New Collected Rhymes [10]
me, O Muse of the Shifty, the Man who wandered afar," So have I chanted of late, and of Troy burg wasted of war - Now of the sorrows of Menfolk that fifty years have been, Now of the Grace of the Commune I sing, and the days of a Queen! Surely I curse rich Menfolk, "the Wights of the Whirlwind" may they - This is my style of translating [Greek text],--snatch them away! The Rich Thieves rolling in wealth that make profit of labouring men, Surely the Wights of the Whirlwind shall swallow them quick in their den! O baneful, O wit-straying, in the Burg of London ye dwell, And ever of Profits and three per cent. are the tales ye tell, But the stark, strong Polyphemus shall answer you back again, Him whom "No man slayeth by guile and not by main." (By "main" I mean "main force," if aught at all do I mean. In the Greek of the blindfold Bard it is simpler the sense to glean.) You Polyphemus shall swallow and fill his mighty maw, What time he maketh an end of the Priests, the Police, and the Law, And then, ah, who shall purchase the poems of old that I sang, Who shall pay twelve-and-six for an epic in Saga slang? But perchance even "Hermes the Flitter" could scarcely expound what I mean, And I trow that another were fitter to sing you a song for a Queen.
FRENCH PEASANT SONGS
I.
Oh, fair apple tree, and oh, fair apple tree, As heavy and sweet as the blossoms on thee, My heart is heavy with love. It wanteth but a little wind To make the blossoms fall; It wanteth but a young lover To win me heart and all.
II.
I send my love letters By larks on the wing; My love sends me letters When nightingales sing.
Without reading or writing, Their burden we know: They only say, "Love me, Who love you so."
III.
And if they ask for me, brother, Say I come never home, For I have taken a strange wife Beyond the salt sea foam.
The green grass is my bridal bed, The black tomb my good mother, The stones and dust within the grave Are my sister and my brother.
THE YOUNG RUTHVEN
The King has gi'en the Queen a gift, For her May-day's propine, He's gi'en her a band o' the diamond-stane, Set in the siller fine.
The Queen she walked in Falkland yaird, Beside the Hollans green, And there she saw the bonniest man That ever her eyes had seen.
His coat was the Ruthven white and red, Sae sound asleep was he The Queen she cried on May Beatrix, That seely lad to see.
"Oh! wha sleeps here, May Beatrix, Without the leave o' me?" "Oh! wha suld it be but my young brother Frae Padua ower the sea!
"My father was the Earl Gowrie, An Earl o' high degree, But they hae slain him by fause treason, And gar'd my brothers flee.
"At Padua hae they learned their leir In the fields o' Italie; And they hae crossed the saut sea-faem, And a' for love o' me!"
* * *
The Queen has cuist her siller band About his craig o' snaw; But still he slept and naething kenned, Aneth the Hollans shaw.
The King he daundered thro' the yaird, He saw the siller shine; "And wha," quoth he, "is this galliard That wears yon gift o' mine?"
The King has gane till the Queen's ain bower, An angry man that day; But bye there cam' May Beatrix And stole the band away.
And she's run in by the dern black yett, Straight till the Queen ran she: "Oh! tak ye back your siller band, Or it gar my brother dee!"
The Queen has linked her siller band About her middle sma'; And then she heard her ain gudeman Come rowting through the ha'.
"Oh! whare," he cried, "is the siller band I gied ye late yestreen? The knops was a' o' the diamond stane, Set in the siller sheen."
"Ye hae camped birling at the wine, A' nicht till the day did daw; Or ye wad ken your siller band About my middle sma'!"
The King he stude, the King he glowered, Sae hard as a man micht stare. "Deil hae me! Like is a richt ill mark, - Or I saw it itherwhere!
"I saw it round young Ruthven's neck As he lay sleeping still; And, faith, but the wine was wondrous guid, Or my wife is wondrous ill!"
* * *
There was na gane a week, a week, A week but barely three; The King
FRENCH PEASANT SONGS
I.
Oh, fair apple tree, and oh, fair apple tree, As heavy and sweet as the blossoms on thee, My heart is heavy with love. It wanteth but a little wind To make the blossoms fall; It wanteth but a young lover To win me heart and all.
II.
I send my love letters By larks on the wing; My love sends me letters When nightingales sing.
Without reading or writing, Their burden we know: They only say, "Love me, Who love you so."
III.
And if they ask for me, brother, Say I come never home, For I have taken a strange wife Beyond the salt sea foam.
The green grass is my bridal bed, The black tomb my good mother, The stones and dust within the grave Are my sister and my brother.
THE YOUNG RUTHVEN
The King has gi'en the Queen a gift, For her May-day's propine, He's gi'en her a band o' the diamond-stane, Set in the siller fine.
The Queen she walked in Falkland yaird, Beside the Hollans green, And there she saw the bonniest man That ever her eyes had seen.
His coat was the Ruthven white and red, Sae sound asleep was he The Queen she cried on May Beatrix, That seely lad to see.
"Oh! wha sleeps here, May Beatrix, Without the leave o' me?" "Oh! wha suld it be but my young brother Frae Padua ower the sea!
"My father was the Earl Gowrie, An Earl o' high degree, But they hae slain him by fause treason, And gar'd my brothers flee.
"At Padua hae they learned their leir In the fields o' Italie; And they hae crossed the saut sea-faem, And a' for love o' me!"
* * *
The Queen has cuist her siller band About his craig o' snaw; But still he slept and naething kenned, Aneth the Hollans shaw.
The King he daundered thro' the yaird, He saw the siller shine; "And wha," quoth he, "is this galliard That wears yon gift o' mine?"
The King has gane till the Queen's ain bower, An angry man that day; But bye there cam' May Beatrix And stole the band away.
And she's run in by the dern black yett, Straight till the Queen ran she: "Oh! tak ye back your siller band, Or it gar my brother dee!"
The Queen has linked her siller band About her middle sma'; And then she heard her ain gudeman Come rowting through the ha'.
"Oh! whare," he cried, "is the siller band I gied ye late yestreen? The knops was a' o' the diamond stane, Set in the siller sheen."
"Ye hae camped birling at the wine, A' nicht till the day did daw; Or ye wad ken your siller band About my middle sma'!"
The King he stude, the King he glowered, Sae hard as a man micht stare. "Deil hae me! Like is a richt ill mark, - Or I saw it itherwhere!
"I saw it round young Ruthven's neck As he lay sleeping still; And, faith, but the wine was wondrous guid, Or my wife is wondrous ill!"
* * *
There was na gane a week, a week, A week but barely three; The King