Part 5

‘I winna play at the stane-chucking, Nor will I play at the ba’, But I’ll gae up to yon bonnie green hill, And there we’ll warsel a fa’.’ 10

They warsled up, they warsled down, Till John fell to the ground; A dirk fell out of Willie’s pouch, And gave him a deadly wound.

‘Oh, Billie, lift me on your back, 15 Take me to yon well fair, And wash the bluid frae aff my wound, And it will bleed nae mair.’

He’s lifted his brother upon his back, Ta’en him to yon well fair; 20 He’s washed the bluid frae aff his wound, But ay it bled mair and mair.

‘Tak ye aff my Holland sark, And rive it gair by gair, And stap it in my bluidy wound, 25 And syne ’twill bleed nae mair.’

He’s taken aff his Holland sark, And torn it gair by gair; He’s stappit it in his bluidy wound, But ay it bled mair and mair. 30

‘Tak now aff my green sleiding, And row me saftly in; And tak me up to yon kirk style, Where the grass grows fair and green.’

He’s taken aff the green sleiding, 35 And rowed him saftly in; He’s laid him down by yon kirk style, Where the grass grows fair and green.

‘What will ye say to your father dear When ye gae hame at e’en?’ 40 ‘I’ll say ye’re lying at yon kirk style, Where the grass grows fair and green.

‘O no, O no, my brother dear, O you must not say so; But say that I’m gane to a foreign land, 45 Where nae man does me know.

When he sat in his father’s chair He grew baith pale and wan. ‘O what blude’s that upon your brow? O dear son, tell to me.’ 50 ‘It is the blude o’ my gude gray steed, He wadna ride wi’ me.’

‘O thy steed’s blude was ne’er sae red, Nor e’er sae dear to me: 55 O what blude’s this upon your cheek? O dear son, tell to me.’ ‘It is the blude of my greyhound, He wadna hunt for me.’

‘O thy hound’s blude was ne’er sae red, 60 Nor e’er sae dear to me: O what blude’s this upon your hand? O dear son, tell to me.’ ‘It is the blude of my gay gosshawk, He wadna flee for me.’ 65

‘O thy hawk’s blude was ne’er sae red, Nor e’er sae dear to me: O what blude’s this upon your dirk? Dear Willie, tell to me.’ ‘It is the blude of my ae brother, 70 O dule and wae is me!’

‘O what will ye say to your father, Dear Willie, tell to me?’ ‘I’ll saddle my steed, and awa’ I’ll ride To dwell in some far countrie.’ 75

‘O when will ye come hame again, Dear Willie, tell to me?’ ‘When the sun and mune dance on yon green, And that will never be.’

She turned hersel’ right round about, 80 And her heart burst into three: ‘My ae best son is deid and gane, And my tother ane I’ll ne’er see.’ _Anon._

LXXVII

_THE TWA SISTERS._

There were twa sisters lived in a bouir; _Binnorie, O Binnorie_; The youngest o’ them, oh, she was a flouir! _By the bonnie mill-dams o’ Binnorie._

There came a squire frae the west; 5 He lo’ed them baith, but the youngest best;

He gied the eldest a gay gowd ring; But he lo’ed the youngest abune a’ thing.

He courted the eldest wi’ broach and knife; But he lo’ed the youngest as his life. 10

The eldest she was vexèd sair, And sore envied her sister fair.

And it fell once upon a day, The eldest to the youngest did say:

‘Oh, sister, come to the sea-strand, 15 And see our father’s ships come to land.

She’s ta’en her by the milk-white hand, And led her down to the sea-strand.

The youngest sat upon a stane; The eldest came and pushed her in. 20

‘Oh, sister, sister, lend me your hand, And you shall be heir of half my land.’

‘Oh, sister, I’ll not reach my hand, And I’ll be heir of all your land.

‘Shame fa’ the hand that I should take! 25 It twinned me and my world’s maik.’

‘Oh, sister, reach me but your glove, And you shall be sweet William’s love.’

‘Sink on, nor hope for hand or glove, And sweet William shall better be my love. 30

‘Your cherry cheeks and yellow hair Had gar’d me gang maiden evermair.’

First she sank, and syne she swam, Until she cam to Tweed mill-dam.

The miller’s dauchter was baking breid, 35 And gaed for water as she had need.

‘Oh, father, father, in our mill-dam There’s either a mermaid or a milk-white swan.’

The miller quickly drew his dam; And there he fand a drowned woman. 40

You couldna see her yellow hair, For gowd and pearls that were sae rare.

You couldna see her middle sma’, Her gowden girdle was sae braw.

You couldna see her lilie feet, 45 Her gowden fringes were sae deep.

You couldna see her fingers sma’, Wi’ diamond rings they were covered a’.

‘Sair will they be, whae’er they be, The hearts that live to weep for thee!’ 50

Then by there cam a harper fine, That harpèd to the king at dine.

And, when he looked that lady on, He sighed, and made a heavy moan.

He has ta’en three locks o’ her yellow hair, 55 And wi’ them strung his harp sae fair.

And he brought the harp to her father’s hall, And there the court was assembled all.

He laid his harp upon a stone, And straight it began to play alone. 60

‘O yonder sits my father, the king! And yonder sits my mother, the queen!

‘And yonder stands my brother Hugh, And by him my William sweet and true!’

But the last tune that the harp played then, 65 _Binnorie, O Binnorie_, Was, ‘Woe to my sister, false Helen!’ _By the bonny mill-dams o’ Binnorie._ _Anon._

LXXVIII

_TO A VIRTUOUS YOUNG LADY._

Lady, that in the prime of earliest youth Wisely hast shunned the broad way and the green, And with those few art eminently seen, That labour up the hill of heavenly truth; The better part with Mary and with Ruth 5 Chosen thou hast; and they that overween, And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen, No anger find in thee, but pity’ and ruth. Thy care is fixed, and zealously attends To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light, 10 And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure Thou, when the Bridegroom with his feastful friends Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night, Hast gained thy entrance, Virgin wise and pure. _John Milton._

LXXIX

_EYES AND TEARS._

How wisely Nature did decree, With the same eyes to weep and see! That, having viewed the object vain, They might be ready to complain. And, since the self-deluding sight 5 In a false angle takes each height, These tears, which better measure all, Like watery lines and plummets fall. Two tears, which sorrow long did weigh Within the scales of either eye, 10 And then paid out in equal poise, Are the true price of all my joys. What in the world most fair appears, Yea, even laughter, turns to tears: And all the jewels which we prize, 15 Melt in these pendants of the eyes. I have through every garden been, Amongst the red, the white, the green; And yet from all those flowers I saw, No honey but these tears could draw. 20 So the all-seeing sun each day Distils the world with chymic ray; But finds the essence only showers, Which straight in pity back he pours. Yet happy they whom grief doth bless, 25 That weep the more, and see the less; And, to preserve their sight more true, Bathe still their eyes in their own dew. So Magdalen in tears more wise Dissolved those captivating eyes, 30 Whose liquid chains could flowing meet, To fetter her Redeemer’s feet. Nor full sails hasting laden home, Nor the chaste lady’s pregnant womb, Nor Cynthia teeming shows so fair 35 As two eyes, swoln with weeping, are. The sparkling glance that shoots desire, Drenched in these waves, does lose its fire. Yea, oft the Thunderer pity takes, And here the hissing lightning slakes. 40 The incense was to Heaven dear, Not as a perfume, but a tear; And stars show lovely in the night, But as they seem the tears of light. Ope then, mine eyes, your double sluice, 45 And practise so your noblest use; For others too can see, or sleep; But only human eyes can weep. Now, like two clouds dissolving, drop, And at each tear in distance stop: 50 Now, like two fountains, trickle down: Now, like two floods o’er-run and drown: Thus let your streams o’erflow your springs, Till eyes and tears be the same things; And each the other’s difference bears; 55 These weeping eyes, those seeing tears. _Andrew Marvell._

LXXX

_TO MY WORTHY FRIEND MASTER GEORGE SANDYS, ON HIS TRANSLATION OF THE PSALMS._

I press not to the choir, nor dare I greet The holy place with my unhallowed feet; My unwashed Muse pollutes not things divine, Nor mingles her profaner notes with thine; Here, humbly waiting at the porch, she stays, 5 And with glad ears sucks in thy sacred lays. So, devout penitents of old were wont, Some without door, and some beneath the font, To stand and hear the Church’s liturgies, Yet not assist the solemn exercise: 10 Sufficeth her, that she a lay-place gain, To trim thy vestments, or but bear thy train; Though not in tune nor wing she reach thy lark, Her lyric feet may dance before the ark. Who knows, but that her wandering eyes that run, 15 Now hunting glowworms, may adore the sun: A pure flame may, shot by Almighty power Into her breast, the earthly flame devour: My eyes in penitential dew may steep That brine, which they for sensual love did weep. 20 So (though ’gainst nature’s course) fire may be quenched With fire, and water be with water drenched; Perhaps my restless soul, tired with pursuit Of mortal beauty, seeking without fruit Contentment there, which hath not, when enjoyed, 25 Quenched all her thirst, nor satisfied, though cloyed, Weary of her vain search below, above In the first Fair may find the immortal Love. Prompted by thy example, then no more In moulds of clay will I my God adore; 30 But tear those idols from my heart, and write What his blest Spirit, not fond love, shall indite; Then I no more shall court the verdant bay, But the dry leafless trunk on Golgotha; And rather strive to gain from thence one thorn, 35 Than all the flourishing wreaths by laureats worn. _Thomas Carew._

LXXXI

_THE FLOWER._

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean Are thy returns! e’en as the flowers in spring; To which, besides their own demean, The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. Grief melts away, 5 Like snow in May, As if there were no such cold thing.

Who would have thought my shrivelled heart Could have recovered greenness? It was gone Quite under ground; as flowers depart 10 To see their mother-root, when they have blown; Where they together All the hard weather, Dead to the world, keep house unknown.

These are thy wonders, Lord of power, 15 Killing and quickening, bringing down to hell And up to heaven in an hour; Making a chiming of a passing bell. We say amiss, This or that is: 20 Thy word is all, if we could spell.

Oh, that I once past changing were, Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither! Many a spring I shoot up fair, Offering at heaven, growing and groaning thither: 25 Nor doth my flower Want a spring-shower, My sins and I joining together.

But while I grow in a straight line, Still upwards bent, as if heaven were mine own, 30 Thy anger comes, and I decline: What frost to that? what pole is not the zone Where all things burn, When Thou dost turn, And the least frown of thine is shown? 35

And now in age I bud again, After so many deaths I live and write; I once more smell the dew and rain, And relish versing: O my only Light, It cannot be 40 That I am he, On whom thy tempests fell at night.

These are thy wonders, Lord of love, To make us see we are but flowers that glide: Which when we once can find and prove, 45 Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide. Who would be more, Swelling through store, Forfeit their Paradise by their pride. _George Herbert._

LXXXII

_GOD UNSEARCHABLE._

Weigh me the fire; or canst thou find A way to measure out the wind; Distinguish all those floods that are Mixt in that watery theatre; And taste thou them as saltless there 5 As in their channel first they were; Tell me the people that do keep Within the kingdoms of the deep; Or fetch me back that cloud again, Beshivered into seeds of rain; 10 Tell me the motes, dust, sands, and spears Of corn when summer shakes his ears; Show me that world of stars, and whence They noiseless spill their influence: This if thou canst, then show me Him 15 That rides the glorious Cherubim. _Robert Herrick._

LXXXIII

_AT A SOLEMN MUSIC._

Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heaven’s joy, Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse, Wed your divine sounds, and mixed power employ, Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce; And to our high-raised phantasy present 5 That undisturbèd song of pure concent, Aye sung before the sapphire-coloured throne To Him that sits thereon, With saintly shout, and solemn jubilee; Where the bright Seraphim in burning row 10 Their loud up-lifted angel-trumpets blow; And the Cherubic host in thousand quires Touch their immortal harps of golden wires, With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms, Hymns devout and holy psalms 15 Singing everlastingly: That we on earth, with undiscording voice, May rightly answer that melodious noise; As once we did, till disproportioned sin Jarred against Nature’s chime, and with harsh din 20 Broke the fair music that all creatures made To their great Lord, whose love their motion swayed In perfect diapason, whilst they stood, In first obedience and their state of good. Oh may we soon again renew that song, 25 And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long To his celestial consort us unite, To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light! _John Milton._

LXXXIV

_THE RAINBOW._

Still young and fine! but what is still in view We slight as old and soiled, though fresh and new. How bright wert thou, when Shem’s admiring eye Thy burnished, flaming arch did first descry! When Terah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, 5 The youthful world’s gray fathers, in one knot Did with intentive looks watch every hour For thy new light, and trembled at each shower! When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and fair, Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air: 10 Rain gently spends his honey-drops, and pours Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers. Bright pledge of peace and sunshine! the sure tie Of thy Lord’s hand, the object of his eye! When I behold thee, though my light be dim, 15 Distant and low, I can in thine see Him, Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne, And minds the covenant betwixt all and One. _Henry Vaughan._

LXXXV

_L’ALLEGRO._

Hence, loathèd Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, ’Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy! Find out some uncouth cell, 5 Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night-raven sings; There under ebon shades, and low-browed rocks, As ragged as thy locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 10 But come, thou Goddess fair and free, In heaven yclept Euphrosyne, And by men, heart-easing Mirth; Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, 15 To ivy-crownèd Bacchus bore: Or whether (as some sager sing) The frolic wind that breathes the spring, Zephyr, with Aurora playing, As he met her once a-maying, 20 There on beds of violets blue, And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, Filled her with thee, a daughter fair, So buxom, blithe, and debonair. Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee 25 Jest, and youthful Jollity, Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles, Nods, and becks, and wreathèd smiles, Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek; 30 Sport, that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter, holding both his sides. Come, and trip it as you go On the light fantastic toe; And in thy right hand lead with thee 35 The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty; And, if I give thee honour due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew, To live with her, and live with thee, In unreprovèd pleasures free; 40 To hear the lark begin his flight, And singing startle the dull night From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise; Then to come, in spite of sorrow, 45 And at my window bid good morrow, Through the sweet-briar, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine: While the cock, with lively din, Scatters the rear of darkness thin; 50 And to the stack, or the barn-door, Stoutly struts his dames before: Oft listening how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumbering Morn, From the side of some hoar hill, 55 Through the high wood echoing shrill: Sometimes walking, not unseen, By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate Where the great Sun begins his state, 60 Robed in flames and amber light, The clouds in thousand liveries dight; While the ploughman, near at hand, Whistles o’er the furrowed land, And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 65 And the mower whets his scythe, And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, Whilst the landscape round it measures; 70 Russet lawns, and fallows gray, Where the nibbling flocks do stray; Mountains, on whose barren breast The labouring clouds do often rest; Meadows trim with daisies pied, 75 Shallow brooks, and rivers wide: Towers and battlements it sees Bosomed high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some Beauty lies, The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes. 80 Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes, From betwixt two agèd oaks, Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met, Are at their savoury dinner set Of herbs, and other country messes, 85 Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses; And then in haste her bower she leaves, With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; Or, if the earlier season lead, To the tanned haycock in the mead. 90 Sometimes with secure delight The upland hamlets will invite, When the merry bells ring round, And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth, and many a maid, 95 Dancing in the chequered shade; And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holiday, Till the livelong daylight fail: Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 100 With stories told of many a feat, How faery Mab the junkets eat; She was pinched, and pulled, she said; And he, by friar’s lantern led, Tells how the drudging goblin sweat, 105 To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn, That ten day-labourers could not end; Then lies him down the lubbar-fiend, 110 And, stretched out all the chimney’s length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength; And crop-full out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his matin rings. Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, 115 By whispering winds soon lulled asleep. Towered cities please us then, And the busy hum of men, Where throngs of knights and barons bold, In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold, 120 With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit, or arms, while both contend To win her grace, whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear 125 In saffron robe, with taper clear, And pomp and feast and revelry, With mask and antique pageantry, Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. 130 Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson’s learnèd sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy’s child, Warble his native wood-notes wild. And ever against eating cares 135 Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse; Such as the meeting soul may pierce In notes, with many a winding bout Of linkèd sweetness long drawn out, 140 With wanton heed and giddy cunning; The melting voice through mazes running, Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony; That Orpheus’ self may heave his head 145 From golden slumber on a bed Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have quite set free His half-regained Eurydice. 150 These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live. _John Milton._

LXXXVI

_IL PENSEROSO._