Andrew Lang: Verses about Time

The winter is upon us, not the snow,
The hills are etched on the horizon bare,
The skies are iron grey, a bitter air,
The meagre cloudlets shudder to and fro.
One yellow leaf the listless wind doth blow,
Like some strange butterfly, unclassed and rare.
Your footsteps ring in frozen alleys, where
The black trees seem to shiver as you go.

Beyond lie church and steeple, with their old
And rusty vanes that rattle as they veer,
A sharper gust would shake them from their hold,
Yet up that path, in summer of the year,
And past that melancholy pile we strolled
To pluck wild strawberries, with merry cheer.

Swift as sound of music fled
When no more the organ sighs,
Sped as all old days are sped,
So your lips, love, and your eyes,
So your gentle-voiced replies
Mine one hour in sleep that seem,
Rise and flit when slumber flies,
Following darkness like a dream!

Like the scent from roses red,
Like the dawn from golden skies,
Like the semblance of the dead
From the living love that hies,
Like the shifting shade that lies
On the moonlight-silvered stream,
So you rise when dreams arise,
Following darkness like a dream!

Could some spell, or sung or said,
Could some kindly witch and wise,
Lull for aye this dreaming head
In a mist of memories,
I would lie like him who lies
Where the lights on Latmos gleam, -
Wake not, find not Paradise
Following darkness like a dream!

ENVOY.

Sleep, that giv'st what Life denies,
Shadowy bounties and supreme,
Bring the dearest face that flies
Following darkness like a dream!

The dust of Carthage and the dust
Of Babel on the desert wold,
The loves of Corinth, and the lust,
Orchomenos increased with gold;
The town of Jason, over-bold,
And Cherson, smitten in her prime -
What are they but a dream half-told?
Where are the cities of old time?

In towns that were a kingdom's trust,
In dim Atlantic forests' fold,
The marble wasteth to a crust,
The granite crumbles into mould;
O'er these--left nameless from of old -
As over Shinar's brick and slime,
One vast forgetfulness is roll'd -
Where are the cities of old time?

The lapse of ages, and the rust,
The fire, the frost, the waters cold,
Efface the evil and the just;
From Thebes, that Eriphyle sold,
To drown'd Caer-Is, whose sweet bells toll'd
Beneath the wave a dreamy chime
That echo'd from the mountain-hold, -
'Where are the cities of old time?'

ENVOY.

Prince, all thy towns and cities must
Decay as these, till all their crime,
And mirth, and wealth, and toil are thrust
Where are the cities of old time.

LA COUR.

When these Old Plays were new, the King,
Beside the Cardinal's chair,
Applauded, 'mid the courtly ring,
The verses of Moliere;
Point-lace was then the only wear,
Old Corneille came to woo,
And bright Du Parc was young and fair,
When these Old Plays were new!

LA COMEDIE.

How shrill the butcher's cat-calls ring,
How loud the lackeys swear!
Black pipe-bowls on the stage they fling,
At Brecourt, fuming there!
The Porter's stabbed! a Mousquetaire
Breaks in with noisy crew -
'Twas all a commonplace affair
When these Old Plays were new!

LA VILLE.

When these Old Plays were new! They bring
A host of phantoms rare:
Old jests that float, old jibes that sting,
Old faces peaked with care:
Menage's smirk, de Vise's stare,
The thefts of Jean Ribou,--
Ah, publishers were hard to bear
When these Old Plays were new.

ENVOY.

Ghosts, at your Poet's word ye dare
To break Death's dungeons through,
And frisk, as in that golden air,
When these Old Plays were new!

When Lent and Responsions are ended,
When May with fritillaries waits,
When the flower of the chestnut is splendid,
When drags are at all of the gates
(Those drags the philosopher 'slates'
With a scorn that is truly sublime),
Life wins from the grasp of the Fates
Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!

When wickets are bowl'd and defended,
When Isis is glad with 'the Eights,'
When music and sunset are blended,
When Youth and the summer are mates,
When Freshmen are heedless of 'Greats,'
And when note-books are cover'd with rhyme,
Ah, these are the hours that one rates -
Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!

When the brow of the Dean is unbended
At luncheons and mild tete-a-tetes,
When the Tutor's in love, nor offended
By blunders in tenses or dates;
When bouquets are purchased of Bates,
When the bells in their melody chime,
When unheeded the Lecturer prates -
Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!

ENVOY.

Reformers of Schools and of States,
Is mirth so tremendous a crime?
Ah! spare what grim pedantry hates -
Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!

1731

BEAUTIFUL face of a child,
Lighted with laughter and glee,
Mirthful, and tender, and wild,
My heart is heavy for thee!

1744

Beautiful face of a youth,
As an eagle poised to fly forth
To the old land loyal of truth,
To the hills and the sounds of the North:
Fair face, daring and proud,
Lo! the shadow of doom, even now,
The fate of thy line, like a cloud,
Rests on the grace of thy brow!

1773

Cruel and angry face,
Hateful and heavy with wine,
Where are the gladness, the grace,
The beauty, the mirth that were thine?

Ah, my Prince, it were well,—
Hadst thou to the gods been dear,—
To have fallen where Keppoch fell,
With the war-pipe loud in thine ear!
To have died with never a stain
On the fair White Rose of Renown,
To have fallen, fighting in vain,
For thy father, thy faith, and thy crown!
More than thy marble pile,
With its women weeping for thee,
Were to dream in thine ancient isle,
To the endless dirge of the sea!
But the Fates deemed otherwise;
Far thou sleepest from home,
From the tears of the Northern skies,
In the secular dust of Rome.
A city of death and the dead,
But thither a pilgrim came,
Wearing on weary head
The crowns of years and fame:
Little the Lucrine lake
Or Tivoli said to him,
Scarce did the memories wake
Of the far-off years and dim,
For he stood by Avernus’ shore.
But he dreamed of a Northern glen,
And he murmured, over and o’er,
“For Charlie and his men:”
And his feet, to death that went,
Crept forth to St. Peter’s shrine,
And the latest Minstrel bent
O’er the last of the Stuart line.

Clerk Saunders and may Margaret
Walked ower yon garden green;
And sad and heavy was the love
That fell thir twa between.

'A bed, a bed,' Clerk Saunders said,
'A bed for you and me!'
'Fye na, fye na,' said may Margaret,
''Till anes we married be.

'For in may come my seven bauld brothers,
Wi' torches burning bright;
They'll say,--'We hae but ae sister,
And behold she's wi a knight!''

'Then take the sword frae my scabbard,
And slowly lift the pin;
And you may swear, and save your aith.
Ye never let Clerk Saunders in.

'And take a napkin in your hand,
And tie up baith your bonny e'en,
And you may swear, and save your aith,
Ye saw me na since late yestreen.'

It was about the midnight hour,
When they asleep were laid,
When in and came her seven brothers,
Wi' torches burning red.

When in and came her seven brothers,
Wi' torches burning bright:
They said, 'We hae but ae sister,
And behold her lying with a knight!'

Then out and spake the first o' them,
'I bear the sword shall gar him die!'
And out and spake the second o' them,
'His father has nae mair than he!'

And out and spake the third o' them,
'I wot that they are lovers dear!'
And out and spake the fourth o' them,
'They hae been in love this mony a year!'

Then out and spake the fifth o' them,
'It were great sin true love to twain!'
And out and spake the sixth o' them,
'It were shame to slay a sleeping man!'

Then up and gat the seventh o' them,
And never a word spake he;
But he has striped his bright brown brand
Out through Clerk Saunders' fair bodye.

Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turned
Into his arms as asleep she lay;
And sad and silent was the night
That was atween thir twae.

And they lay still and sleeped sound
Until the day began to daw;
And kindly to him she did say,
'It is time, true love, you were awa'.'

But he lay still, and sleeped sound,
Albeit the sun began to sheen;
She looked atween her and the wa',
And dull and drowsie were his e'en.

Then in and came her father dear;
Said,--'Let a' your mourning be:
I'll carry the dead corpse to the clay,
And I'll come back and comfort thee.'

'Comfort weel your seven sons;
For comforted will I never be:
I ween 'twas neither knave nor loon
Was in the bower last night wi' me.'

The clinking bell gaed through the town,
To carry the dead corse to the clay;
And Clerk Saunders stood at may Margaret's window,
I wot, an hour before the day.

'Are ye sleeping, Margaret?' he says,
'Or are ye waking presentlie?
Give me my faith and troth again,
I wot, true love, I gied to thee.'

'Your faith and troth ye sall never get,
Nor our true love sall never twin,
Until ye come within my bower,
And kiss me cheik and chin.'

'My mouth it is full cold, Margaret,
It has the smell, now, of the ground;
And if I kiss thy comely mouth,
Thy days of life will not be lang.

'O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight,
I wot the wild fowls are boding day;
Give me my faith and troth again,
And let me fare me on my way.'

'Thy faith and troth thou sall na get,
And our true love sall never twin,
Until ye tell what comes of women,
I wot, who die in strong traivelling?

'Their beds are made in the heavens high,
Down at the foot of our good lord's knee,
Weel set about wi' gillyflowers;
I wot, sweet company for to see.

'O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight,
I wot the wild fowl are boding day;
The psalms of heaven will soon be sung,
And I, ere now, will be missed away.'

Then she has ta'en a crystal wand,
And she has stroken her troth thereon;
She has given it him out at the shot-window,
Wi' mony a sad sigh, and heavy groan.

'I thank ye, Marg'ret, I thank ye, Marg'ret;
And aye I thank ye heartilie;
Gin ever the dead come for the quick,
Be sure, Mag'ret, I'll come for thee.'

It's hosen and shoon, and gown alone,
She climb'd the wall, and followed him,
Until she came to the green forest,
And there she lost the sight o' him.

'Is there ony room at your head, Saunders?
Is there ony room at your feet?
Is there ony room at your side, Saunders,
Where fain, fain I wad sleep?'

'There's nae room at my head, Marg'ret,
There's nae room at my feet;
My bed it is full lowly now,
Amang the hungry worms I sleep.

'Cauld mould is my covering now,
But and my winding-sheet;
The dew it falls nae sooner down
Than my resting-place is weet.

'But plait a wand o' bonnie birk,
And lay it on my breast;
And shed a tear upon my grave,
And wish my saul gude rest.

'And fair Marg'ret, and rare Marg'ret,
And Marg'ret, o' veritie,
Gin ere ye love another man,
Ne'er love him as ye did me.'

Then up and crew the milk-white cock,
And up and crew the gray;
Her lover vanish'd in the air,
And she gaed weeping away.

Some speak of lords, some speak of lairds,
And sic like men of high degree;
Of a gentleman I sing a sang,
Some time call'd Laird of Gilnockie.

The king he writes a loving letter,
With his ain hand sae tenderlie,
And he hath sent it to Johnnie Armstrang,
To come and speak with him speedilie.

The Elliots and Armstrangs did convene,
They were a gallant companie:
'We'll ride and meet our lawful king,
And bring him safe to Gilnockie.

'Make kinnen and capon ready, then,
And venison in great plentie;
We'll welcome here our royal king;
I hope he'll dine at Gilnockie!'

They ran their horse on the Langholm howm,
And brake their spears with meikle main;
The ladies lookit frae their loft windows--
'God bring our men weel hame again!'

When Johnnie came before the king,
With all his men sae brave to see,
The king he moved his bonnet to him;
He ween'd he was a king as well as he.

'May I find grace, my sovereign liege,
Grace for my loyal men and me?
For my name it is Johnnie Armstrang,
And a subject of yours, my liege,' said he.

'Away, away, thou traitor strang!
Out of my sight soon may'st thou be!
I granted never a traitor's life,
And now I'll not begin with thee.'

'Grant me my life, my liege, my king!
And a bonnie gift I'll gi'e to thee;
Full four-and-twenty milk-white steeds,
Were all foal'd in ae year to me.

'I'll gi'e thee all these milk-white steeds,
That prance and nicher at a spear;
And as meikle gude Inglish gilt,
As four of their braid backs dow bear.'

'Away, away, thou traitor strang!
Out of my sight soon may'st thou be!
I granted never a traitor's life,
And now I'll not begin with thee.'

'Grant me my life, my liege, my king!
And a bonnie gift I'll gi'e to thee:
Gude four-and-twenty ganging mills,
That gang thro' all the year to me.

'These four-and-twenty mills complete,
Shall gang for thee thro' all the year;
And as meikle of gude red wheat,
As all their happers dow to bear.'

'Away, away, thou traitor strang!
Out of my sight soon may'st thou be!
I granted never a traitor's life,
And now I'll not begin with thee.'

'Grant me my life, my liege, my king!
And a great gift I'll gi'e to thee:
Bauld four-and-twenty sisters' sons
Shall for thee fecht, tho' all shou'd flee.'

'Away, away, thou traitor strang!
Out of my sight soon may'st thou be!
I granted never a traitor's life,
And now I'll not begin with thee.'

'Grant me my life, my liege, my king!
And a brave gift I'll gi'e to thee:
All between here and Newcastle town
Shall pay their yearly rent to thee.'

'Away, away, thou traitor strang!
Out of my sight soon may'st thou be!
I granted never a traitor's life,
And now I'll not begin with thee.'

'Ye lied, ye lied, now, king,' he says,
'Altho' a king and prince ye be!
For I've loved naething in my life,
I weel dare say it, but honestie.

'Save a fat horse, and a fair woman,
Twa bonnie dogs to kill a deer;
But England shou'd have found me meal and mault,
Gif I had lived this hundred year.

'She shou'd have found me meal and mault,
And beef and mutton in all plentie;
But never a Scots wife cou'd have said,
That e'er I skaith'd her a puir flee.

'To seek het water beneath cauld ice,
Surely it is a great follie:
I have ask'd grace at a graceless face,
But there is nane for my men and me.

'But had I kenn'd, ere I came frae hame,
How unkind thou wou'dst been to me,
I wou'd ha'e keepit the Border side,
In spite of all thy force and thee.

'Wist England's king that I was ta'en,
Oh, gin a blythe man he wou'd be!
For ance I slew his sister's son,
And on his breast-bane brak a tree.'

John wore a girdle about his middle,
Embroider'd o'er with burning gold,
Bespangled with the same metal,
Maist beautiful was to behold.

There hang nine targats at Johnnie's hat,
An ilk ane worth three hundred pound:
'What wants that knave that a king shou'd have,
But the sword of honour and the crown?

'Oh, where got thee these targats, Johnnie.
That blink sae brawly aboon thy brie?'
'I gat them in the field fechting,
Where, cruel king, thou durst not be.

'Had I my horse and harness gude,
And riding as I wont to be,
It shou'd have been tauld this hundred year,
The meeting of my king and me!

'God be with thee, Kirsty, my brother,
Lang live thou laird of Mangertoun!
Lang may'st thou live on the Border side,
Ere thou see thy brother ride up and down!

'And God he with thee, Kirsty, my son,
Where thou sits on thy nurse's knee!
But an thou live this hundred year,
Thy father's better thou'lt never be.

'Farewell, my bonnie Gilnock hall,
Where on Esk side thou standest stout!
Gif I had lived but seven years mair,
I wou'd ha'e gilt thee round about.'

John murder'd was at Carlinrigg,
And all his gallant companie;
But Scotland's heart was ne'er sae wae,
To see sae mony brave men die;

Because they saved their country dear
Frae Englishmen! Nane were sae bauld
While Johnnie lived on the Border side,
Nane of them durst come near his hauld.

O Rose the Red and White Lilly,
Their mother dear was dead,
And their father married an ill woman,
Wishd them twa little guede.

Yet she had twa as fu fair sons
As eer brake manis bread,
And the tane of them loed her White Lilly,
And the tither lood Rose the Red.

O, biggit ha they a bigly bowr,
And strawn it oer wi san,
And there was mair mirth i the ladies' bowr
Than in a' their father's lan.

But out it spake their step-mother,
Wha stood a little foreby:
'I hope to live and play the prank
Sal gar your loud sang ly.'

She's calld upon her eldest son:
'Come here, my son, to me;
It fears me sair, my eldest son,
That ye maun sail the sea.'

'Gin it fear you sair, my mither dear,
Your bidding I maun dee;
But be never war to Rose the Red
Than ye ha been to me.'

'O had your tongue, my eldest son,
For sma sal be her part;
You'll nae get a kiss o her comely mouth
Gin your very fair heart should break.'

She's calld upon her youngest son:
'Come here, my son, to me;
It fears me sair, my youngest son,
That ye maun sail the sea.'

'Gin it fear you sair, my mither dear,
Your bidding I maun dee;
But be never war to White Lilly
Than ye ha been to me.'

'O haud your tongue, my youngest son,
For sma sall be her part;
You'll neer get a kiss o her comely mouth
Tho your very fair heart should break.'

When Rose the Red and White Lilly
Saw their twa loves were gane,
Then stopped ha they their loud, loud sang,
And tane up the still moarnin;
And their step-mother stood listnin by,
To hear the ladies' mean.

Then out it spake her, White Lily;
'My sister, we'll be gane;
Why shou'd we stay in Barnsdale,
To waste our youth in pain?'

Then cutted ha they their green cloathing,
A little below their knee;
And sae ha they their yallow hair,
A little aboon there bree;
And they've doen them to haely chapel
Was christened by Our Ladye.

There ha they changed their ain twa names,
Sae far frae ony town;
And the tane o them hight Sweet Willy,
And the tither o them Roge the Roun.

Between this twa a vow was made,
An they sware it to fulfil;
That at three blasts o a buglehorn,
She'd come her sister till.

Now Sweet Willy's gane to the kingis court,
Her true-love for to see,
And Roge the Roun to good green wood,
Brown Robin's man to be.

As it fell out upon a day,
They a did put the stane;
Full seven foot ayont them a
She gard the puttin-stane gang.

She leand her back against an oak,
And gae a loud Ohone!
Then out it spake him Brown Robin,
'But that's a woman's moan!'

'Oh, ken ye by my red rose lip?
Or by my yallow hair;
Or ken ye by my milk-white breast?
For ye never saw it bare?'

'I ken no by your red rose lip,
Nor by your yallow hair;
Nor ken I by your milk-white breast,
For I never saw it bare;
But, come to your bowr whaever sae likes,
Will find a ladye there.'

'Oh, gin ye come to my bowr within,
Thro fraud, deceit, or guile,
Wi this same bran that's in my han
I swear I will thee kill.'

'But I will come thy bowr within,
An spear nae leave,' quoth he;
'An this same bran that's i my ban,
I sall ware back on the.'

About the tenth hour of the night,
The ladie's bowr door was broken,
An eer the first hour of the day
The bonny knave bairn was gotten.

When days were gane and months were run,
The ladye took travailing,
And sair she cry'd for a bow'r-woman,
For to wait her upon.

Then out it spake him, Brown Robin:
'Now what needs a' this din?
For what coud any woman do
But I coud do the same?'

'Twas never my mither's fashion,' she says,
'Nor sall it ever be mine,
That belted knights shoud eer remain
Where ladies dreed their pine.

'But ye take up that bugle-horn,
An blaw a blast for me;
I ha a brother i the kingis court
Will come me quickly ti.'

'O gin ye ha a brither on earth
That ye love better nor me,
Ye blaw the horn yoursel,' he says,
'For ae blast I winna gie.'

She's set the horn till her mouth,
And she's blawn three blasts sae shrill;
Sweet Willy heard i the kingis court,
And came her quickly till.

Then up it started Brown Robin,
An an angry man was he:
'There comes nae man this bowr within
But first must fight wi me.'

O they hae fought that bowr within
Till the sun was gaing down,
Till drops o blude frae Rose the Red
Cam trailing to the groun.

She leand her back against the wa,
Says, 'Robin, let a' be;
For it is a lady born and bred
That's foughten sae well wi thee.'

O seven foot he lap a back;
Says, 'Alas, and wae is me!
I never wisht in a' my life,
A woman's blude to see;
An ae for the sake of ae fair maid
Whose name was White Lilly.'

Then out it spake her White Lilly,
An a hearty laugh laugh she:
'She's lived wi you this year an mair,
Tho ye kenntna it was she.'

Now word has gane thro a' the lan,
Before a month was done,
That Brown Robin's man, in good green wood,
Had born a bonny young son.

The word has gane to the kingis court,
An to the king himsel;
'Now, by my fay,' the king could say,
'The like was never heard tell!'

Then out it spake him Bold Arthur,
An a hearty laugh laugh he:
'I trow some may has playd the loun,
And fled her ain country.'

'Bring me my steed,' then cry'd the king,
'My bow and arrows keen;
I'll ride mysel to good green wood,
An see what's to be seen.'

'An't please your grace,' said Bold Arthur,
'My liege, I'll gang you wi,
An try to fin a little foot-page,
That's strayd awa frae me.'

O they've hunted i the good green wood
The buck but an the rae,
An they drew near Brown Robin's bowr,
About the close of day.

Then out it spake the king in hast,
Says, 'Arthur look an see
Gin that be no your little foot-page
That leans against yon tree.'

Then Arthur took his bugle-horn,
An blew a blast sae shrill;
Sweet Willy started at the sound,
An ran him quickly till.

'O wanted ye your meat, Willy?
Or wanted ye your fee?
Or gat ye ever an angry word,
That ye ran awa frae me?'

'I wanted nought, my master dear;
To me ye ay was good;
I came but to see my ae brother,
That wons in this green wood.'

Then out it spake the king again,
Says, 'Bonny boy, tell to me,
Wha lives into yon bigly bowr,
Stands by yon green oak tree?'

'Oh, pardon me,' says Sweet Willie,
'My liege, I dare no tell;
An I pray you go no near that bowr,
For fear they do you fell.'

'Oh, haud your tongue, my bonny boy,
For I winna be said nay;
But I will gang that bowr within,
Betide me weal or wae.'

They've lighted off their milk-white steeds,
An saftly enterd in,
And there they saw her White Lilly,
Nursing her bonny young son.

'Now, by the rood,' the king coud say,
'This is a comely sight;
I trow, instead of a forrester's man,
This is a lady bright!'

Then out it spake her, Rose the Red,
An fell low down on her knee:
'Oh, pardon us, my gracious liege,
An our story I'll tell thee.

'Our father was a wealthy lord,
That wond in Barnsdale;
But we had a wicked step-mother,
That wrought us meickle bale.

'Yet she had twa as fu fair sons
As ever the sun did see,
An the tane of them lood my sister dear,
An the tother said he lood me.'

Then out it spake him Bold Arthur,
As by the king he stood:
'Now, by the faith o my body,
This shoud be Rose the Red!'

Then in it came him Brown Robin,
Frae hunting O the deer;
But whan he saw the king was there,
He started back for fear.

The king has taen him by the hand,
An bide him naithing dread;
Says, 'Ye maun leave the good greenwood,
Come to the court wi speed.'

Then up he took White Lilly's son,
An set him on his knee;
Says--'Gin ye live to wield a bran,
My bowman ye sall bee.'

The king he sent for robes of green,
An girdles o shinning gold;
He gart the ladies be arrayd
Most comely to behold.

They've done them unto Mary kirk,
An there gat fair wedding,
An fan the news spread oer the lan,
For joy the bells did ring.

Then out it spake her Rose the Red,
An a hearty laugh laugh she:
'I wonder what would our step-dame say,
Gin she his sight did see!'