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Ban and Arriere Ban: A Rally of Fugitive Rhymes
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Andrew Lang
Ban and Arriere Ban: A Rally of Fugitive Rhymes
TO
ELEANOR CHARLOTTE SELLAR
‘Ban and Arrière Ban!’ a host Broken, beaten, all unled,They return as doth a ghost From the dead.Sad or glad my rallied rhymes, Sought our dusty papers through,For the sake of other times Come to you.Times and places new we know, Faces fresh and seasons strangeBut the friends of long ago Do not change.Many of the verses in this collection have appeared in Magazines: ‘How they held the Bass’ was in ‘Blackwood’s Magazine’; the ‘Ballad of the Philanthropist’ in ‘Punch’; ‘Calais Sands’ in ‘The Magazine of Art’ (Messrs. Cassell and Co.); and others are recaptured from ‘Longman’s Magazine,’ ‘Scribner’s,’ ‘The Illustrated London News,’ ‘The English Illustrated Magazine,’ ‘Wit and Wisdom’ (lines from Omar Khayyam), ‘The St. James’s Gazette,’ and possibly other serials. Some pieces are from commendatory verses for books, as for Mr. Jacobs’s ‘Æsop’; some are from Mr. Rider Haggard’s ‘World’s Desire,’ and ‘Cleopatra,’ two are from Kirk’s ‘Secret Commonwealth’ (Nutt, 1893), and ‘Neiges d’Antan,’ are from the author’s ‘Ballads and Lyrics of Old France,’ now long out of print.
ERRATUM
Reader, a blot hath escaped the watchfulness of the setter forth: if thou wilt thou mayst amend it. The sonnet on the forty-fourth page, against all right Italianate laws, hath but thirteen lines withal: add another to thy liking, if thou art a Maker; or, if thou art none, even be content with what is set before thee. If it be scant measure, be sure it is choicely good.
A SCOT TO JEANNE D’ARC
Dark Lily without blame, Not upon us the shame,Whose sires were to the Auld Alliance true, They, by the Maiden’s side, Victorious fought and died,One stood by thee that fiery torment through, Till the White Dove from thy pure lips had passed,And thou wert with thine own St. Catherine at the last. Once only didst thou see In artist’s imagery,Thine own face painted, and that precious thing Was in an Archer’s hand From the leal Northern land.Alas, what price would not thy people bring To win that portrait of the ruinousGulf of devouring years that hide the Maid from us! Born of a lowly line, Noteless as once was thine,One of that name I would were kin to me, Who, in the Scottish Guard Won this for his reward,To fight for France, and memory of thee: Not upon us, dark Lily without blame,Not on the North may fall the shadow of that shame. On France and England both The shame of broken troth,Of coward hate and treason black must be; If England slew thee, France Sent not one word, one lance,One coin to rescue or to ransom thee. And still thy Church unto the Maid deniesThe halo and the palms, the Beatific prize. But yet thy people calls Within the rescued wallsOf Orleans; and makes its prayer to thee; What though the Church have chidden These orisons forbidden,Yet art thou with this earth’s immortal Three, With him in Athens that of hemlock died,And with thy Master dear whom the world crucified.HOW THEY HELD THE BASS FOR KING JAMES – 1691–1693
Time of Narrating – 1743Ye hae heard Whigs crack o’ the Saints in the Bass, my faith, a gruesome tale;How the Remnant paid at a tippeny rate, for a quart o’ ha’penny ale!But I’ll tell ye anither tale o’ the Bass, that’ll hearten ye up to hear,Sae I pledge ye to Middleton first in a glass, and a health to the Young Chevalier!The Bass stands frae North Berwick Law a league or less to sea,About its feet the breakers beat, abune the sea-maws flee,There’s castle stark and dungeon dark, wherein the godly lay,That made their rant for the Covenant through mony a weary day.For twal’ years lang the caverns rang wi’ preaching, prayer, and psalm,Ye’d think the winds were soughing wild, when a’ the winds were calm,There wad they preach, each Saint to each, and glower as the soldiers pass,And Peden wared his malison on a bonny leaguer lass,As she stood and daffed, while the warders laughed, and wha sae blithe as she,But a wind o’ ill worked his warlock will, and flang her out to sea.Then wha sae bright as the Saints that night, and an angel came, say they,And sang in the cell where the Righteous dwell, but he took na a Saint away.There yet might they be, for nane could flee, and nane daur’d break the jail,And still the sobbing o’ the sea might mix wi’ their warlock wail,But then came in black echty-echt, and bluidy echty-nine,Wi’ Cess, and Press, and Presbytery, and a’ the dule sin’ syne,The Saints won free wi’ the power o’ the key, and cavaliers maun pine!It was Halyburton, Middleton, and Roy and young Dunbar,That Livingstone took on Cromdale haughs, in the last fight of the war:And they were warded in the Bass, till the time they should be slain,Where bluidy Mitchell, and Blackader, and Earlston lang had lain;Four lads alone, ’gainst a garrison, but Glory crowns their names,For they brought it to pass that they took the Bass, and they held it for King James!It isna by preaching half the night, ye’ll burst a dungeon door,It wasna by dint o’ psalmody they broke the hold, they four,For lang years three that rock in the sea bade Wullie Wanbeard gae swing,And England and Scotland fause may be, but the Bass Rock stands for the King!There’s but ae pass gangs up the Bass, it’s guarded wi’ strong gates four,And still as the soldiers went to the sea, they steikit them, door by door,And this did they do when they helped a crew that brought their coals on shore.Thither all had gone, save three men alone: then Middleton gripped his man,Halyburton felled the sergeant lad, Dunbar seized the gunner, Swan;Roy bound their hands, in hempen bands, and the Cavaliers were free.And they trained the guns on the soldier loons that were down wi’ the boat by the sea!Then Middleton cried frae the high cliff-side, and his voice garr’d the auld rocks ring,‘Will ye stand or flee by the land or sea, for I hold the Bass for the King?’They had nae desire to face the fire; it was mair than men might do,So they e’en sailed back in the auld coal-smack, a sorry and shame-faced crew,And they hirpled doun to Edinburgh toun, wi’ the story of their shames,How the prisoners bold had broken hold, and kept the Bass for King James.King James he has sent them guns and men, and the Whigs they guard the Bass,But they never could catch the Cavaliers, who took toll of ships that pass,They fared wild and free as the birds o’ the sea, and at night they went on the wing,And they lifted the kye o’ Whigs far and nigh, and they revelled and drank to the King.Then Wullie Wanbeard sends his ships to siege the Bass in form,And first shall they break the fortress down, and syne the Rock they’ll storm.After twa days’ fight they fled in the night, and glad eneuch to go,With their rigging rent, and their powder spent, and many a man laid low.So for lang years three did they sweep the sea, but a closer watch was set,Till nae food had they, but twa ounce a day o’ meal was the maist they’d get.And men fight but tame on an empty wame, so they sent a flag o’ truce,And blithe were the Privy Council then, when the Whigs had heard that news.Twa Lords they sent wi’ a strang intent to be dour on each Cavalier,But wi’ French cakes fine, and his last drap o’ wine, did Middleton make them cheer,On the muzzles o’ guns he put coats and caps, and he set them aboot the wa’s,And the Whigs thocht then he had food and men to stand for the Rightfu’ Cause.So he got a’ he craved, and his men were saved, and nane might say them nay,Wi’ sword by side, and flag o’ pride, free men might they gang their way,They might fare to France, they might bide at hame, and the better their grace to buy,Wullie Wanbeard’s purse maun pay the keep o’ the men that did him defy!Men never hae gotten sic terms o’ peace since first men went to war,As got Halyburton, and Middleton, and Roy, and the young Dunbar.Sae I drink to ye here, To the Young Chevalier! I hae said ye an auld man’s say,And there may hae been mightier deeds of arms, but there never was nane sae gay!THREE PORTRAITS OF PRINCE CHARLES
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 glenAnd 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.FROM OMAR KHAYYAM
RHYMED FROM THE PROSE VERSION OFMR. JUSTIN HUNTLY M‘CARTHYThe Paradise they bid us fast to winHath Wine and Women; is it then a sin To live as we shall live in Paradise,And make a Heaven of Earth, ere Heaven begin?The wise may search the world from end to end,From dusty nook to dusty nook, my friend, And nothing better find than girls and wine,Of all the things they neither make nor mend.Nay, listen thou who, walking on Life’s way,Hast seen no lovelock of thy love’s grow grey Listen, and love thy life, and let the WheelOf Heaven go spinning its own wilful way.Man is a flagon, and his soul the wine,Man is a lamp, wherein the Soul doth shine, Man is a shaken reed, wherein that wind,The Soul, doth ever rustle and repine.Each morn I say, to-night I will repent,Repent! and each night go the way I went — The way of Wine; but now that reigns the rose,Lord of Repentance, rage not, but relent.I wish to drink of wine – so deep, so deep —The scent of wine my sepulchre shall steep, And they, the revellers by Omar’s tomb,Shall breathe it, and in Wine shall fall asleep.Before the rent walls of a ruined townLay the King’s skull, whereby a bird flew down ‘And where,’ he sang, ‘is all thy clash of arms?Where the sonorous trumps of thy renown?’ÆSOP
He sat among the woods, he heard The sylvan merriment: he sawThe pranks of butterfly and bird, The humours of the ape, the daw.And in the lion or the frog — In all the life of moor and fen,In ass and peacock, stork and dog, He read similitudes of men.‘Of these, from those,’ he cried, ‘we come, Our hearts, our brains descend from these.’And lo! the Beasts no more were dumb, But answered out of brakes and trees:‘Not ours,’ they cried; ‘Degenerate, If ours at all,’ they cried again,‘Ye fools, who war with God and Fate, Who strive and toil: strange race of men.‘For we are neither bond nor free, For we have neither slaves nor kings,But near to Nature’s heart are we, And conscious of her secret things.‘Content are we to fall asleep, And well content to wake no more,We do not laugh, we do not weep, Nor look behind us and before;‘But were there cause for moan or mirth, ’Tis we, not you, should sigh or scorn,Oh, latest children of the Earth, Most childish children Earth has borne.’* * *They spoke, but that misshapen slave Told never of the thing he heard,And unto men their portraits gave, In likenesses of beast and bird!LES ROSES DE SÂDI
This morning I vowed I would bring thee my Roses,They were thrust in the band that my bodice encloses,But the breast-knots were broken, the Roses went free.The breast-knots were broken; the Roses togetherFloated forth on the wings of the wind and the weather,And they drifted afar down the streams of the sea.And the sea was as red as when sunset uncloses,But my raiment is sweet from the scent of the Roses,Thou shalt know, Love, how fragrant a memory can be.THE HAUNTED TOWER
SUGGESTED BY A POEM OF THÉOPHILE GAUTIERIn front he saw the donjon tall Deep in the woods, and stayed to scanThe guards that slept along the wall, Or dozed upon the bartizan.He marked the drowsy flag that hung Unwaved by wind, unfrayed by shower,He listened to the birds that sung Go forth and win the haunted tower!The tangled brake made way for him, The twisted brambles bent aside;And lo, he pierced the forest dim, And lo, he won the fairy bride!For he was young, but ah! we find, All we, whose beards are flecked with grey,Our fairy castle’s far behind, We watch it from the darkling way:’Twas ours, that palace, in our youth, We revelled there in happy cheer:Who scarce dare visit now in sooth, Le Vieux Château de Souvenir!For not the boughs of forest green Begird that castle far away,There is a mist where we have been That weeps about it, cold and grey.And if we seek to travel back ’Tis through a thicket dim and sere,With many a grave beside the track, And many a haunting form of fear.Dead leaves are wet among the moss, With weed and thistle overgrown —A ruined barge within the fosse, A castle built of crumbling stone!The drawbridge drops from rusty chains, There comes no challenge from the hold;No squire, nor dame, nor knight remains, Of all who dwelt with us of old.And there is silence in the hall No sound of songs, no ray of fire;But gloom where all was glad, and all Is darkened with a vain desire.And every picture’s fading fast, Of fair Jehanne, or Cydalise.Lo, the white shadows hurrying past, Below the boughs of dripping trees!* * *Ah rise, and march, and look not back, Now the long way has brought us here;We may not turn and seek the track To the old Château de Souvenir!BOAT-SONG
Adrift, with starlit skies above, With starlit seas below,We move with all the suns that move, With all the seas that flow:For, bond or free, earth, sky, and sea, Wheel with one central will,And thy heart drifteth on to me, And only Time stands still.Between two shores of death we drift, Behind are things forgot,Before, the tide is racing swift To shores man knoweth not.Above, the sky is far and cold, Below, the moaning seaSweeps o’er the loves that were of old, But thou, Love, love thou me.Ah, lonely are the ocean ways, And dangerous the deep,And frail the fairy barque that strays Above the seas asleep.Ah, toil no more with helm or oar, We drift, or bond or free,On yon far shore the breakers roar, But thou, Love, love thou me!LOST LOVE
Who wins his Love shall lose her, Who loses her shall gain,For still the spirit woos her, A soul without a stain;And Memory still pursues her With longings not in vain!He loses her who gains her, Who watches day by dayThe dust of time that stains her, The griefs that leave her grey,The flesh that yet enchains her Whose grace hath passed away!Oh, happier he who gains not The Love some seem to gain:The joy that custom stains not Shall still with him remain,The loveliness that wanes not, The Love that ne’er can wane.In dreams she grows not older The lands of Dream among,Though all the world wax colder, Though all the songs be sung,In dreams doth he behold her Still fair and kind and young.THE PROMISE OF HELEN
Whom hast thou longed for most, True love of mine?Whom hast thou loved and lost? Lo, she is thine!She that another wed Breaks from her vow;She that hath long been dead Wakes for thee now.Dreams haunt the hapless bed, Ghosts haunt the night,Life crowns her living head, Love and Delight.Nay, not a dream nor ghost, Nay, but Divine,She that was loved and lost Waits to be thine!THE RESTORATION OF ROMANCE
TO H. R. H., R. L. S., A. C. D., AND S. WKing Romance was wounded deep, All his knights were dead and gone,All his court was fallen on sleep, In a vale of Avalon!Nay, men said, he will not come, Any night or any morn.Nay, his puissant voice is dumb, Silent his enchanted horn!King Romance was forfeited, Banished from his Royal home,With a price upon his head, Driven with sylvan folk to roam.King Romance is fallen, banned, Cried his foemen overbold,Broken is the wizard wand, All the stories have been told!Then you came from South and North, From Tugela, from the Tweed,Blazoned his achievements forth, King Romance is come indeed!All his foes are overthrown, All their wares cast out in scorn,King Romance hath won his own, And the lands where he was born!Marsac at adventure rides, Felon men meet felon scathe,Micah Clarke is taking sides For King Monmouth and the Faith;For a Cause or for a lass Men are willing to be slain,And the dungeons of the Bass Hold a prisoner again.King Romance with wand of gold Sways the realms he ruled of yore.Hills Dalgetty roamed of old, Valleys of enchanted Kôr:Waves his sceptre o’er the isles, Claims the pirates’ treasuries,Through innumerable miles Of the siren-haunted seas!Elfin folk of coast and cave, Laud him in the woven dance,All the tribes of wold and wave Bow the knee to King Romance!Wand’ring voices Chaucer knew On the mountain and the main,Cry the haunted forest through, King Romance has come again!CENTRAL AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES
IN SOUTH KENSINGTON MUSEUM‘Youth and crabbed age Cannot live together;’ So they say.On this little page See you when and whether That they may.Age was very old — Stones from Chichimec Hardly wrung;Youth had hair of gold Knotted on her neck — Fair and young!Age was carved with odd Slaves, and priests that slew them — God and Beast;Man and Beast and God — There she sat and drew them, King and Priest!There she sat and drew Many a monstrous head And antique;Horrors from Peru, Huacas doubly dead, Dead cacique!Ere Pizarro came These were lords of men Long ago;Gods without a name, Born or how or when, None may know!Now from Yucatan These doth Science bear Over seas;And methinks a man Finds youth doubly fair, Sketching these!ON CALAIS SANDS
On Calais Sands the grey began, Then rosy red above the grey,The morn with many a scarlet van Leap’d, and the world was glad with May!The little waves along the bay Broke white upon the shelving strands;The sea-mews flitted white as they On Calais Sands!On Calais Sands must man with man Wash honour clean in blood to-day;On spaces wet from waters wan How white the flashing rapiers play,Parry, riposte! and lunge! The fray Shifts for a while, then mournful standsThe Victor: life ebbs fast away On Calais Sands!On Calais Sands a little space Of silence, then the plash and spray,The sound of eager waves that ran To kiss the perfumed locks astray,To touch these lips that ne’er said ‘Nay,’ To dally with the helpless hands;Till the deep sea in silence lay On Calais Sands!Between the lilac and the may She waits her love from alien lands;Her love is colder than the clay On Calais Sands!BALLADE OF YULE
This life’s most jolly, Amiens said, Heigh-ho, the Holly! So sang he.As the good Duke was comforted In forest exile, so may we!The years may darken as they flee, And Christmas bring his melancholy:But round the old mahogany tree We drink, we sing Heigh-ho, the Holly!Though some are dead and some are fled To lands of summer over sea,The holly berry keeps his red, The merry children keep their glee;They hoard with artless secresy This gift for Maude, and that for Molly,And Santa Claus he turns the key On Christmas Eve, Heigh-ho, the Holly!Amid the snow the birds are fed, The snow lies deep on lawn and lea,The skies are shining overhead, The robin’s tame that was so free.Far North, at home, the ‘barley bree’ They brew; they give the hour to folly,How ‘Rab and Allan cam to pree,’ They sing, we sing Heigh-ho, the Holly!ENVOIFriend, let us pay the wonted fee, The yearly tithe of mirth: be jolly!It is a duty so to be, Though half we sigh, Heigh-ho, the Holly!POSCIMUR
FROM HORACEHush, for they call! If in the shade,My lute, we twain have idly strayed,And song for many a season made, Once more reply;Once more we’ll play as we have played, My lute and I!Roman the song: the strain you know,The Lesbian wrought it long ago.Now singing as he charged the foe, Now in the bay,Where safe in the shore-water’s flow His galleys lay.So sang he Bacchus and the Nine,And Venus and her boy divine,And Lycus of the dusky eyne, The dusky hair;So shalt thou sing, ah, Lute of mine, Of all things fair;Apollo’s glory! Sounding shell,Thou lute, to Jove desirable,When soft thine accents sigh and swell At festival —Delight more dear than words can tell, Attend my call!ON HIS DEAD SEA-MEW
I
Bird of the graces, dear sea-mew, whose note Was like the halcyon’s song,In death thy wings and thy sweet spirit float Still paths of the night along!II
THE SAILOR’S GRAVE
Tomb of a shipwrecked seafarer am I, But thou, sail on!For homeward safe did other vessels fly, Though we were gone.FROM MELEAGER
I love not the wine-cup, but if thou art fain I should drink, do thou taste it, and bring it to me;If it touch but thy lips it were hard to refrain, It were hard from the sweet maid who bears it to flee;For the cup ferries over the kisses, and plain Does it speak of the grace that was given it by thee.ON THE GARLAND SENT TO RHODOCLEIA
GOLDEN EYES
‘Ah, Golden Eyes, to win you yet,I bring mine April coronet,The lovely blossoms of the spring,For you I weave, to you I bringThese roses with the lilies set,The dewy dark-eyed violet,Narcissus, and the wind-flower wet:Wilt thou disdain mine offering? Ah, Golden Eyes!Crowned with thy lover’s flowers, forgetThe pride wherein thy heart is set,For thou, like these or anything,Has but a moment of thy spring,Thy spring, and then – the long regret! Ah, Golden Eyes!’A GALLOWAY GARLAND
We know not, on these hills of ours, The fabled asphodel of Greece,That filleth with immortal flowers Fields where the heroes are at peace! Not ours are myrtle buds like theseThat breathe o’er isles where memories dwell Of Sappho, in enchanted seas!We meet not, on our upland moor, The singing Maid of Helicon,You may not hear her music pure Float on the mountain meres withdrawn; The Muse of Greece, the Muse is gone!But we have songs that please us well And flowers we love to look upon.More sweet than Southern myrtles far The bruised Marsh-myrtle breatheth keen;Parnassus names the flower, the star, That shines among the well-heads green The bright Marsh-asphodels between —Marsh-myrtle and Marsh-asphodel May crown the Northern Muse a queenCELIA’S EYES
PASTICHETell me not that babies dwell In the deeps of Celia’s eyes;Cupid in each hazel well Scans his beauties with surprise, And would, like Narcissus, drown In my Celia’s eyes of brown.Tell me not that any goes Safe by that enchanted place;Eros dwells with Anteros In the garden of her Face, Where like friends who late were foes Meet the white and crimson Rose.
