Ban and Arriere Ban [9]
BALLADE OF DIFFICULT RHYMES
With certain rhymes 'tis hard to deal;
For 'silver' we have ne'er a rhyme.
On 'orange' (as on orange peel)
The bard has slipped full many a time.
With 'babe' there's scarce a sound will chime,
Though 'astrolabe' fits like a glove;
But, ye that on Parnassus climb,
Why, why are rhymes so rare to LOVE?
A rhyme to 'cusp,' to beg or steal,
I've sought, from evensong to prime,
But vain is my poetic zeal,
There's not one sound is worth a 'dime':
'Bilge,' 'coif,' 'scarf,' 'window'--deeds of crime
I'd do to gain the rhymes thereof;
Nor shrink from acts of moral grime -
Why, why are rhymes so rare to LOVE?
To 'dove' my fancies flit, and wheel
Like butterflies on banks of thyme.
'Above'?--or 'shove'--alas! I feel,
They're too much used to be sublime.
I scorn with angry pantomime,
The thought of 'move' (pronounced as muv).
Ah, in Apollo's golden clime
Why, why are rhymes so rare to LOVE?
ENVOI
Prince of the lute and lyre, reveal
New rhymes, fresh minted, from above,
Nor still be deaf to our appeal.
Why, WHY are rhymes so rare to LOVE?
BALLANT O' BALLANTRAE--TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
[Written in wet weather, this conveyed to the Master of Ballantrae
a wrong idea of a very beautiful and charming place, with links, a
river celebrated by Burns, good sea-fishing, and, on the river, a
ruined castle at every turn of the stream. 'Try Ballantrae' is a
word of wisdom.]
Whan suthern wunds gar spindrift flee
Abune the clachan, faddums hie,
Whan for the cluds I canna see
The bonny lift,
I'd fain indite an Ode to THEE
Had I the gift!
Ken ye the coast o' wastland Ayr?
Oh mon, it's unco bleak and bare!
Ye daunder here, ye daunder there,
And mak' your moan,
They've rain and wund eneuch to tear
The suthern cone!
Ye're seekin' sport! There's nane ava',
Ye'll sit and glower ahint the wa'
At bleesin' breakers till ye staw,
If that's yer wush;
'There's aye the Stinchar.' Hoot awa',
She wunna fush!
She wunna fush at ony gait,
She's roarin' reid in wrathfu' spate;
Maist like yer kimmer when ye're late
Frae Girvan Fair!
Forbye to speer for leave I'm blate
For fushin' there!
O Louis, you that writes in Scots,
Ye're far awa' frae stirks and stots,
Wi' drookit hurdies, tails in knots,
An unco way!
MY mirth's like thorns aneth the pots
In Ballantrae!
SONG BY THE SUB-CONSCIOUS SELF--RHYMES MADE IN A DREAM
I know not what my secret is,
I know but it is mine;
I know to dwell with it were bliss,
To die for it divine.
I cannot yield it in a kiss,
Nor breathe it in a sigh.
I know that I have lived for this;
For this, my love, I die.
THE HAUNTED HOMES OF ENGLAND
The Haunted Homes of England,
How eerily they stand,
While through them flit their ghosts--to wit,
The Monk with the Red Hand,
The Eyeless Girl--an awful spook -
To stop the boldest breath,
The boy that inked his copybook,
And so got 'wopped' to death!
Call them not shams--from haunted Glamis
To haunted Woodhouselea,
I mark in hosts the grisly ghosts
I hear the fell Banshie!
I know the spectral dog that howls
Before the death of Squires;
In my 'Ghosts'-guide' addresses hide
For Podmore and for Myers!
I see the Vampire climb the stairs
From vaults below the church;
And hark! the Pirate's spectre swears!
O Psychical Research,
Canst THOU not hear what meets my ear,
The viewless wheels that come?
The wild Banshie that wails to thee?
The Drummer with his drum?
O Haunted Homes of England,
Though tenantless ye stand,
With none content to pay the rent,
Through all the shadowy land,
Now, Science true will find in you
A sympathetic perch,
And take you all, both Grange and Hall,
For Psychical Research!
THE DISAPPOINTMENT
A house I took, and many a spook
Was deemed to haunt that House,
I bade the glum Researchers come
With Bogles to carouse.
That House I'd sought with anxious thought,
'Twas old, 'twas dark as sin,
And deeds of bale, so ran the tale,
Had oft been done therein.
Full many a child its