Chapter I: Front Matter

POPULAR BRITISH BALLADS

ANCIENT AND MODERN

By Various

Chosen and edited by R. Brimley Johnson

Illustrated By W. C. Cooke

In Four Volumes

Volume IV

1894

THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE

|The old mayor climbed the belfry tower,

The ringers ran by two, by three;

"Pull, if ye never pulled before;

Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he.

"Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells!

Ply all your changes, all your swells,

Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'"

Men say it was a stolen tyde--

The Lord that sent it, He knows all;

But in myne ears doth still abide

The message that the bells let fall:

And there was nought of strange, beside

The flights of mews and peewits pied

By millions crouched on the old sea wall.

I sat and spun within the doore,

My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes;

The level sun, like ruddy ore,

Lay sinking in the barren skies;

And dark against day's golden death

She moved where Lindis wandereth,

My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,

Ere the early dews were falling,

Far re away I heard her song.

"Cusha! Cusha!" all along;

Where the reedy Lindis floweth,

Floweth, floweth,

From the meads where melick groweth

Faintly came her milking song.--

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,

"For the dews will soone be falling;

Leave your meadow grasses mellow,

Mellow, mellow;

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;

Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Light-

foot;

Quit the stalks of parsley hollow,

Hollow, hollow;

Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,

From the clovers lift your head;

Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Light-

foot,

Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,

Jetty, to the milking shed,"

If it be long, aye, long ago,

When I beginne to think howe long,

Againe I hear the Lindis flow,

Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong;

And all the aire, it seemeth mee,

Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee),

That ring the tune of Enderby.

Alle fresh the level pasture lay,

And not a shadowe mote be seene,

Save where full fyve good miles away

The steeple towered from out the greene;

And lo! the great bell farre and wide

Was heard in all the country side

That Saturday at eventide.

The swannerds where their sedges are

Moved on in sunset's golden breath,

The shepherde lads I heard afarre,

And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth;

Till floating o'er the grassy sea

Came downe that kyndly message free,

The "Brides of Mavis Enderby."

Then some looked uppe into the sky,

And all along where Lindis flows

To where the goodly vessels lie,

And where the lordly steeple shows.

They sayde, "And why should this thing be?

What danger lowers by land or sea?

They ring the tune of Enderby!

"For evil news from Mabelthorpe,

Of pyrate galleys warping down;

For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe,

They have not spared to wake the towne:

But while the west bin red to see,

And storms be none, and pyrates flee,

Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby?'"

I looked without, and lo! my sonne

Came riding downe with might and main:

He raised a shout as he drew on,

Till all the welkin rang again,

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath

Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth).

"The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe,

The rising tide comes on apace,

And boats adrift in yonder towne

Go sailing uppe the market-place."

He shook as one that looks on death:

"God save you, mother!" straight he saith;

"Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"

"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away

With her two bairns I marked her long;

And ere yon bells beganne to play

Afar I heard her milking song."

He looked across the grassy lea,

To right, to left, "Ho Enderby!"

They rang "The Brides of Enderby!"

With that he cried and beat his breast;

For, lo! along the river's bed

A mighty eygre reared his crest,

And up the Lindis raging sped.

It swept with thunderous noises loud;

Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud,

Or like a demon in a shroud.

And rearing Lindis backward pressed,

Shook all her trembling bankes amaine;

Then madly at the eygre's breast

Flung uppe her weltering walls again.

Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout--

Then beaten foam flew round about--

Then all the mighty floods were out.

So farre, so fast the eygre drave,

The heart had hardly time to beat,

Before a shallow seething wave

Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet:

The feet had hardly time to flee

Before it brake against the knee,

And all the world was in the sea.

Upon the roofe we sate that night,

The noise of bells went sweeping by:

I marked the lofty beacon light

Stream from the church tower, red and high--

A lurid mark and dread to see;

And awsome bells they were to mee,

That in the dark rang "Enderby."

They rang the sailor lads to guide

From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed;

And I--my sonne was at my side,

And yet the ruddy beacon glowed:

And yet he moaned beneath his breath,

"O come in life, or come in death!

O lost! my love, Elizabeth."

And didst thou visit him no more?

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare;

The waters laid thee at his doore,

Ere yet the early dawn was clear.

Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace,

The lifted sun shone on thy face,

Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass,

That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea;

A fatal ebbe and flow, alas!

To manye more than my ne and me:

But each will mourn his own (she saith).

And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath

Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.

I shall never hear her more

By the reedy Lindis shore,

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,

Ere the early dews be falling;

I shall never hear her song,

"Cusha! Cusha!" all along,

Where the sunny Lindis flpweth,

Goeth, floweth;

From the meads where ihelick groweth,

When the water winding down,

Onward floweth to the town.

I shall never see her more

Where the reeds and rushes quiver,

Shiver, quiver;

Stand beside the sobbing river.

Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling,

To the sandy lonesome shore;

I shall never hear her calling,

"Leave your meadow grasses mellow,

Mellow, mellow;

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;

Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot;

Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,

Hollow, hollow;

Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow;

Lightfoot, Whitefoot,

From your clovers lift the head;

Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow,

Jetty, to the milking shed."

----Jean Ingelow.

BALLAD OF THE BRIDES OF QUAIR

|A stillness crept about the house,

At evenfall, in noon-tide glare;

Upon the silent hills looked forth

The many-windowed House of Quair.

The peacock on the terrace screamed;

Browsed on the lawn the timid hare;

The great trees grew i' the avenue,

Calm by the sheltered House of Quair.

The pool was still; around its brim

The alders sickened all the air;

There came no murmur from the streams,

Though nigh flowed Leithen, Tweed, and

Quair.

The days hold on their wonted pace,

And men to court and camp repair,

Their part to fill, of good or ill,

While women keep the House of Quair.

And one is clad in widow's weeds,

And one is maiden-like and fair,

And day by day they seek the paths

About the lonely fields of Quair.

To see the trout leap in the streams,

The summer clouds reflected there,

The maiden loves in pensive dreams

To hang o'er silver Tweed and Quair.

Within, in pall-black velvet clad,

Sits stately in her oaken chair--

A stately dame of ancient name--

The Mother of the House of Quair.

Her daughter broiders by her side,

With heavy drooping golden hair,

And listens to her frequent plaint,--

"I'll fare the Brides that come to Quair.

"For more than one hath lived in pine,

And more than one hath died of care,

And more than one hath sorely sinned,

Left lonely in the House of Quair.

"Alas! and ere thy father died

I had not in his heart a share,

And now--may God forfend her ill--

Thy brother brings his Bride to Quair!"

She came: they kissed her in the hall,

They kissed her on the winding stair,

They led her to her chamber high,

The fairest in the House of Quair.

They bade her from the window look,

And mark the scene how passing fair,

Among whose ways the quiet days

Would linger o'er the wife of Quair.

"'_Tis_ fair," she said on looking forth,

"But what although 'twere bleak and

bare"--

She looked the love she did not speak,

And broke the ancient curse of Quair--

"Where'er he dwells, where'er he goes,

His dangers and his toils I share."

What need be said--she was not one

Of the ill-fated Brides of Quair!

----Isa Craig Knox.-

FIRST LOVE

|O my earliest love, who, ere I number'd

Ten sweet summers, made my bosom thrill!

Will a swallow--or a swift, or some bird--

Fly to her and say, I love her still?

Say my life's a desert drear and arid,

To its one green spot I aye recur:

Never, never, although three times married--

Have I cared a jot for aught but her.

No, mine own! though early forced to leave you,

Still my heart was there where first we met;

In those "Lodgings with an ample sea-view,"

Which were, forty years ago, "To Let."

There I saw her first, our landlord's oldest

Little daughter. On a thing so fair

Thou, O Sun,--who (so they say) beholdest

Everything,--hast gazed, I tell thee, ne'er.

There she sat--so near me, yet remoter

Than a star--a blue-eyed bashful imp:

On her lap she held a happy bloater,

'Twixt her lips a yet more happy shrimp.

And I loved her, and our troth we plighted

On the morrow by the shingly shore:

In a fortnight to be disunited

By a bitter fate for evermore.

O my own, my beautiful, my blue-eyed!

To be young once more, and bite my thumb

At the world and all its cares with you, I'd

Give no inconsiderable sum.

Hand in hand we tramp'd the golden seaweed,

Soon as o'er the gray cliff peep'd the dawn:

Side by side, when came the hour for tea, we'd

Crunch the mottled shrimp and hairy prawn:--

Has she wedded some gigantic shrimper,

That sweet mite with whom I loved to play?

Is she girt with babes that whine and whimper,

That bright being who was always gay?

Yes, she has at least a dozen wee things!

Yes--I see her darning corduroys,

Scouring floors, and setting out the tea-things,

For a howling herd of hungry boys,

In a home that reeks of tar and sperm-oil!

But at intervals she thinks, I know,

Of those days which we, afar from turmoil,

Spent together forty years ago.

O my earliest love, still unforgotten,

With your downcast eyes of dreamy blue!

Never, somehow, could I seem to cotton

To another as I did to you!

----C. S. Calverley.

SAD MEMORIES

|They tell me I am beautiful: they praise my

silken hair,

My little feet that silently slip on from stair to

stair:

They praise my pretty trustful face and innocent

grey eye;

Fond hands caress me oftentimes, yet would

that I might die!

Why was I born to be abhorr'd of man and bird

and beast?

The bullfinch marks me stealing by, and straight

his song hath ceased;

The shrewmouse eyes me shudderingly, then

flees; and worse than that,

The housedog he flees after me--why was I

born a cat?

Men prize the heartless hound who quits dry-

eyed his native land;

Who wags a mercenary tail and licks a tyrant

hand.

The leal true cat they prize not, that if e'er

compell'd to roam

Still flies, when let out of the bag, precipitately

home.

They call me cruel. Do I know if mouse or

song-bird feels?

I only know they make me light and salutary

meals:

And if, as 'tis my nature to, ere I devour I

tease'em,

Why should a low-bred gardener's boy pursue

me with a besom?

Should china fall or chandeliers, or anything but

stocks--

Nay stocks, when they're in flowerpots--the cat

expects hard knocks:

Should ever anything be missed--milk, coals,

umbrellas, brandy--

The cat's pitch'd into with a boot or any thing

that's handy.

"I remember, I remember," how one night I

"fleeted by,"

And gain'd the blessed tiles and gazed into the

cold clear sky.

"I remember, I remember, how my little lovers

came,"

And there, beneath the crescent moon, play'd

many a little game.

They fought--by good St Catharine,'twas a

fearsome sight to see

The coal-black crest, the glowering orbs, of

one gigantic He.

Like bow by some tall bowman bent at Hastings

or Poictiers,

His huge back curved, till none observed a

vestige of his ears:

He stood, an ebon crescent, flouting that ivory

moon;

Then raised the pibroch of his race, the Song

without a Tune;

Gleam'd his white teeth, his mammoth tail waved

. darkly to and fro,

As with one complex yell he burst, all claws,

upon the foe.

It thrills me now, that final Miaow--that weird

unearthly din:

Lone maidens heard it far away, and leap'd out

of their skin.

A potboy from his den o'erhead peep'd with a

scared wan face;

Then sent a random brickbat down, which

knock'd me into space.

Nine days I fell, or thereabouts: and, had we

not nine lives,

I wis I ne'er had seen again thy sausage-shop,

St Ives!

Had I, as some cats have, nine tails, how gladly

I would lick

The hand, and person generally, of him who

heaved that brick.

For me they fill the milkbowl up, and cull the

choice sardine:

But ah! I nevermore shall be the cat I once

have been!

The memories of that fatal night they haunt me

even now:

In dreams I see that rampant He, and tremble

at that Miaow.

----C. S. Calverley.

HOW WE BEAT THE FAVOURITE

(_A Lay of the Loamshire Hunt Cup_.)

|Aye, squire," said Stevens, "they back him

at evens;

The race is all over, bar shouting, they say;

The Clown ought to beat her; Dick Neville is

sweeter

Than ever--he swears he can win all the way.

"A gentleman rider--well, I'm an outsider,

But if he's a gent who the mischiefs a jock?

You swells mostly blunder, Dick rides for the

plunder,

He rides, too, like thunder--he sits like a

rock.

"He calls 'hunted fairly' a horse that has barely

Been stripp'd for a trot within sight of the

hounds,

A horse that at Warwick beat Birdlime and

Yorick,

And gave Abdelkader at Aintree nine pounds.

"They say we have no test to warrant a

protest;

Dick rides for a lord and stands in with a

steward;

The light of their faces they show him--his

case is

Prejudged and his verdict already secured.

"But none can outlast her, and few travel faster,

She strides in her work clean away from The

Drag;

You hold her and sit her, she couldn't be fitter,

Whenever you hit her she'll spring like a stag.

"And p'rhaps the green jacket, at odds though

they back it,

May fall, or there's no knowing what may

turn up.

The mare is quite ready, sit still and ride steady,

Keep cool; and I think you may just win the

Cup."

Dark-brown with tan muzzle, just stripped for

the tussle,

Stood Iseult, arching her neck to the curb,

A lean head and fiery, strong quarters and wiry,

A loin rather light, but a shoulder superb.

Some parting injunction, bestowed with great

unction,

I tried to recall, but forgot like a dunce,

When Reginald Murray, full tilt on White

Surrey,

Came down in a hurry to start us at once.

"Keep back in the yellow! Come up on

Othello!

Hold hard on the chesnut! Turn round on

The Drag!

Keep back there on Spartan! Back you, sir,

in tartan!

So, steady there, easy," and down went the

flag.

We started, and Kerr made strong running on

Mermaid,

Through furrows that led to the first stake-

and-bound,

The crack, half extended, look'd bloodlike and

splendid,

Held wide on the right where the headland

was sound.

I pulled hard to baffle her rush with the snaffle,

Before her two-thirds of the field got away,

All through the wet pasture where floods of the

last year

Still loitered, they clotted my crimson with

clay.

The fourth fence, a wattle, floor'd Monk and

Blue-bottle;

The Drag came to grief at the blackthorn

arid ditch,

The rails toppled over Redoubt and Red Rover,

The lane stopped Lycurgus and Leicestershire

Witch.

She passed like an arrow Kildare and Cock

Sparrow,

And Mantrap and Mermaid refused the stone

wall;

And Giles on The Greyling came down at the

paling,

And I was left sailing in front of them all.

I took them a burster, nor eased her nor nursed

her

Until the Black Bullfinch led into the plough,

And through the strong bramble we bored

with a scramble--

My cap was knock'd off by the hazel-tree

bough.

Where furrows looked lighter I drew the rein

tighter--

Her dark chest all dappled with flakes of

white foam,

Her flanks mud bespattered, a weak rail she

shattered--

We landed on turf with our heads turn'd for

home.

Then crash'd a low binder, and then close

behind her

The sward to the strokes of the favourite

shook;

His rush roused her mettle, yet ever so little

She shorten'd her stride as we raced at the

brook.

She rose when I hit her. I saw the stream

glitter,

A wide scarlet nostril flashed close to my knee,

Between sky and water The Clown came and

caught her,

The space that he cleared was a caution to see.

And forcing the running, discarding all cunning,

A length to the front went the rider in green;

A long strip of stubble, and then the big double,

Two stiff flights of rails with a quickset

between.

She raced at the rasper, I felt my knees grasp her,

I found my hands give to her strain on the

bit,

She rose when the Clown did--our silks as we

bounded

Brush'd lightly, our stirrups clash'd loud as

we lit.

A rise steeply sloping, a fence with stone

coping--

The last--we diverged round the base of the

hill;

His path was the nearer, his leap was the

clearer,

I flogg'd up the straight, and he led sitting

still.

She came to his quarter, and on still I brought

her,

And up to his girth, to his breast-plate she

drew;

A short prayer from Neville just reach'd me,

"The devil,"

He mutter'd--lock'd level the hurdles we flew.

A hum of hoarse cheering, a dense crowd

careering,

All sights seen obscurely, all shouts vaguely

heard;

"The green wins!" "The crimson!" The

multitude swims on,

And figures are blended and features are

blurr'd.

"The horse is her master!" "The green

forges past her!"

"The Clown will outlast her!" "The

Clown wins!" "The Clown!"

The white railing races with all the white faces,

The chesnut outpaces, outstretches the brown.

On still past the gateway she strains in the

straightway,

Still struggles, "The Clown by a short neck

at most,"

He swerves, the green scourges, the stand

rocks and surges,

And flashes, and verges, and flits the white

post.

Aye! so ends the tussle,--I knew the tan muzzle

Was first, though the ring-men were yelling

"Dead heat!"

A nose I could swear by, but Clarke said "The

mare by

A short head." And that's how the favourite

was beat.

----A. L. Gordon.

THE MERMAID OF PADSTOW

|It is long Tom Yeo of the town of Padstow,

And he is a ne'er-do-weel:

"Ho, mates," cries he, "rejoice with me,

For I have shot a seal."

Nay, Tom, by the mass thou art but an ass,

No seal bestains this foam;

But the long wave rolls up a Mermaid's glass

And a young Mermaiden's comb.

The sun has set, the night-clouds throng,

The sea is steely grey.

They hear the dying Mermaid's song

Peal from the outer bay.

"A curse with you go, ye men of Padstow!

Ye shall not thrive or win,

Ye have seen the last ship from your haven slip,

And the last ship enter in.

"For this deed I devote you to dwell without

boat

By the skirt of the oarèd blue,

And ever be passed by sail and by mast,

And none with an errand for you."

And scarce had she spoke when the black

storm broke

With thunder and levin's might:

Three days did it blow, and none in Padstow

Could tell the day from night.

Joy! the far thunder mutters soft,

The wild clouds whirl o'erhead,

And from a ragged rift aloft

A shaft of light is sped.

Now ho for him that waits to send

The storm-bound bark to sea!

And ho for them that hither bend

To crowd our busy quay!

Hath Ocean, think ye then, not heard

His dying child deplore?

Are not his sandy deeps unstirred,

And thrust against the shore?

Doth not a mighty ramp of sand

Beleaguer all the bay,

Mocking the strength of mortal hand

To pierce or sweep away?

The white-winged traders, all about,

Fare o'er that bar to win:

But this one cries, I cannot out,

And that, I may not in.

For thy dire woe, forlorn Padstow,

What remedy may be?

Not all the brine of thy sad eyne

Will float thy ships to sea.

The sighs that from thy seamen pass

Might set a fleet a-sail,

And the faces that look in the Mermaid's

glass

Are as long as the Mermaid's tail.

----R. Garnett.

THE HIGHWAYMAN'S GHOST

|Twelve o'clock--a misty night--

Glimpsing hints of buried light--

Six years strung in an iron chain--r

Time I stood on the ground again!

So--by your leave! Slip, easy enough,

Withered wrists from the rusty cuff.

The old chain rattles, the old wood groans,

O the clatter of clacking bones!

Here I am, uncoated, unhatted,

Shirt all mildewed, hair all matted,

Sockets that each have royally

Fed the crow with a precious eye.

O for slashing Bess the brown!

Where, old lass, have they earthed thee

down?

Sobb'st beneath a carrier's thong?

Strain'st a coalman's cart along?

Shame to foot it!--must be so.

See, the mists are smitten below;

Over the moorland, wide away,

Moonshine pours her watery day.

There the long white-dusted track,

There a crawling speck of black.

The Northern mail, ha, ha! and he

There on the box is Anthony.

Coachman I scared him from brown or

grey,

Witness he lied my blood away.

Haste, Fred! haste, boy! never fail!

Now or never! catch the mail!

The horses plunge, and sweating stop.

Dead falls Tony, neck and crop.

Nay, good guard, small profit thus,

Shooting ghosts with a blunderbuss!

Crash wheel! coach over! How it rains

Hampers, ladies, wigs, and canes!

O the spoil! to sack it and lock it!

But, woe is me, I have never a pocket!

----R. Garnett.

THE BROTHERS

|There were twa brethren fell on strife;

Sweet fruits are sair to gather:

The tane has reft his brother of life;

And the wind wears owre the heather.

There were twa brethren fell to fray

Sweet fruits are sair to gather:

The tane is clad in a coat of clay;

And the wind wears owre the heather.

O loud and loud was the live man's cry,

(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)

"Would God the dead and the slain were I!"

And the wind wears owre the heather.

"O sair was the wrang and sair the fray,"

(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)

"But liefer had love be slain than slay,"

And the wind wears owre the heather.

"O sweet is the life that sleeps at hame,"

(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)

"But I maun wake on a far sea's faem,"

And the wind wears owre the heather.

"And women are fairest of a' things fair,"

(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)

"But never shall I kiss woman mair,"

And the wind wears owre the heather.

Between the birk and the aik and the thorn

(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)

He's laid his brother to lie forlorn:

And the wind wears owre the heather.

Between the bent, the burn, and the broom

(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)

He's laid him to sleep till dawn of doom:

And the wind wears owre the heather.

He's tane him owre the waters wide,

(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)

Afar to fleet and afar to bide:

And the wind wears owre the heather.

His hair was yellow, his cheek was red,

(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)

When he set his face to the wind and fled:

And the wind wears owre the heather.

His banes were stark and his een were bright

(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)

When he set his face to the sea by night:

And the wind wears owre the heather.

His cheek was wan and his hair was grey

(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)

When he came back hame frae the wide world's

way:

And the wind wears owre the heather.

His banes were weary, his een were dim,

(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)

And nae man lived and had mind of him:

And the wind wears owre the heather.

"O whatten a wreck wad they seek on land"

(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)

"That they houk the turf to the seaward hand?"

And the wind wears owre the heather.

"O whatten a prey wad they think to take"

(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)

"That they delve the dykes for a dead man's

sake?"

And the wind wears owre the heather.

A bane of the dead in his hand he's tane;

Sweet fruits are sair to gather:

And the red blood brak frae the dead white

bane;

And the wind wears owre the heather.

He's cast it forth of his auld faint hand;

Sweet fruits are sair to gather:

And the red blood ran on the wan wet sand,

And the wind wears owre the heather.

"O whatten a slayer is this," they said,

(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)

"That the straik of his hand should raise his

dead?"

And the wind wears owre the heather.

"O weel is me for the sign I take"

(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)

"That now I may die for my auld sin's sake."

And the wind wears owre the heather.

"For the dead was in wait now fifty year,".

(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)

"And now I shall die for his blood's sake here,"

And the wind wears owre the heather.

----A. C. Swinburne.

THE BALLAD OF DEAD MEN'S BAY

|The sea swings owre the slants of sand,

All white with winds that drive.,

The sea swirls up to the still dim strand,

Where nae man comes alive.

At the grey soft edge of the fruitless surf

A light flame sinks and springs;

At the grey soft rim of the flowerless turf

A low flame leaps and clings.

What light is this on a sunless shore,

What gleam on a starless sea?

Was it earth's or hell's waste womb that bore

Such births as should not be?

As lithe snakes turning, as bright stars burning,

They bicker and beckon and call;

As wild waves churning, as wild winds yearn-

ing,

They flicker and climb and fall.

A soft strange cry from the landward rings--

"What ails the sea to shine?"

A keen sweet note from the spray's rim springs--

"What fires are these of thine?"

"A soul am I that was born on earth

For ae day's waesome span:

Death bound me fast on the bourn of birth,

Ere I were christened man.

"A light by night, I fleet and fare

Till the day of wrath and woe;

On the hems of earth and the skirts of air

Winds hurl me to and fro."

"O well is thee, though the weird be strange

That bids thee flit and flee;

For hope is child of the womb of change,

And hope keeps watch with thee.

"When the years are gone, and the time is

come

God's grace may give thee grace;

And thy soul may sing, though thy soul were

dumb,

And shine before God's face.

"But I, that lighten and revel and roll

With the foam of the plunging sea,

No sign is mine of a breathing soul

That God should pity me.

"Nor death, nor heaven, nor hell, nor birth

Hath part in me nor mine:

Strong lords are these of the living earth

And loveless lords of thine.

"But I that know nor lord nor life

More sure than storm or spray,

Whose breath is made of sport and strife,

Whereon shall I find stay?"

"And wouldst thou change thy doom with me,

Full fain with thee would I:

For the life that lightens and lifts the sea

Is more than earth or sky.

"And what if the day of doubt and doom

Shall save nor smite not me?

I would not rise from the slain world's tomb

If there be no more sea.

"Take he my soul that gave my soul,

And give it thee to keep;

And me, while seas and stars shall roll

Thy life that falls on sleep."

That word went up through the mirk mid sky,

And evén to God's own ear:

And the Lord was ware of the keen twin cry,

And wroth was he to hear.

He's tane the soul of the unsained child

That fled to death from birth;

He's tane the light of the wan sea wild,

And bid it burn on earth.

He's given the ghaist of the babe new-born

The gift of the water-sprite,

To ride on revel from morn to morn

And roll from night to night.

He's given the sprite of the wild wan sea

The gift of the new-born man,

A soul for ever to bide and be

When the years have filled their span.

When a year was gone and a year was come,.

O loud and loud cried they--

"For the lee-lang year thou hast held us dumb

Take now thy gifts away!"

O loud and lang they cried on him,

And sair and sair they prayed:

"Is the face of thy grace as the night's face

grim

For those thy wrath has made?"

A cry more bitter than tears of men

From the rim of the dim grey sea;--

"Give me my living soul again,

The soul thou gavest me,

The doom and the dole of kindly men,

To bide my weird and be!"

A cry more keen from the wild low land

Than the wail of waves that roll;--

"Take back the gift of a loveless hand,

Thy gift of doom and dole,

The weird of men that bide on land;

Take from me, take my soul!"

The hands that smite are the hands that spare

They build and break the tomb;

They turn to darkness and dust and air

The fruits of the waste earth's womb *

But never the gift of a granted prayer,

The dole of a spoken doom.

Winds may change at a word unheard,

But none may change the tides:

The prayer once heard is as God's own word;

The doom once dealt abides.

And ever a cry goes up by day,

And ever a wail by night;

And nae ship comes by the weary bay

But her shipmen hear them wail and pray,

And see with earthly sight

The twofold flames of the twin lights play

Where the sea-banks green and the sea-floods

grey

Are proud of peril and fain of prey,

And the sand quakes ever; and ill fare they

That look upon that light.

----A. C. Swinburne.

THE BRIDE'S TRAGEDY

|The wind wears roun', the day wears doun,

The moon is grisly grey;

There's nae man rides by the mirk muirsides,

Nor down the dark Tyne's way."

In, in, out and in,

Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

"And winna ye watch the night wi' me,

And winna ye wake the morn?

Foul shame it were that your ae mither

Should brook her ae son's scorn."

In, in, out and in,

Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

"O mither, I may not sleep nor stay,

My weird is ill to dree;

For a fause faint lord of the south seaboard

Wad win my bride of me."

In, in, out and in,

Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

"The winds are strang, and the nights are lang,

And the ways are sair to ride:

And I maun gang to wreak my wrang,

And ye maun bide and bide."

In, in, out and in,

Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

"Gin I maun bide and bide, Willie,

I wot my weird is sair:

Weel may ye get ye a light love yet,

But never a mither mair."

In, in, out and in,

Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

"O gin the morrow be great wi' sorrow,

The wyte be yours of a':

But though ye slay me that haud and stay me,

The weird ye will maun fa'."

In, in, out and in,

Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

When cocks were crawing and day was dawing,

He's boun' him forth to ride:

And the ae first may he's met that day

Was fause Earl Robert's bride.

In, in, out and in,

Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

O blithe and braw were the bride-folk a',

But sad and saft rade she;

And sad as doom was her fause bridegroom,

But fair and fain was he.

In, in, out and in,

Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

"And winna ye bide, sae saft ye ride,

And winna ye speak wi' me?

For mony's the word and the kindly word

I have spoken aft wi' thee."

In, in, out and in,

Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

"My lamp was lit yestreen, Willie,

My window-gate was wide:

But ye camena nigh me till day came by me

And made me not your bride."

In, in, out and in,

Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

He's set his hand to her bridle-rein,

He's turned her horse away:

And the cry was sair, and the wrath was mair,

And fast and fain rode they.

In, in, out and in,

Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

But when they came by Chollerford,

I wot the ways were fell;

For broad and brown the spate swang down,

And the lift was mirk as hell.

In, in, out and in,

Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

"And will ye ride yon fell water,

Or will ye bide for fear?

Nae scathe ye'll win o' your father's kin,

Though they should slay me here."

In, in, out and in,

Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

"I had liefer ride yon fell water,

Though strange it be to ride,

Than I wad stand on the fair green strand,

And thou be slain beside."

In, in, out and in,

Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

"I had liefer swim yon wild water,

Though sair it be to bide,

Than I wad stand at a strange man's hand,

To be a strange man's bride."

In, in, out and in,

Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

"I had liefer drink yon dark water,

Wi' the stanes to make my bed,

And the faem to hide me, and thou beside me,

Than I wad see thee dead."

In, in, out and in,

Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

He's kissed her twice, he's kissed her thrice,

On cheek and lip and chin:

He's wound her rein to his hand again,

And lightly they leapt in.

In, in, out and in,

Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

Their hearts were high to live or die,

Their steeds were stark of limb:

But the stream was starker, the spate was

darker,

Than man might live and swim.

In, in, out and in,

Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

The first ae step they strode therein,

It smote them foot and knee:

But ere they wan to the mid water

The spate was as the sea.

In, in, out and in,

Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

But when they wan to the mid water,

It smote them hand and head:

And nae man knows but the wave that flows

Where they lie drowned and dead.

In, in, out and in,

Blaws the wind and whirls the whin.

----A. C. Swinburne.

THE WITCH-MOTHER

|O where will ye gang to and where will

ye sleep,

Against the night begins?"

"My bed is made wi' cauld sorrows,

My sheets are lined wi' sins.

"And a sair grief sitting at my foot,

And a sair grief at my head;

And dule to lay me my laigh pillows,

And teen till I be dead.

"And the rain is sair upon my face,

And sair upon my hair;

And the wind upon my weary mouth,

That never may man kiss mair.

"And the snow upon my heavy lips,

That never shall drink nor eat;

And shame to cledding, and woe to wedding,

And pain to drink and meat.

"But woe be to my bairns' father,

And ever ill fare he:

He has tane a braw bride hame to him,

Cast out my bairns and me."

"And what shall they have to their marriage

meat

This day they twain are wed?"

"Meat of strong crying, salt of sad sighing,.

And God restore the dead.

"And what shall they have to their wedding

wine

This day they twain are wed?"

"Wine of weeping, and draughts of sleeping,

And God raise up the dead."

She's tane her to the wild woodside,

Between the flood and fell:

She's sought a rede against her need

Of the fiend that bides in hell.

She's tane her to the wan burnside,

She's wrought wi' sang and spell:

She's plighted her soul for doom and dole

To the fiend that bides in hell.

She's set her young son to her breast,

Her auld son to her knee:

Says, "Weel for you the night, bairnies,

And weel the morn for me."

She looked fu' lang in their een, sighing,

And sair and sair grat she:

She has slain her young son at her breast,

Her auld son at her knee.

She's sodden their flesh wi' saft water,

She's mixed their blood with wine:

She's tane her to the braw bride-house,

Where a' were boun' to dine.

She poured the red wine in his cup,

And his een grew fain to greet:

She set the baked meats at his hand,

And bade him drink and eat.

Says, "Eat your fill of your flesh, my lord,

And drink your fill of your wine j

For a' thing's yours and only yours

That has been yours and mine."

Says, "Drink your fill of your wine, my lord,

And eat your fill of your bread:

I would they were quick in my body again,

Or I that bare them dead."

He struck her head frae her fair body,

And dead for grief he fell:

And there were twae mair sangs in heaven,

And twae mair sauls in hell.

----A. C. Swinburne.

THE SEA-SWALLOWS

|This fell when Christmas lights were done,

Red rose leaves will never make wine;

But before the Easter lights begun;

The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.

Two lovers sat where the rowan blows

And all the grass is heavy and fine,

By the gathering place of the sea-swallows

When the wind brings them over Tyne.

Blossom of broom will never make bread,

Red rose leaves will never make winej

Between her brows she is grown red,

That was full white in the fields by Tyne.

"O what is this thing ye have on,

Show me now, sweet daughter of. mine?"

"O father, this is my little son

That I found hid in the sides of Tyne.

"O what will ye give my son to eat,

Red rose leaves will never make wine?"

"Fen water and adder's meat,

The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.'

"Or what will ye get my son to wear,

Red rose leaves will never make wine?"

"A weed and a web of nettle's hair,

The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne."

"Or what will ye take to line his bed,

Red rose leaves will never make wine?"

"Two black stones at the kirkwall's head,

The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.

"Or what will ye give my son for land,

Red rose leaves will never make wine?"

"Three girl's paces of red sand,

The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne."

"Or what will ye give me for my son,

Red rose leaves will never make wine?"

"Six times to kiss his young mouth on,

The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne."

"But what have ye done with the bearing-bread,

And what have ye made of the washing-wine?

Or where have ye made your bearing-bed,

To bear a son in the sides of Tyne?"

"The bearing-bread is soft and new,

There is no soil in the straining wine;

The bed was made between green and blue,

It stands full soft by the sides of Tyne.

"The fair grass was my bearing-bread,

The well-water my washing-wine;

The low leaves were my bearing-bed,

And that was best in the sides of Tyne."

"O daughter, if ye have done this thing,

I wot the greater grief is mine;

This was a bitter child-bearing,

When ye were got by the sides of Tyne.

"About the time of sea-swallows

That fly full thick by six and nine,

Ye'll have my body out of the house,

To bury me by the sides of Tyne.

"Set nine stones by the wall for twain,

Red rose leaves will never make wine;

For the bed I take will measure ten,

The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne.

"Tread twelve girl's paces out for three,

Red rose leaves will never make wine;

For the pit I made has taken me,

The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne."

----A. C. Swinburne.

THE KINGS DAUGHTER

|We were ten maidens in the green corn,

Small red leaves in the mill-water:

Fairer maidens never were born,

Apples of gold for the king's daughter.

We were ten maidens by a well-head,

Small white birds in the mill-water:

Sweeter maidens never were wed,

Rings of red for the king's daughter.

The first to spin, the second to sing,

Seeds of wheat in the mill-water;

The third may was a goodly thing,

White bread and brown for the king's daughter.

The fourth to sew and the fifth to play,

Fair green weed in the mill-water;

The sixth may was a goodly may,

White wine and red for the king's daughter.

The seventh to woo, the eighth to wed,

Fair thin reeds in the mill-water;

The ninth had gold work on her head,

Honey in the comb for the king's daughter.

The ninth had gold work round her hair,

Fallen flowers in the mill-water;

The tenth may was goodly and fair,

Golden gloves for the king's daughter.

We were ten maidens in a field green,

Fallen fruit in the mill-water;

Fairer maidens never had been,

Golden sleeves for the king's daughter.

By there comes the king's young son,

A little wind in the mill-water;

"Out of ten maidens ye'll grant me one,"

A crown of red for the king's daughter.

"Out of ten mays ye'll give me the best,"

A little rain in the mill-water;

A bed of yellow straw for all the rest,

A bed of gold for the king's daughter.

He's ta'en out the goodliest,

Rain that rains in the mill-water;

A comb of yellow shell for all the rest,

A comb of gold for the king's daughter.

He's made her bed to the goodliest,

Wind and hail in the mill-water;

A grass girdle for all the rest,

A girdle of arms for the king's daughter.

He's set his heart to the goodliest,

Snow that snows in the mill-water;

Nine little kisses for all the rest,

An hundredfold for the king's daughter.

He's ta'en his leave at the goodliest,

Broken boats in the mill-water;

Golden gifts for all the rest,

Sorrow of heart for the king's daughter.

"Ye'll make a grave for my fair body,"

Running rain in the mill-water;

"And ye'll streek my brother at the side of me,"

The pains of hell for the king's daughter.

----A. C. Swinburne.

THE BALLAD OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN

1883.