English

There was an hour when stars flung out
A magical wild melody,
When all the woods became alive
With elfin dance and revelry.

A holiday for happy hearts!—
The trees shone silver in the moon,
And clapped their gleaming hands to see
Night like a radiant kindled noon!

For suddenly a new world woke
At one new touch of wizardry,
When my love from her mirthful mouth
Spoke words of sweet true love to me.

How clumsy the airs of a Cit,
Pretending to frolic and fun!
Is he for extravagance fit
Who is striving, odd's curse!
To ape one of us,
But never, no never can brush off a dun?

The charger, when switching his tail,
Can sweep the flies off from his rump,
But should they a dray-horse assail,
He forgets that he's cropped,
Of all dignity lopped,
And keeps wagging in vain a bit of a stump!

There lived a lord into the West,
And he had daughters three,
And the youngest has gane to Holyrood,
To be a Queen's Marie.

Marie Hamilton to the kirk has gane,
Wi' ribbons in her hair;
The King thought mair o' Marie Hamilton,
Than ony that were there.

Marie Hamilton to the kirk has gane,
Wi' ribbons on her breist;
The King thought mair o' Marie Hamilton,
Than he listened to the priest.

Marie Hamilton to the Kirk has gane,
Wi' gloves upon her hands;
The King thought mair o' Marie Hamilton,

Hold thy life a wingèd seed
Blowing o'er the good earth's mead.
Toss it an thou list, nor rue it.
Wilt thou not? Then time will do it.

Hold thy name a cockle boat
That the seaward rivers float.
Let the river waves leap through it.
Wilt thou not? Then time will do it.

Hold thy love but as a light
Flying through a windy night.
Let the sporting winds pursue it.
Wilt thou not? Then time will do it.

Come up, come up, come high enough and free
To match your strong heart with the eagle's wing,
And come a-chasing after spring,
White and green, a lovely thing.
Or did you think that spring was fled
Like a dryad in a tree
In July's maturity?
Or did you think that spring lay dead
To the locusts' litany?
O, follow where the spirit led,
When a silver-dripping morn,
Sudden witch, around you spread
The lake-leaning alders red,
When on your devoted head,
Dreaming of outriding ships
From the sea's apocalypse,

Sprinkled silver chiming,
From a high tower;
Is a tall fountain,
Not a shower,—

But would you hear, timing,
Heaven's quarter-hours ring?
Hark to summer—autumn—
Winter—spring…

Afar ! afar! the rosy sails are far,
And far sound all the voices of the world;
Tenderly hither bends the evening star,
And with an uttered hush the waves are curled;
Thy loneliness hath thrown a viewless bar
Across thy life, as when a storm has hurled
The mountain downward, and the shepherd's track
Is lost, and wearily he wanders back.

Must thou then wander while the years decay
And carry with them hopes that feed the soul?
'T was here the little loves were wont to stray;
Now they have vanished with their laughter droll;

Like one who lingers yet upon the sands,
Gazing his last upon the fading sail
That bears his friends afar to other lands.
I watch the bleak November daylight fail,
And, weltering in the pale and watery skies,
The dim stars falter forth, the cold moon rise.

I feel the silence on the hill and plain,
Like that chill hush which haunts an empty room
When, late deserted by a joyous train,
The lights die slowly down and all is gloom;
The cricket shrilling in the darkling wood
Adds but a drearier sense of solitude.

What's the word from Africa?
Kruger strikes at last.
Now he's where we've wanted him for ten years past.
Watch us while we do him up. Progress rules to-day.
Boers, get a move on you! Don't block the way!

Rude men, gross men, men averse to soap.
Bigots all, and ignorant; far too dull to cope
Equally with Englishmen trained to modern skill.
Now's our chance to show them how—ay, and so we will!

What's the news from Africa? Kimberley's shut in,
And Mafeking and Ladysmith. Still we're sure to win!

This is the place where André met that death
Whose infamy was keenest of its throes,
And in this place of bravely-yielded breath
His ashes found a fifty-years' repose;

And then, at last, a transatlantic grave,
With those who have been kings in blood or fame,
As Honor here some compensation gave
For that once forfeit to a hero's name.

But whether in the Abbey's glory laid,
Or on so fair but fatal Tappan's shore,
Still at his grave have noble hearts betrayed
The loving pity and regret they bore.