout, For God and

for the King!

'Tis noon; the ranks are broken along the

royal line;

They fly, the braggarts of the Court, the bullies

of the Rhine:

Stout Langley's cheer is heard no more, and

Astley's helm is down,

And Rupert sheathes his rapier with a curse and

with a frown;

And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in

the flight,

"The German boar had better far have supped

in York to-night.''

The Knight is all alone, his steel cap cleft in

twain,

His good buff jerkin crimsoned o'er with many

a gory stain;

Yet still he waves the standard, and cries amid

the rout--

"For Church and King, fair gentlemen, spur

on and fight it out!"

And now he wards a Roundhead's pike, and

now he hums a stave,

And here he quotes a stage-play, and there he

fells a knave.

Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! thou hast

no thought of fear;

Good speed to thee, Sir Nicholas! but fearful

odds are here.

The traitors ring thee round, and with every

blow and thrust,

"Down, down," they cry, "with Belial, down

with him to the dust!"

"I would," quoth grim old Oliver, "that

Belial's trusty sword

This day were doing battle for the Saints and

for the Lord!"--

The lady Alice sits with her maidens in her

bower;

The grey-haired warden watches on the castle's

highest tower.--

"What news, what news, old Anthony?"--

"The field is lost and won;

The ranks of war are melting as the mists

beneath the sun;

And a wounded man speeds hither,--I am old

and cannot see,

Or sure I am that sturdy step my master's step

should be!

"I bring thee back the standard from as rude

and rough a fray,

As e'er was proof of soldier's thews, or theme

for minstrel's lay.

Bid Hubert fetch the silver bowl, and liquor

quantum stiff.;

I'll make a shift to drain it, ere I part with boot

and buff;

Though Guy through many a gaping wound is

breathing out his life,

And I come to thee a landless man, my fond

and faithful wife!

"Sweet, we will fill our money-bags, and freight

a ship for France,

And mourn in merry Paris for this poor realm's

mischance;

Or, if the worst betide me, why, better axe or

rope,

Than life with Lenthal for a king, and Peters

for a pope!

Alas, alas, my gallant Guy!--out on the crop-

eared boor,

That sent me with my standard on foot from

Marston Moor!"

----W. M. Praed.