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The Blue Poetry Book
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JOCK OF HAZELDEAN
I‘Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?Why weep ye by the tide?I’ll wed ye to my youngest son,And ye sall be his bride:And ye sall be his bride, ladie,Sae comely to be seen’ —But aye she loot the tears down fa’For Jock of Hazeldean.II‘Now let this wilfu’ grief be done,And dry that cheek so pale;Young Frank is chief of Errington,And lord of Langley-dale;His step is first in peaceful ha’,His sword in battle keen’ —But aye she loot the tears down fa’For Jock of Hazeldean.III‘A chain of gold ye sall not lack,Nor braid to bind your hair;Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,Nor palfrey fresh and fair;And you, the foremost o’ them a’,Shall ride our forest queen’ —But aye she loot the tears down fa’For Jock of Hazeldean.IVThe kirk was deck’d at morning-tide,The tapers glimmer’d fair;The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,And dame and knight are there.They sought her baith by bower and ha’The ladie was not seen!She’s o’er the Border, and awa’Wi’ Jock of Hazeldean.Sir W. Scott.THE RECOLLECTION
We wander’d to the pine forestThat skirts the ocean’s foam;The lightest wind was in its nest,The tempest in its home.The whispering waves were half asleep,The clouds were gone to play,And on the bosom of the deepThe smile of heaven lay;It seem’d as if the hour were oneSent from beyond the skies,Which scatter’d from above the sunA light of paradise!We paused amid the pines that stoodThe giants of the waste,Tortured by storms to shapes as rudeAs serpents interlaced,And soothed, by every azure breathThat under heaven is blown,To harmonies and hues beneath,As tender as its own;Now all the tree-tops lay asleepLike green waves on the sea,As still as in the silent deepThe ocean woods may be.How calm it was! – the silence thereBy such a chain was boundThat even the busy woodpeckerMade stiller by her soundThe inviolable quietness;The breath of peace we drewWith its soft motion made not lessThe calm that round us grew.There seemed, from the remotest seatOf the white mountain wasteTo the soft flower beneath our feet,A magic circle traced, —A spirit interfused around,A thrilling silent life:To momentary peace it boundOur mortal nature’s strife.And still, I felt, the centre ofThe magic circle thereWas one fair form that fill’d with loveThe lifeless atmosphere.We paused beside the pools that lieUnder the forest bough.Each seem’d as ’twere a little skyGulf’d in a world below:A firmament of purple lightWhich in the dark earth lay,More boundless than the depth of nightAnd purer than the day —In which the lovely forests grewAs in the upper air,More perfect both in shape and hueThan any spreading there.There lay the glade, the neighbouring lawn,And through the dark-green woodThe white sun twinkling like the dawnOut of a speckled cloud.Sweet views which in our world aboveCan never well be seenWere imaged by the water’s loveOf that fair forest green;And all was interfused beneathWith an Elysian glow,An atmosphere without a breath,A softer day below.Like one beloved, the scene had lentTo the dark water’s breastIts every leaf and lineamentWith more than truth exprest;Until an envious wind crept by, —Like an unwelcome thoughtWhich from the mind’s too faithful eyeBlots one dear image out.Though Thou art ever fair and kind,And forests ever green,Less oft is peace in Shelley’s mindThan calm in waters seen.P. B. Shelley.AULD ROBIN GRAY
When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame,And a’ the warld to rest are gane,The waes o’ my heart fa’ in showers frae my e’e,While my gudeman lies sound by me.Young Jamie lo’ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;But saving a croun he had naething else beside:To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;And the croun and the pund were baith for me.He hadna been awa’ a week but only twa,When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa’;My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea —And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin’ me.My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;I toil’d day and night, but their bread I couldna win;Auld Rob maintain’d them baith, and wi’ tears in his e’eSaid, ‘Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!’My heart it said nay; I look’d for Jamie back;But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrackHis ship it was a wrack – why didna Jamie dee,Or why do I live to cry, Wae’s me?My father urgit sair: my mother didna speak;But she look’d in my face till my heart was like to break:They gi’ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea:Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.I hadna been a wife a week but only four,When mournfu’ as I sat on the stane at the door,I saw my Jamie’s wraith, for I couldna think it he —Till he said, ‘I’m come hame to marry thee.’– O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away:I wish that I were dead, but I’m no like to dee;And why was I born to say, Wae’s me!I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;But I’ll do my best a gude wife aye to be,For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.Lady A. Lindsay.WILLIE DROWNED IN YARROW
Down in yon garden sweet and gayWhere bonnie grows the lily,I heard a fair maid sighing say,’My wish be wi’ sweet Willie!’Willie’s rare, and Willie’s fair,And Willie’s wondrous bonny;And Willie hecht to marry meGin e’er he married ony.’O gentle wind, that bloweth south,From where my Love repaireth,Convey a kiss frae his dear mouthAnd tell me how he fareth!’O tell sweet Willie to come dounAnd hear the mavis singing,And see the birds on ilka bushAnd leaves around them hinging’The lav’rock there, wi’ her white breastAnd gentle throat sae narrow:There’s sport eneuch for gentlemenOn Leader-haughs and Yarrow.’O Leader-haughs are wide and braidAnd Yarrow-haughs are bonny;There Willie hecht to marry meIf e’er he married ony.’But Willie’s gone, whom I thought on,And does not hear me weeping;Draws many a tear frae true love’s e’eWhen other maids are sleeping.’O came ye by yon water-side?Pou’d you the rose or lily?Or came you by yon meadow green,Or saw you my sweet Willie?’She sought him up, she sought him down,She sought him braid and narrow;Syne, in the cleaving of a craig,She found him drown’d in Yarrow!Unknown.THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heardIn the silence of morning the song of the Bird.’Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She seesA mountain ascending, a vision of trees;Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,Down which she so often has tripped with her pail;And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove’s,The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade.The mist and the river, the hill and the shade:The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,And the colours have all passed away from her eyes!W. Wordsworth.THE ARMADA
A FRAGMENTAttend, all ye who list to hear our noble England’s praise;I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days,When that great fleet invincible against her bore in vainThe richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain.It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day,There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth Bay;Her crew hath seen Castile’s black fleet, beyond Aurigny’s isle,At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile.At sunrise she escaped their van, by God’s especial grace;And the tall ‘Pinta,’ till the noon, had held her close in chase.Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall;The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbe’s lofty hall;Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the coast,And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland many a post.With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes;Behind him march the halberdiers; before him sound the drums;His yeomen round the market cross make clear an ample space;For there behoves him to set up the standard of Her Grace.And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bellsAs slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells.Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown,And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down.So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field,Bohemia’s plume, and Genoa’s bow, and Cæsar’s eagle shield.So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he turned to bay,And crushed and torn beneath his claws the princely hunters lay.Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight: ho! scatter flowers, fairmaids: Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute: ho! gallants, draw your blades:Thou sun, shine on her joyously; ye breezes, waft her wide;Our glorious Semper Eadem, the banner of our pride.The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner’s massy fold;The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold;Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea,Such night in England ne’er had been, nor e’er again shall be.From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay,That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day;For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly war-flame spread,High on St. Michael’s Mount it shone: it shone on Beachy Head.Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire,Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire.The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar’s glittering waves:The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip’s sunless caves!O’er Longleat’s towers, o’er Cranbourne’s oaks, the fiery herald flew:He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the rangers of Beaulieu.Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town,And ere the day three hundred horse had met on Clifton down;The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the night,And saw o’erhanging Richmond Hill the streak of blood-red light,Then bugle’s note and cannon’s roar the deathlike silence broke,And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke.At once on all her stately gates arose the answering fires;At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires;From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear;And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer;And from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet,And the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed down each roaring street;And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din,As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in:And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the warlike errand went,And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires of Kent.Southward from Surrey’s pleasant hills flew those bright couriers forth;High on bleak Hampstead’s swarthy moor they started for the north;And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still:All night from tower to tower they sprang; they sprang from hill to hill:Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o’er Darwin’s rocky dales,Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales,Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern’s lonely height,Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin’s crest of light,Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely’s stately fane,And tower and hamlet rose in arms o’er all the boundless plain;Till Belvoir’s lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent,And Lincoln sped the message on o’er the wide vale of Trent;Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt’s embattled pile,And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.…Lord Macaulay.MARY AMBREE
When captaines couragious, whom death cold not daunte,Did march to the siege of the citty of Gaunt,They mustred their souldiers by two and by three,And the formost in battle was Mary Ambree.When the brave sergeant-major was slaine in her sight,Who was her true lover, her joy, and delight,Because he was slaine most treacherouslieThen vowd to revenge him Mary Ambree.She clothed herselfe from the top to the toeIn buffe of the bravest, most seemelye to showe;A faire shirt of mail then slipped on shee:Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?A helmett of proofe shee strait did provide,A stronge arminge-sword shee girt by her side,On her hand a goodly faire gauntlett put shee:Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?Then tooke shee her sworde and her targett in hand,Bidding all such, as wold, to bee of her band;To wayte on her person came thousand and three:Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?‘My soldiers,’ she saith, ‘soe valliant and bold,Nowe followe your captaine, whom you doe beholde;Still formost in battell myselfe will I bee:’Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?Then cryed out her souldiers, and loude they did say,‘Soe well thou becomest this gallant array,Thy harte and thy weapons so well do agree,Noe mayden was ever like Mary Ambree.’She cheared her souldiers, that foughten for life.With ancyent and standard, with drum and with fife,With brave clanging trumpetts, that sounded so free;Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?‘Before I will see the worst of you allTo come into danger of death or of thrall,This hand and this life I will venture so free:’Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?Shee ledd upp her souldiers in battaile array,Gainst three times theyr number by breake of the daye;Seven howers in skirmish continued shee:Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?She filled the skyes with the smoke of her shott,And her enemyes bodyes with bulletts so hott;For one of her owne men a score killed shee:Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?And when her false gunner, to spoyle her intent,Away all her pellets and powder had sent,Straight with her keen weapon she slasht him in three:Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?Being falselye betrayed for lucre of hyre,At length she was forced to make a retyre;Then her souldiers into a strong castle drew shee:Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?Her foes they besett her on everye side,As thinking close siege shee cold never abide;To beate down the walles they all did decree:But stoutlye deffyd them brave Mary Ambree.Then tooke shee her sword and her targett in hand,And mounting the walls all undaunted did stand,There daring their captaines to match any three:O what a brave captaine was Mary Ambree!‘Now saye, English captaine, what woldest thou giveTo ransome thy selfe, which else must not live?Come yield thy selfe quicklye, or slaine thou must bee:’Then smiled sweetlye brave Mary Ambree.‘Ye captaines couragious, of valour so bold,Whom thinke you before you now you doe behold?’‘A knight, sir, of England, and captaine soe free,Who shortlye with us a prisoner must bee.’‘No captaine of England; behold in your sightTwo brests in my bosome, and therefore no knight:Noe knight, sirs, of England, nor captaine you see,But a poor simple mayden called Mary Ambree.’‘But art thou a woman, as thou dost declare,Whose valor hath proved so undaunted in warre?If England doth yield such brave maydens as thee,Full well may they conquer, faire Mary Ambree.’The Prince of Great Parma heard of her renowne,Who long had advanced for England’s fair crowne;Hee wooed her and sued her his mistress to bee,And offered rich presents to Mary Ambree.But this virtuous mayden despised them all:‘’Ile nere sell my honour for purple nor pall;A mayden of England, sir, never will beeThe wench of a monarcke,’ quoth Mary Ambree.Then to her owne country shee backe did returne,Still holding the foes of faire England in scorne;Therfore English captaines of every degreeSing forth the brave valours of Mary Ambree.Reliques of Ancient English Poetry.ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA
You meaner beauties of the night,Which poorly satisfy our eyesMore by your number than your light,You common-people of the skies,What are you when the Moon shall rise?Ye violets that first appear,By your pure purple mantles known,Like the proud virgins of the year,As if the spring were all your own, —What are you when the Rose is blown?Ye curious chanters of the wood,That warble forth dame Nature’s lays,Thinking your passions understoodBy your weak accents; what’s your praiseWhen Philomel her voice doth raise?So when my Mistress shall be seenIn form and beauty of her mind,By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,Tell me, if she were not design’dTh’ eclipse and glory of her kind?Sir H. Wotton.CHERRY RIPE
There is a garden in her faceWhere roses and white lilies blow;A heavenly paradise is that place,Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;There cherries grow that none may buy,Till Cherry Ripe themselves do cry.Those cherries fairly do encloseOf orient pearl a double row,Which when her lovely laughter shows,They look like rose-buds fill’d with snow:Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,Till Cherry Ripe themselves do cry.Her eyes like angels watch them still;Her brows like bended bows do stand,Threat’ning with piercing frowns to killAll that approach with eye or hand,These sacred cherries to come nigh,– Till Cherry Ripe themselves do cry!Anon.MORNING
Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,With night we banish sorrow,Sweet air blow soft, mount Lark aloftTo give my Love good-morrow.Wings from the wind, to please her mind,Notes from the Lark I’ll borrow;Bird prune thy wing, Nightingale sing,To give my Love good-morrow;To give my Love good-morrowNotes from them all I’ll borrow.Wake from thy nest, Robin Red-breast,Sing birds in every furrow,And from each hill, let music shrill,Give my fair Love good-morrow:Black-bird and thrush, in every bush,Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!You pretty elves, amongst yourselvesSing my fair Love good-morrow.To give my Love good-morrowSing birds in every furrow.T. Heywood.DEATH THE LEVELLER
The glories of our blood and stateAre shadows, not substantial things;There is no armour against fate;Death lays his icy hand on kings:Sceptre and CrownMust tumble down,And in the dust be equal madeWith the poor crooked scythe and spade.Some men with swords may reap the field,And plant fresh laurels where they kill;But their strong nerves at last must yield;They tame but one another still:Early or lateThey stoop to fate,And must give up their murmuring breath,When they, pale captives, creep to death.The garlands wither on your brow,Then boast no more your mighty deeds;Upon Death’s purple altar now,See where the victor-victim bleeds:Your heads must comeTo the cold tomb,Only the actions of the justSmell sweet, and blossom in their dust.J. Shirley.ANNAN WATER
Annan Water’s wading deep,And my Love Annie’s wondrous bonny;And I am loath she should wet her feet,Because I love her best of ony.’He’s loupen on his bonny gray,He rode the right gate and the ready;For all the storm he wadna stay,For seeking of his bonny lady.And he has ridden o’er field and fell,Through moor, and moss, and many a mire;His spurs of steel were sair to bide,And from her four feet flew the fire.‘My bonny gray, now play your part!If ye be the steed that wins my dearie,With corn and hay ye’ll be fed for aye,And never spur shall make you wearie.’The gray was a mare, and a right gude mare,But when she wan the Annan Water,She could not have ridden the ford that nightHad a thousand merks been wadded at her.‘O boatman, boatman, put off your boat,Put off your boat for golden money!’But for all the gold in fair Scotland,He dared not take him through to Annie.‘O I was sworn so late yestreen,Not by a single oath, but mony!I’ll cross the drumly stream to-night,Or never could I face my honey.’The side was stey, and the bottom deep,From bank to brae the water pouring;The bonny gray mare she swat for fear,For she heard the water-kelpy roaring.He spurr’d her forth into the flood,I wot she swam both strong and steady;But the stream was broad, and her strength did fail,And he never saw his bonny lady!Unknown.TO A WATERFOWL
Whither, ’midst falling dew,While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursueThy solitary way?Vainly the fowler’s eyeMight mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,Thy figure floats along.Seek’st thou the plashy brinkOf weedy lake, or marge of river wide,Or where the rocking billows rise and sinkOn the chafed ocean side?There is a Power whose careTeaches thy way along that pathless coast, —The desert and illimitable air, —Lone wandering, but not lost.All day thy wings have fann’d,At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere;Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,Though the dark night is near.And soon that toil shall end;Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and restAnd scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bendSoon o’er thy shelter’d nest.Thou’rt gone – the abyss of heavenHath swallow’d up thy form – yet on my heartDeeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,And shall not soon depart.He, who from zone to zoneGuides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,In the long way that I must tread alone,Will lead my steps aright.W. C. Bryant.SO, WE’LL GO NO MORE A ROVING
ISo, we’ll go no more a rovingSo late into the night,Though the heart be still as loving.And the moon be still as bright.IIFor the sword outwears its sheath,And the soul wears out the breast,And the heart must pause to breathe,And love itself have rest.IIIThough the night was made for loving,And the day returns too soon,Yet we’ll go no more a rovingBy the light of the moon.Lord Byron.SONG
Where the bee sucks, there suck I:In a cowslip’s bell I lie;There I couch, when owls do cry:On the bat’s back I do flyAfter summer merrily.Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,Under the blossom that hangs on the bough!Come unto these yellow sands,And then take hands:Courtsied when you have and kiss’dThe wild waves whist,Foot it featly here and there;And, sweet Sprites, the burthen bear.Hark, hark!Bow-wow.The watch-dogs bark:Bow-wow.Hark, hark! I hearThe strain of strutting chanticleerCry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!W. Shakespeare.THE LAND O’ THE LEAL
I’m wearin’ awa’, Jean,Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean,I’m wearin’ awa’To the land o’ the leal.There’s nae sorrow there, Jean,There’s neither cauld nor care, Jean,The day is aye fairIn the land o’ the leal.Ye were aye leal and true, Jean,Your task’s ended noo, Jean,And I’ll welcome youTo the land o’ the leal.Our bonnie bairn’s there, Jean,She was baith guid and fair, Jean;O we grudged her right sairTo the land o’ the leal!Then dry that tearfu’ e’e, Jean,My soul langs to be free, Jean,And angels wait on meTo the land o’ the leal.Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean,This warld’s care is vain, Jean;We’ll meet and aye be fainIn the land o’ the leal.Lady Nairne.SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA
Where the remote Bermudas rideIn the ocean’s bosom unespied,From a small boat that row’d alongThe listening winds received this song:‘What should we do but sing His praiseThat led us through the watery mazeWhere He the huge sea-monsters wracksThat lift the deep upon their backs,Unto an isle so long unknown,And yet far kinder than our own?He lands us on a grassy stage,Safe from the storms, and prelate’s rage:He gave us this eternal springWhich here enamels everything,And sends the fowls to us in careOn daily visits through the air.He hangs in shades the orange brightLike golden lamps in a green night,And does in the pomegranates closeJewels more rich than Ormus shows:He makes the figs our mouths to meet,And throws the melons at our feet;But apples plants of such a price,No tree could ever bear them twice!With cedars chosen by his handFrom Lebanon he stores the land;And makes the hollow seas that roarProclaim the ambergris on shore.He cast (of which we rather boast)The Gospel’s pearl upon our coast;And in these rocks for us did frameA temple where to sound His name.O let our voice His praise exaltTill it arrive at Heaven’s vault,Which then perhaps rebounding mayEcho beyond the Mexique bay!’– Thus sung they in the English boatA holy and a cheerful note:And all the way, to guide their chime,With falling oars they kept the time.A. Marvell.THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS
Oft in the stilly nightEre slumber’s chain has bound me,Fond Memory brings the lightOf other days around me:The smiles, the tearsOf boyhood’s years,The words of love then spoken;The eyes that shone,Now dimmed and gone,The cheerful hearts now broken!Thus in the stilly nightEre slumber’s chain has bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.When I remember allThe friends so link’d togetherI’ve seen around me fallLike leaves in wintry weather,I feel like oneWho treads aloneSome banquet-hall deserted,Whose lights are fled,Whose garlands dead,And all but he departed!Thus in the stilly nightEre slumber’s chain has bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.T. Moore.
