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Lang Andrew
The Blue Poetry Book
O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST
O, wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee.
Or did misfortune’s bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it a’, to share it a’.
Or were I in the wildest waste
Of earth and air, of earth and air,
The desart were a paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I monarch o’ the globe,
Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign,
The only jewel in my crown
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.
R. Burns.
I LOVE MY JEAN
Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
For there the bonie lassie lives,
The lassie I lo’e best:
There wild woods grow, and rivers row
And monie a hill between;
But day and night my fancy’s flight
Is ever wi’ my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair;
I hear her in the tunefu’ birds,
I hear her charm the air:
There’s not a bonie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green;
There’s not a bonie bird that sings,
But minds me o’ my Jean.
R. Burns.
THERE’LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME
A SONG
By yon castle wa’, at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, tho’ his head it was grey:
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came —
There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
The church is in ruins, the state is in jars,
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars;
We dare na weel say’t but we ken wha’s to blame —
There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,
And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd;
It brak the sweet heart o’ my faithfu’ auld dame —
There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
Now life is a burden that bows me down,
Sin’ I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;
But till my last moment my words are the same —
There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
R. Burns.
THE BANKS O’ DOON
Ye flowery banks o’ bonie Doon,
How can ye blume sae fair!
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu’ o’ care.
Thou’lt break my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings upon the bough;
Thou minds me o’ the happy days,
When my fause luve was true.
Thou’lt break my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o’ my fate.
Aft hae I rov’d by bonie Doon,
To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o’ its love,
And sae did I o’ mine.
Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose
Frae off its thorny tree;
And my fause luver staw the rose,
But left the thorn wi’ me.
R. Burns.
AS SLOW OUR SHIP
As slow our ship her foamy track
Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still looked back
To that dear isle ’twas leaving.
So loth we part from all we love,
From all the links that bind us;
So turn our hearts, where’er we rove,
To those we’ve left behind us!
When, round the bowl, of vanished years
We talk, with joyous seeming, —
With smiles, that might as well be tears
So faint, so sad their beaming;
While memory brings us back again
Each early tie that twined us,
Oh, sweet’s the cup that circles then
To those we’ve left behind us!
And when, in other climes, we meet
Some isle or vale enchanting,
Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,
And nought but love is wanting;
We think how great had been our bliss,
If Heaven had but assigned us
To live and die in scenes like this,
With some we’ve left behind us!
As travellers oft look back, at eve,
When eastward darkly going,
To gaze upon that light they leave
Still faint behind them glowing, —
So, when the close of pleasure’s day
To gloom hath near consigned us,
We turn to catch one fading ray
Of joy that’s left behind us.
T. Moore.
A RED, RED ROSE
O, my luve’s like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June:
O, my luve’s like the melodie
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve,
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.
BANNOCKBURN
ROBERT BRUCE’S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to glorious victorie.
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour;
See the front o’ battle lower;
See approach proud Edward’s power —
Edward! chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward’s grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Traitor! coward! turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland’s King and law
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or free-man fa’?
Caledonian! on wi’ me!
By oppression’s woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall – they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!
Forward! let us do, or die!
R. Burns.
THE MINSTREL-BOY
The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you’ll find him;
His father’s sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him. —
‘Land of song!’ said the warrior-bard,
‘Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!’
The Minstrel fell! – but the foeman’s chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne’er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, ‘No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the brave and free,
They shall never sound in slavery!’
T. Moore.
THE FAREWELL
It was a’ for our rightfu’ King,
We left fair Scotland’s strand;
It was a’ for our rightfu’ King
We e’er saw Irish land,
My dear;
We e’er saw Irish land.
Now a’ is done that men can do,
And a’ is done in vain;
My love and native land farewell,
For I maun cross the main,
My dear;
For I maun cross the main.
He turn’d him right and round about
Upon the Irish shore;
And gae his bridle-reins a shake,
With adieu for evermore,
My dear;
With adieu for evermore.
The sodger from the wars returns,
The sailor frae the main;
But I hae parted frae my love,
Never to meet again,
My dear;
Never to meet again.
When day is gane, and night is come,
And a’ folk bound to sleep;
I think on him that’s far awa’,
The lee-lang night, and weep,
My dear;
The lee-lang night, and weep.
R. Burns.
THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA’S HALLS
The harp that once through Tara’s halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory’s thrill is o’er,
And hearts, that once beat high for praise,
Now feel that pulse no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells:
The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.
T. Moore.
STANZAS
Could Love for ever
Run like a river,
And Time’s endeavour
Be tried in vain —
No other pleasure
With this could measure;
And like a treasure
We’d hug the chain.
But since our sighing
Ends not in dying,
And, form’d for flying,
Love plumes his wing;
Then for this reason
Let’s love a season;
But let that season be only Spring.
When lovers parted
Feel broken-hearted,
And, all hopes thwarted
Expect to die;
A few years older,
Ah! how much colder
They might behold her
For whom they sigh!
Lord Byron.
A SEA DIRGE
Full fathom five thy father lies:
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell;
Hark! now I hear them —
Ding, Dong, Bell.
W. Shakespeare.
ROSE AYLMER
Ah! what avails the sceptred race,
Ah! what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.
W. S. Landor.
SONG
Who is Silvia? what is she,
That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair and wise is she;
The heaven such grace did lend her
That she might admired be.
Is she kind, as she is fair?
For beauty lives with kindness.
Love doth to her eyes repair,
To help him of his blindness;
And, being help’d, inhabits there.
Then to Silvia let us sing,
That Silvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing
Upon the dull earth dwelling;
To her let us garlands bring.
W. Shakespeare.
LUCY ASHTON’S SONG
Look not thou on beauty’s charming, —
Sit thou still when kings are arming, —
Taste not when the wine-cup glistens, —
Speak not when the people listens, —
Stop thine ear against the singer, —
From the red gold keep thy finger, —
Vacant heart, and hand, and eye,
Easy live and quiet die.
Sir W. Scott.
EVENING
The sun upon the lake is low,
The wild birds hush their song;
The hills have evening’s deepest glow,
Yet Leonard tarries long.
Now all whom varied toil and care
From home and love divide,
In the calm sunset may repair
Each to the loved one’s side.
The noble dame on turret high,
Who waits her gallant knight,
Looks to the western beam to spy
The flash of armour bright.
The village maid, with hand on brow
The level ray to shade,
Upon the footpath watches now
For Colin’s darkening plaid.
Now to their mates the wild swans row,
By day they swam apart;
And to the thicket wanders slow
The hind beside the hart.
The woodlark at his partner’s side
Twitters his closing song —
All meet whom day and care divide, —
But Leonard tarries long!
Sir W. Scott.
SONG
Orpheus with his lute made trees,
And the mountain tops that freeze,
Bow themselves when he did sing:
To his music, plants and flowers
Ever sprung; as sun and showers
There had made a lasting spring.
Everything that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,
Hung their heads, and then lay by.
In sweet music is such art,
Killing care and grief of heart
Fall asleep, or, hearing, die.
W. Shakespeare.
THE TWA CORBIES
As I was walking all alane,
I heard twa corbies making a mane;
The tane unto the t’other say,
‘Whar sall we gang and dine the day?’
’In behint yon auld fail2 dyke,
I wot there lies a new-slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.
’His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady’s ta’en another mate,
So we may make our dinner sweet.
’Ye’ll sit on his white hause bane,
And I’ll pike out his bonny blue e’en:
Wi’ ae lock o’ his gowden hair,
We’ll theek our nest when it grows bare.
‘Mony a one for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken whae he is gane:
O’er his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair.’
TO ONE IN PARADISE
I
Thou wast all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine —
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.
II
Ah, dream, too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
‘On! on!’ – but o’er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!
III
For, alas! alas! with me
The light of Life is o’er!
‘No more – no more – no more’ —
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!
IV
And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy dark eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams;
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams.
E. A. Poe.
HYMN TO DIANA
Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair.
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted manner keep:
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.
Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia’s shining orb was made
Heav’n to clear, when day did close:
Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess excellently bright.
Lay thy bow of pearl apart
And thy crystal shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever:
Thou that mak’st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright.
B. Jonson.
COUNTY GUY
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,
The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.
The lark, his lay who trill’d all day,
Sits hush’d his partner nigh;
Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour
But where is County Guy?
The village maid steals through the shade,
Her shepherd’s suit to hear;
To beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above,
Now reigns o’er earth and sky;
And high and low the influence know —
But where is County Guy?
Sir W. Scott.
GATHERING SONG OF DONALD DHU
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,
Pibroch of Donuil,
Wake thy wild voice anew,
Summon Clan Conuil.
Come away, come away,
Hark to the summons!
Come in your war-array,
Gentles and commons.
Come from deep glen, and
From mountain so rocky,
The war-pipe and pennon
Are at Inverlochy.
Come every hill-plaid, and
True heart that wears one,
Come every steel blade, and
Strong hand that bears one.
Leave untended the herd,
The flock without shelter;
Leave the corpse uninterr’d,
The bride at the altar;
Leave the deer, leave the steer,
Leave nets and barges:
Come with your fighting gear,
Broadswords and targes.
Come as the winds come, when
Forests are rended;
Come as the waves come, when
Navies are stranded:
Faster come, faster come,
Faster and faster,
Chief, vassal, page and groom,
Tenant and master.
Fast they come, fast they come;
See how they gather!
Wide waves the eagle plume
Blended with heather.
Cast your plaids, draw your blades,
Forward each man set!
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
Knell for the onset!
Sir W. Scott.
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay wither’d and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass’d;
And the eyes of the sleepers wax’d deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roll’d not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
Lord Byron.
THE CAVALIER
While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,
My true love has mounted his steed, and away
Over hill, over valley, o’er dale, and o’er down, —
Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!
He has doff’d the silk doublet the breastplate to bear,
He has placed the steel cap o’er his long-flowing hair,
From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down, —
Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!
For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws;
Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause;
His watchword is honour, his pay is renown, —
God strike with the Gallant that strikes for the Crown!
They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all
The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall;
But tell these bold traitors of London’s proud town,
That the spears of the North have encircled the Crown.
There’s Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes;
There’s Erin’s high Ormond, and Scotland’s Montrose!
Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown
With the Barons of England, that fight for the Crown?
Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier!
Be his banner unconquer’d, resistless his spear,
Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown,
In a pledge to fair England, her Church, and her Crown.
Sir W. Scott.
ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN’S HOMER
Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow’d Homer ruled as his demesne:
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific – and all his men
Look’d at each other with a wild surmise —
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
J. Keats.
SONG
FOR MUSIC
A lake and a fairy boat
To sail in the moonlight clear, —
And merrily we would float
From the dragons that watch us here!
Thy gown should be snow-white silk,
And strings of orient pearls,
Like gossamers dipped in milk,
Should twine with thy raven curls
Red rubies should deck thy hands,
And diamonds should be thy dower —
But Fairies have broke their wands,
And wishing has lost its power!
T. Hood.
ODE WRITTEN IN MDCCXLVI
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country’s wishes bless’d!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow’d mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall a while repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there!
W. Collins.
TO DAFFODILS
Fair Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon:
As yet the early-rising Sun
Has not attain’d his noon.
Stay, stay,
Until the hasting day
Has run
But to the even-song;
And, having pray’d together, we
Will go with you along.
We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a Spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or any thing.
We die,
As your hours do, and dry
Away,
Like to the Summer’s rain;
Or as the pearls of morning’s dew
Ne’er to be found again.
R. Herrick.
THE SOLITARY REAPER
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings? —
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o’er the sickle bending; —
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
W. Wordsworth.
TO BLOSSOMS
Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast?
Your date is not so past;
But you may stay yet here a while,
To blush and gently smile;
And go at last.
What, were ye born to be
An hour or half’s delight;
And so to bid good-night?
’Twas pity Nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.
But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne’er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you, a while: they glide
Into the grave.
R. Herrick.
PROUD MAISIE
Proud Maisie is in the wood,
Walking so early;
Sweet Robin sits on the bush,
Singing so rarely.
‘Tell me, thou bonny bird,
When shall I marry me?’ —
‘When six braw gentlemen
Kirkward shall carry ye.’
‘Who makes the bridal bed,
Birdie, say truly?’ —
’The grey-headed sexton
That delves the grave duly.
‘The glow-worm o‘er grave and stone
Shall light thee steady.
The owl from the steeple sing,
“Welcome, proud lady.” ’
Sir W. Scott.
SLEEP
Come, Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,
The poor man’s wealth, the prisoner’s release,
Th’ indifferent judge between the high and low;
With shield of proof shield me from out the press
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:
O make in me those civil wars to cease;
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light,
A rosy garland and a weary head:
And if these things, as being thine in right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella’s image see.
Sir Philip Sidney.
2. Fail, ‘turf.’
