Kitabı oku: «New Collected Rhymes», sayfa 2

The Prince’s Birthday

Rome, 31st December, 1721

(A new-born star shone, which is figured on an early Medal of Prince Charles.)

 
      A wonderful star shone forth
      From the frozen skies of the North
Upon Rome, for an Old Year’s night:
      And a flower on the dear white Rose
      Broke, in the season of snows,
To bloom for a day’s delight.
 
 
      Lost is the star in the night,
      And the Rose of a day’s delight
Fled “where the roses go”:
      But the fragrance and light from afar,
      Born of the Rose and the Star,
Breathe o’er the years and the snow.
 

The Tenth of June, 1715

(Being a Song writ for a lady born on June 10th, the birthday of his Most Sacred Majesty King James III. and VIII.)

 
Day of the King and the flower!
   And the girl of my heart’s delight,
The blackbird sings in the bower,
   And the nightingale sings in the night
   A song to the roses white.
 
 
Day of the flower and the King!
   When shall the sails of white
Shine on the seas and bring
   In the day, in the dawn, in the night,
   The King to his land and his right?
 
 
Day of my love and my may,
   After the long years’ flight,
Born on the King’s birthday,
   Born for my heart’s delight,
   With the dawn of the roses white!
 
 
Black as the blackbird’s wing
   Is her hair, and her brow as white
As the white rose blossoming,
   And her eyes as the falcon’s bright
   And her heart is leal to the right.
 
 
When shall the joy bells ring?
   When shall the hours unite
The right with the might of my King,
   And my heart with my heart’s delight;
   In the dawn, in the day, in the night?
 

White Rose Day

June 10, 1688

 
’Twas a day of faith and flowers,
   Of honour that could not die,
Of Hope that counted the hours,
   Of sorrowing Loyalty:
And the Blackbird sang in the closes,
   The Blackbird piped in the spring,
For the day of the dawn of the Roses,
   The dawn of the day of the King!
 
 
White roses over the heather,
   And down by the Lowland lea,
And far in the faint blue weather,
   A white sail guessed on the sea!
But the deep night gathers and closes,
   Shall ever a morning bring
The lord of the leal white roses,
   The face of the rightful King?
 

Red and White Roses

 
Red roses under the sun
   For the King who is lord of land;
But he dies when his day is done,
For his memory careth none
   When the glass runs empty of sand.
 
 
White roses under the moon
   For the King without lands to give;
But he reigns with the reign of June,
With the rose and the Blackbird’s tune,
   And he lives while Faith shall live.
 
 
Red roses for beef and beer;
   Red roses for wine and gold;
But they drank of the water clear,
In exile and sorry cheer,
   To the kings of our sires of old.
 
 
Red roses for wealth and might;
   White roses for hopes that flee;
And the dreams of the day and the night,
For the Lord of our heart’s delight —
   For the King that is o’er the sea.
 

The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond

1746

 
There’s an ending o’ the dance, and fair Morag’s safe in France,
And the Clans they hae paid the lawing,
And the wuddy has her ain, and we twa are left alane,
Free o’ Carlisle gaol in the dawing.
 
 
      So ye’ll tak the high road, and I’ll tak the laigh road,
      An’ I’ll be in Scotland before ye:
      But me and my true love will never meet again,
      By the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond.
 
 
For my love’s heart brake in twa, when she kenned the Cause’s fa’,
And she sleeps where there’s never nane shall waken,
Where the glen lies a’ in wrack, wi’ the houses toom and black,
And her father’s ha’s forsaken.
 
 
While there’s heather on the hill shall my vengeance ne’er be still,
While a bush hides the glint o’ a gun, lad;
Wi’ the men o’ Sergeant Môr shall I work to pay the score,
Till I wither on the wuddy in the sun, lad!
 
 
      So ye’ll tak the high road, and I’ll tak the laigh road,
      An’ I’ll be in Scotland before ye:
      But me and my true love will never meet again,
      By the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond.
 

Kenmure

1715

 
“The heather’s in a blaze, Willie,
   The White Rose decks the tree,
The Fiery Cross is on the braes,
   And the King is on the sea!
 
 
“Remember great Montrose, Willie,
   Remember fair Dundee,
And strike one stroke at the foreign foes
   Of the King that’s on the sea.
 
 
“There’s Gordons in the North, Willie,
   Are rising frank and free,
Shall a Kenmure Gordon not go forth
   For the King that’s on the sea?
 
 
“A trusty sword to draw, Willie,
   A comely weird to dree,
For the Royal Rose that’s like the snaw,
   And the King that’s on the sea!”
 
 
He cast ae look across his lands,
   Looked over loch and lea,
He took his fortune in his hands,
   For the King was on the sea.
 
 
Kenmures have fought in Galloway
   For Kirk and Presbyt’rie,
This Kenmure faced his dying day,
   For King James across the sea.
 
 
It little skills what faith men vaunt,
   If loyal men they be
To Christ’s ain Kirk and Covenant,
   Or the King that’s o’er the sea.
 

Culloden

 
Dark, dark was the day when we looked on Culloden
   And chill was the mist drop that clung to the tree,
The oats of the harvest hung heavy and sodden,
   No light on the land and no wind on the sea.
 
 
There was wind, there was rain, there was fire on their faces,
   When the clans broke the bayonets and died on the guns,
And ’tis Honour that watches the desolate places
   Where they sleep through the change of the snows and the suns.
 
 
Unfed and unmarshalled, outworn and outnumbered,
   All hopeless and fearless, as fiercely they fought,
As when Falkirk with heaps of the fallen was cumbered,
   As when Gledsmuir was red with the havoc they wrought.
 
 
Ah, woe worth you, Sleat, and the faith that you vowed,
   Ah, woe worth you, Lovat, Traquair, and Mackay;
And woe on the false fairy flag of Macleod,
   And the fat squires who drank, but who dared not to die!
 
 
Where the graves of Clan Chattan are clustered together,
   Where Macgillavray died by the Well of the Dead,
We stooped to the moorland and plucked the pale heather
   That blooms where the hope of the Stuart was sped.
 
 
And a whisper awoke on the wilderness, sighing,
   Like the voice of the heroes who battled in vain,
“Not for Tearlach alone the red claymore was plying,
   But to bring back the old life that comes not again.”
 

The Last of the Leal

December 31, 1787

 
Here’s a health to every man
   Bore the brunt of wind and weather;
Winnowed sore by Fortune’s fan,
Faded faith of chief and clan:
   Nairne and Caryl stand together;
Here’s a health to every man
   Bore the brunt of wind and weather!
 
 
Oh, round Charlie many ran,
   When his foot was on the heather,
When his sword shone in the van.
Now at ending of his span,
   Gask and Caryl stand together!
 
 
Ne’er a hope from plot or plan,
   Ne’er a hope from rose or heather;
Ay, the King’s a broken man;
Few will bless, and most will ban.
   Nairne and Caryl stand together!
 
 
Help is none from Crown or clan,
   France is false, a fluttered feather;
But Kings are not made by man,
Till God end what God began,
   Nairne and Caryl stand together,
   Gask and Caryl stand together;
Here’s a health to every man
   Bore the brunt of wind and weather!