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Lang Andrew
The Blue Poetry Book

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HUNTING SONG

 
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
On the mountain dawns the day;
All the jolly chase is here,
With hawk, and horse, and hunting spear!
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling;
Merrily, merrily, mingle they,
‘Waken, lords and ladies gay.’
 
 
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
The mist has left the mountain grey,
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;
And foresters have busy been,
To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chant our lay,
‘Waken, lords and ladies gay.’
 
 
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
To the greenwood haste away;
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot, and tall of size;
We can show the marks he made,
When ’gainst the oak his antlers fray’d;
You shall see him brought to bay —
‘Waken, lords and ladies gay.’
 
 
Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee,
Run a course as well as we;
Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,
Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk?
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay!
 

Sir W. Scott.

LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER

 
A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, ‘Boatman, do not tarry!
And I’ll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o’er the ferry.’
 
 
‘Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?’
’O, I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle,
And this Lord Ullin’s daughter. —
 
 
‘And fast before her father’s men
Three days we’ve fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.
 
 
‘His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?’
 
 
Outspoke the hardy Highland wight,
‘I’ll go, my chief – I’m ready;
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady:
 
 
‘And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
So though the waves are raging white,
I’ll row you o’er the ferry.’ —
 
 
By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;¹
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.
 
 
But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armèd men,
Their trampling sounded nearer. —
 
 
‘O haste thee, haste!’ the lady cries,
‘Though tempests round us gather;
I’ll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father.’ —
 
 
The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her, —
When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gather’d o’er her.
 
 
And still they row’d amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reach’d that fatal shore,
His wrath was changed to wailing. —
 
 
For sore dismay’d, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover: —
One lovely hand she stretch’d for aid,
And one was round her lover.
 
 
‘Come back! come back!’ he cried in grief,
‘Across this stormy water:
And I’ll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter! – oh my daughter!’ —
 
 
‘Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,
Return or aid preventing; —
The waters wild went o’er his child, —
And he was left lamenting.
 

T. Campbell.

THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER

 
When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry, ‘’weep! ’weep! ’weep! ’weep!’
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.
 
 
There’s little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curl’d like a lamb’s back, was shaved; so I said,
‘Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head’s bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.’
 
 
And so he was quiet: and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight,
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them lock’d up in coffins of black.
 
 
And by came an angel, who had a bright key,
And he open’d the coffins, and set them all free;
Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing they run,
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.
 
 
Then, naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind;
And the angel told Tom, if he’d be a good boy,
He’d have God for his father, and never want joy.
 
 
And so Tom awoke; and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work;
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm:
So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.
 

W. Blake.

NORA’S VOW

I

 
Hear what Highland Nora said, —
‘The Earlie’s son I will not wed,
Should all the race of nature die,
And none be left but he and I.
For all the gold, for all the gear,
And all the lands both far and near,
That ever valour lost or won,
I would not wed the Earlie’s son.’
 

II

 
‘A maiden’s vows,’ old Callum spoke,
‘Are lightly made, and lightly broke;
The heather on the mountain’s height
Begins to bloom in purple light;
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away
That lustre deep from glen and brae;
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,
May blithely wed the Earlie’s son.’ —
 

III

 
‘The swan,’ she said, ‘the lake’s clear breast
May barter for the eagle’s nest;
The Awe’s fierce stream may backward turn,
Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn;
Our kilted clans, when blood is high,
Before their foes may turn and fly;
But I, were all these marvels done,
Would never wed the Earlie’s son.’
 

IV

 
Still in the water-lily’s shade
Her wonted nest the wild-swan made;
Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,
Still downward foams the Awe’s fierce river;
To shun the clash of foeman’s steel,
No Highland brogue has turn’d the heel:
But Nora’s heart is lost and won,
– She’s wedded to the Earlie’s son!
 

Sir W. Scott.

BALLAD OF AGINCOURT

 
Fair stood the wind for France,
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance
Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main,
At Caux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,
Landed King Harry.
 
 
And, taking many a fort,
Furnished in warlike sort,
Marcheth tow’rds Agincourt
In happy hour,
(Skirmishing day by day,
With those oppose his way)
Where the French general lay
With all his power.
 
 
Which in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide
To the king sending;
Which he neglects the while,
As from a nation vile,
Yet with an angry smile
Their fall portending,
 
 
And, turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then:
Though they to one be ten,
Be not amazèd!
Yet have we well begun;
Battles so bravely won,
Have ever to the sun
By fame been raisèd.
 
 
And for myself (quoth he), —
This my full rest shall be,
England ne’er mourn for me,
Nor more esteem me; —
Victor I will remain,
Or on this earth lie slain:
Never shall she sustain
Loss to redeem me.
 
 
Poitiers and Cressy tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell;
No less our skill is
Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat,
By many a warlike feat
Lopp’d the French lilies.
 
 
The Duke of York so dread
The eager vanward led,
With the main Henry sped,
Amongst his henchmen.
Exceter had the rear,
A braver man not there, —
O Lord! how hot they were,
On the false Frenchmen!
 
 
They now to fight are gone:
Armour on armour shone,
Drum now to drum did groan —
To hear was wonder;
That with the cries they make,
The very earth did shake;
Trumpet to trumpet spake —
Thunder to thunder.
 
 
Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham!
Which didst the signal aim
To our hid forces, —
When from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly,
The English archery
Stuck the French horses.
 
 
With Spanish yew so strong,
Arrows a cloth-yard long,
That like to serpents stung,
Piercing the weather, —
None from his fellow starts,
But, playing manly parts,
And like true English hearts
Stuck close together.
 
 
When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilboes drew,
And on the French they flew,
Not one was tardy;
Arms from the shoulders sent,
Scalps to the teeth were rent,
Down the French peasants went, —
Our men were hardy.
 
 
This while our noble king,
His broadsword brandishing,
Into the host did fling,
As to o’erwhelm it,
And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent
Bruizèd his helmet.
 
 
Gloster, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood,
With his brave brother;
Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight
Yet in that furious fight
Scarce such another.
 
 
Warwick in blood did wade;
Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made
Still as they ran up;
Suffolk his axe did ply;
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily,
Ferrars and Fanhope.
 
 
Upon Saint Crispin’s day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay
To England to carry.
O when shall Englishmen,
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?
 

M. Drayton.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND

A NAVAL ODE

I

 
Ye Mariners of England!
That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again
To meet another foe!
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
 

II

 
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave! —
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave:
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
 

III

 
Britannia needs no bulwark,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o’er the mountain-waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak
She quells the floods below, —
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy tempests blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
 

IV

 
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger’s troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.
 

T. Campbell.

THE GIRL DESCRIBES HER FAWN

 
With sweetest milk and sugar first
I it at my own fingers nursed;
And as it grew, so every day
It wax’d more white and sweet than they.
It had so sweet a breath! and oft
I blush’d to see its foot more soft
And white, shall I say, than my hand?
Nay, any lady’s of the land!
It is a wond’rous thing how fleet
’Twas on those little silver feet:
With what a pretty skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race;
And when ’t had left me far away
’Twould stay, and run again, and stay,
For it was nimbler much than hinds;
And trod as if on the four winds.
 
 
I have a garden of my own,
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness,
And all the spring-time of the year
It only loved to be there.
Among the beds of lilies I
Have sought it oft, where it should lie;
Yet could not, till itself would rise,
Find it, although before mine eyes.
For, in the flaxen lilies’ shade
It like a bank of lilies laid.
Upon the roses it would feed,
Until its lips e’en seem’d to bleed;
And then to me ’twould boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip.
But all its chief delight was still
On roses thus itself to fill;
And its pure virgin limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold.
Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within.
 

A. Marvell.

THE SOLDIER’S DREAM

 
Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower’d,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower’d,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
 
 
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw;
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
 
 
Methought from the battle-field’s dreadful array
Far, far, I had roam’d on a desolate track:
’Twas Autumn, – and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
 
 
I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
In life’s morning march, when my bosom was young;
I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
 
 
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kiss’d me a thousand times o’er,
And my wife sobb’d aloud in her fulness of heart.
 
 
‘Stay – stay with us! – rest! – thou art weary and worn!’ —
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; —
But sorrow return’d with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
 

T. Campbell.

JOHN GILPIN

 
John Gilpin was a citizen
Of credit and renown,
A train-band Captain eke was he
Of famous London town.
 
 
John Gilpin’s spouse said to her dear,
Though wedded we have been
These twice ten tedious years, yet we
No holiday have seen.
 
 
To-morrow is our wedding-day,
And we will then repair
Unto the Bell at Edmonton,
All in a chaise and pair.
 
 
My sister and my sister’s child,
Myself, and children three,
Will fill the chaise; so you must ride
On horseback after we.
 
 
He soon replied, – I do admire
Of womankind but one,
And you are she, my dearest dear,
Therefore it shall be done.
 
 
I am a linendraper bold,
As all the world doth know,
And my good friend, the Callender,
Will lend his horse to go.
 
 
Quoth Mistress Gilpin, – That’s well said;
And for that wine is dear,
We will be furnish’d with our own,
Which is both bright and clear.
 
 
John Gilpin kiss’d his loving wife;
O’erjoy’d was he to find
That though on pleasure she was bent,
She had a frugal mind.
 
 
The morning came, the chaise was brought,
But yet was not allow’d
To drive up to the door, lest all
Should say that she was proud.
 
 
So three doors off the chaise was stay’d,
Where they did all get in,
Six precious souls, and all agog
To dash through thick and thin.
 
 
Smack went the whip, round went the wheels;
Were never folks so glad,
The stones did rattle underneath,
As if Cheapside were mad.
 
 
John Gilpin at his horse’s side,
Seized fast the flowing mane,
And up he got in haste to ride,
But soon came down again.
 
 
For saddle-tree scarce reach’d had he,
His journey to begin,
When turning round his head he saw
Three customers come in.
 
 
So down he came, for loss of time
Although it grieved him sore,
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,
Would trouble him much more.
 
 
’Twas long before the customers
Were suited to their mind,
When Betty screaming came downstairs,
The wine is left behind.
 
 
Good lack! quoth he, yet bring it me,
My leathern belt likewise
In which I bear my trusty sword
When I do exercise.
 
 
Now Mistress Gilpin, careful soul,
Had two stone bottles found,
To hold the liquor that she loved,
And keep it safe and sound.
 
 
Each bottle had a curling ear,
Through which the belt he drew,
And hung a bottle on each side
To make his balance true.
 
 
Then over all, that he might be
Equipp’d from top to toe,
His long red cloak well-brush’d and neat,
He manfully did throw.
 
 
Now see him mounted once again
Upon his nimble steed,
Full slowly pacing o’er the stones,
With caution and good heed.
 
 
But finding soon a smoother road
Beneath his well-shod feet,
The snorting beast began to trot,
Which gall’d him in his seat.
 
 
So, Fair and softly! John he cried,
But John he cried in vain;
That trot became a gallop soon,
In spite of curb and rein.
 
 
So stooping down, as needs he must
Who cannot sit upright,
He grasp’d the mane with both his hands
And eke with all his might.
 
 
His horse, who never in that sort
Had handled been before,
What thing upon his back had got
Did wonder more and more.
 
 
Away went Gilpin neck or nought,
Away went hat and wig;
He little dreamt, when he set out,
Of running such a rig.
 
 
The wind did blow, the cloak did fly,
Like streamer long and gay,
Till, loop and button failing both,
At last it flew away.
 
 
Then might all people well discern
The bottles he had slung;
A bottle swinging at each side
As hath been said or sung.
 
 
The dogs did bark, the children scream’d,
Up flew the windows all,
And every soul cried out, Well done!
As loud as he could bawl.
 
 
Away went Gilpin – who but he?
His fame soon spread around,
He carries weight, he rides a race,
’Tis for a thousand pound.
 
 
And still as fast as he drew near,
’Twas wonderful to view
How in a trice the turnpike-men
Their gates wide open threw.
 
 
And now as he went bowing down
His reeking head full low,
The bottles twain behind his back
Were shatter’d at a blow.
 
 
Down ran the wine into the road
Most piteous to be seen,
Which made his horse’s flanks to smoke
As they had basted been.
 
 
But still he seem’d to carry weight,
With leathern girdle braced,
For all might see the bottle-necks
Still dangling at his waist.
 
 
Thus all through merry Islington
These gambols he did play,
And till he came unto the Wash
Of Edmonton so gay.
 
 
And there he threw the Wash about
On both sides of the way,
Just like unto a trundling mop,
Or a wild-goose at play.
 
 
At Edmonton his loving wife
From the balcòny spied
Her tender husband, wondering much
To see how he did ride.
 
 
Stop, stop, John Gilpin! – Here’s the house —
They all at once did cry,
The dinner waits, and we are tired;
Said Gilpin – So am I!
 
 
But yet his horse was not a whit
Inclined to tarry there,
For why? his owner had a house
Full ten miles off, at Ware.
 
 
So like an arrow swift he flew
Shot by an archer strong,
So did he fly – which brings me to
The middle of my song.
 
 
Away went Gilpin, out of breath,
And sore against his will,
Till at his friend the Callender’s
His horse at last stood still.
 
 
The Callender, amazed to see
His neighbour in such trim,
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,
And thus accosted him —
 
 
What news? what news? your tidings tell,
Tell me you must and shall —
Say, why bareheaded you are come,
Or why you come at all?
 
 
Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,
And loved a timely joke,
And thus unto the Callender
In merry guise he spoke —
 
 
I came because your horse would come;
And if I well forbode,
My hat and wig will soon be here,
They are upon the road.
 
 
The Callender, right glad to find
His friend in merry pin,
Return’d him not a single word,
But to the house went in.
 
 
Whence straight he came with hat and wig,
A wig that flow’d behind,
A hat not much the worse for wear,
Each comely in its kind.
 
 
He held them up, and in his turn
Thus show’d his ready wit,
My head is twice as big as yours,
They therefore needs must fit.
 
 
But let me scrape the dirt away,
That hangs upon your face;
And stop and eat, for well you may
Be in a hungry case.
 
 
Said John – It is my wedding-day,
And all the world would stare,
If wife should dine at Edmonton
And I should dine at Ware.
 
 
So, turning to his horse, he said,
I am in haste to dine,
’Twas for your pleasure you came here,
You shall go back for mine.
 
 
Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast!
For which he paid full dear,
For while he spake a braying ass
Did sing most loud and clear.
 
 
Whereat his horse did snort as he
Had heard a lion roar,
And gallop’d off with all his might,
As he had done before.
 
 
Away went Gilpin, and away
Went Gilpin’s hat and wig;
He lost them sooner than at first,
For why? they were too big.
 
 
Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw
Her husband posting down
Into the country far away,
She pull’d out half-a-crown;
 
 
And thus unto the youth she said,
That drove them to the Bell,
This shall be yours, when you bring back
My husband safe and well.
 
 
The youth did ride, and soon did meet
John coming back amain,
Whom in a trice he tried to stop
By catching at his rein.
 
 
But not performing what he meant,
And gladly would have done,
The frighten’d steed he frighten’d more
And made him faster run.
 
 
Away went Gilpin, and away
Went postboy at his heels,
The postboy’s horse right glad to miss
The lumbering of the wheels.
 
 
Six gentlemen upon the road
Thus seeing Gilpin fly,
With postboy scampering in the rear,
They raised the hue and cry.
 
 
Stop thief! – stop thief! – a highwayman!
Not one of them was mute,
And all and each that pass’d that way
Did join in the pursuit.
 
 
And now the turnpike gates again
Flew open in short space,
The toll-men thinking as before
That Gilpin rode a race.
 
 
And so he did and won it too,
For he got first to town,
Nor stopp’d till where he had got up
He did again get down.
 
 
– Now let us sing, Long live the king,
And Gilpin long live he,
And when he next doth ride abroad,
May I be there to see!
 

W. Cowper.

HOHENLINDEN

 
On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay th’ untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
 
 
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
 
 
By torch and trumpet fast array’d
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh’d
To join the dreadful revelry.
 
 
Then shook the hills with thunder riven;
Then rush’d the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of Heaven,
Far flash’d the red artillery.
 
 
But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden’s hills of stainèd snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
 
 
’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout in their sulph’rous canopy.
 
 
The combat deepens. On, ye brave
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
 
 
Few, few, shall part, where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre.
 

T. Campbell.