By my sword and yonder mountain,
I make your quarrel mine.
I bid you in to my fireside,
I share with you house and hall;
It stands upon my honour
To see you safe from all."
It fell in the time of midnight,
When the fox barked in the den
And the plaids were over the faces
In all the houses of men,
That as the living Cameron
Lay sleepless on his bed,
Out of the night and the other world,
Came in to him the dead.
"My blood is on the heather,
My bones are on the hill;
There is joy in the home of ravens
That the young shall eat their fill.
My blood is poured in the dust,
My soul is spilled in the air;
And the man that has undone me
Sleeps in my brother's care."
"I'm wae for your death, my brother,
But if all of my house were dead,
I couldnae withdraw the plighted hand,
Nor break the word once said."
"O, what shall I say to our father,
In the place to which I fare?
O, what shall I say to our mother
Who greets to see me there?
And to all the kindly Camerons
That have lived and died long-syne--
Is this the word you send them
Fause-hearted brother mine?"
[Illustration: 0122]
"It's neither fear nor duty,
It's neither quick nor dead
Shall gar me withdraw the plighted hand,
Or break the word once said."
Thrice in the time of midnight,
When the fox barked in the den,
And the plaids were over the faces
In all the houses of men,
Thrice as the living Cameron
Lay sleepless on his bed,
Out of the night and the other world
Came in to him the dead,
And cried to him for vengeance
On the man that laid him low;
And thrice the living Cameron
Told the dead Cameron, no.
"Thrice have you seen me, brother,
But now shall see me no more,
Till you meet your angry fathers
Upon the farther shore.
Thrice have I spoken, and now,
Before the cock be heard,
I take my leave for ever
With the naming of a word.
It shall sing in your sleeping ears,
It shall hum in your waking head,
The name--Ticonderoga,
And the warning of the dead."
Now when the night was over
And the time of people's fears,
The Cameron walked abroad,
And the word was in his ears.
"Many a name I know,
But never a name like this;
O, where shall I find a skilly man
Shall tell me what it is?"
With many a man he counselled
Of high and low degree,
With the herdsmen on the mountains
And the fishers of the sea.
And he came and went unweary,
And read the books of yore,
And the runes that were written of old,
On stones upon the moor.
And many a name he was told,
But never the name of his fears--
Never, in east or west,
The name that rang in his ears:
Names of men and of clans;
Names for the grass and the tree,
For the smallest tarn in the mountains,
The smallest reef in the sea:
Names for the high and low,
The names of the craig and the flat;
But in all the land of Scotland,
Never a name like that.
II.
THE SEEKING OF THE NAME.
And now there was speech in the south,
And a man of the south that was wise,
A periwig'd lord of London, *
Called on the clans to rise.
And the riders rode, and the summons
Came to the western shore,
To the land of the sea and the heather,
To Appin and Mamore.
It called on all to gather
From every scrog and scaur,
That loved their fathers' tartan
And the ancient game of war.
And down the watery valley
And up the windy hill,
Once more, as in the olden,
The pipes were sounding shrill;
Again in highland sunshine
The naked steel was bright;
And the lads, once more in tartan,
Went forth again to fight.
"O, why should I dwell here
With a weird upon my life,
When the clansmen shout for battle
And the war-swords clash in strife?
* The first Pitt.
I cannae joy at feast,
I cannae sleep in bed,
For the wonder of the word
And the warning of the dead.
It sings in my sleeping ears,
It hums in my waking head,
The name--Ticonderoga,
The utterance of the dead.
Then up, and with the fighting men
To march away from here,
Till the cry of the great war-pipe
Shall drown it in my ear!"
Where flew King George's ensign
The plaided soldiers went:
They drew the sword in Germany,
In Flanders pitched the tent.
The bells of foreign cities
Rang far across the plain:
They passed the happy Rhine,
They drank the rapid Main.
Through Asiatic jungles
The Tartans filed their way,
And the neighing of the war-pipes
Struck terror in Cathay.
"Many a name have I heard," he thought,
"In all the tongues of men,
Full many a name both here and there,
Full many both now and then.
When I was at home in my father's house
In the land of the naked knee,
Between the eagles that fly in the lift
And the herrings that swim in the sea,
And now that I am a captain-man
With a braw cockade in my hat--
Many a name have I heard," he thought,
"But never a name like that."
III.
THE PLACE OF THE NAME.
There fell a war in a woody place,
Lay far across the sea,
A war of the march in the mirk midnight,
And the shot from behind the tree,
The shaven head and the painted face,
The silent foot in the wood,
In a land of a strange, outlandish tongue
That was hard to be understood.
It fell about the gloaming
The general stood with his staff,
He stood and he looked east and west
With little mind to laugh.
"Far have I been and much have I seen,
And kent both gain and loss,
But here we have woods on every hand
And a kittle water to cross.
Far have I been and much have I seen,
But never the beat of this;
And there's one must go down to that
waterside
To see how deep it is."
It fell in the dusk of the night
When unco things betide,
The skilly captain, the Cameron,
Went down to that waterside.
Canny and soft the captain went;
And a man of the woody land,
With the shaven head and the painted face,
Went down at his right hand.
It fell in the quiet night,
There was never a sound to ken;
But all of the woods to the right and the left
Lay filled with the painted men.
"Far have I been and much have I seen,
Both as a man and as boy,
But never have I set forth a foot
On so perilous an employ."
It fell in the dusk of the night
When unco things betide,
That he was aware of a captain-man
Drew near to the waterside.
He was aware of his coming
Down in the gloaming alone;
And he looked in the face of the man
And lo! the face was his own.
"This is my weird," he said,
"And now I ken the worst;
For many shall fall the morn,
But I shall fall with the first.
O, you of the outland tongue,
You of the painted face,
This is the place of my death;
Can you tell me the name of the place?"
"Since the Frenchmen have been here
They have called it Sault-Marie;
But that is a name for priests,
And not for you and me.
It went by another word,"
Quoth he of the shaven head:
"It was called Ticonderoga
In the days of the great dead."
And it fell on the morrow's morning,
In the fiercest of the fight,
That the Cameron bit the dust
As he foretold at night;
And far from the hills of heather,
Far from the isles of the sea,
He sleeps in the place of the name
As it was doomed to be.
----R. L. Stevenson.
HEATHER ALE
|From the bonny bells of heather
They brewed a drink long-syne,
Was sweeter far than honey,
Was stronger far than wine.
They brewed it and they drank it,
And lay in a blessed swound
For days and days together
In their dwellings underground.
There rose a king in Scotland,
A fell man to his foes,
He smote the Piets in battle,
He hunted them like roes.
Over miles of the red mountain
He hunted as they fled,
And strewed the dwarfish bodies
Of the dying and the dead.
Summer came in the country,
Red was the heather bell;
But the manner of the brewing
Was none alive to tell.
In graves that were like children's
On many a mountain head,
The Brewsters of the Heather
Lay numbered with the dead.
The king in the red moorland
Rode on a summer's day;
And the bees hummed, and the curlews
Cried beside the way.
The king rode, and was angry,
Black was his brow and pale,
To rule in a land of heather
And lack the Heather Ale.
It fortuned that his vassals,
Riding free on the heath,
Came on a stone that was fallen
And vermin hid beneath.
Rudely plucked from their hiding,
Never a word they spoke:
A son and his aged father--
Last of the dwarfish folk.
The king sat high on his charger,
He looked on the little men;
And the dwarfish and swarthy couple
Looked at the king again.
Down by the shore he had them;
And there on the giddy brink--
"I will give you life, ye vermin,
For the secret of the drink."
There stood the son and father
And they looked high and low;
The heather was red around them,
The sea rumbled below.
And up and spoke the father,
Shrill was his voice to hear:
"I have a word in private,
A word for the royal ear.
"Life is dear to the aged,
And honour a little thing;
I would gladly sell the secret,"
Quoth the Piet to the King.
His voice was small as a sparrow's,
And shrill and wonderful clear:
"I would gladly sell my secret,
Only my son I fear.
"For life is a little matter,
And death is nought to the young;
And I dare not sell my honour
Under the eye of my son.
Take _him_, O king, and bind him,
And cast him far in the deep;
And it's I will tell the secret
That I have sworn to keep."
They took the son and bound him,
Neck and heels in a thong,
And a lad took him and swung him,
And flung him far and strong,
And the sea swallowed his body,
Like that of a child of ten;--
And there on the cliff stood the father,
Last of the dwarfish men.
"True was the word I told you:
Only my son I feared;
For I doubt the sapling courage
That goes without the beard.
But now in vain is the torture,
Fire shall never avail:
Here dies in my bosom
The secret of Heather Ale."
----R. L. Stevenson.
CAPTAIN GOLD AND FRENCH JANET
|The first letter our Captain wrote
To the Lord of Mantua:
"Did you ever see French Janet
(He wrote) on any day?
"Did ye ever see French Janet,
That was so blithe and coy?
The little serving-lass I stole
From the mountains of Savoy.
"Last week I lost French Janet:
Hunt for her up and down;
And send her back to me, my Lord,
From the four walls o* the town."
Captain Gold and French Janet,
For thirty days and thirty nights
There came no news to us.
Suddenly old grew Captain Gold,
And his voice grew tremulous.
O Mantua's a bonny town,
And she's long been our ally;
But help came none from Mantua-town,
Dim grew our Captain's eye.
"O send me Janet home again!"
Our Captain wrote anew;
"A lass is but a paltry thing,
And yet my heart's in two!
"Ha' ye searched through every convent-
close,
And sought in every den?
Mistress o' man, or bride of Christ,
I'll have her back again!"
O Mantua's a bonny town,
And she's long been our ally;
But help came none from Mantua-town,
And sick at heart am I.
For thirty days and thirty nights
No news came to the camp;
And the life waned old in Captain Gold,
As the oil wanes in a lamp.
The third moon swelled towards the full
When the third letter he wrote:
"What will ye take for Janet?
Red gold to fill your moat?
"Red wine to fill your fountains full?
Red blood to wash your streets?
Ah, send me Janet home, my Lord,
Or ye'll no die in your sheets!"
O Love, that makes strong towers to
sway,
And captains' hearts to fall!
I feared they might have heard his sobs
Right out to Mantua-wall.
For thirteen days and thirteen nights
No messenger came back;
And when the morning rose again,
Our tents were hung with black.
The dead bell rang through all the camp;
But we rung it low and dim,
Lest the Lombard hounds in Mantua
Should know the end of him.
----A. M. F. Robinson (Darmesteter).
SIR ELDRIC
|Sir Eldric rode by field and fen
To reach the haunts of heathen men.
About the dusk he came unto
A wood of birchen gray,
And on the other side he knew
The heathen country lay.
"'Tis but a night," he sang, "to ride,
And Christ shall reach the other side."
The moon came peering through the trees,
And found him undismayed;
For still he sang his litanies,
And as he rode he prayed.
He looked as young and pure and glad
As ever looked Sir Galahad.
About the middle of the night
He came upon the brink
Of running waters clear and white,
And lighted there to drink.
And as he knelt a hidden foe
Crept from behind and smote him so.
He turned; he felt his heart's blood run;
He sought his enemy:
"And shall I leave my deeds undone,
And die for such as thee?"
[Illustration: 0137]
And since a knight was either man,
They wrestled till the dawn began.
Then in the dim and rustling place,
Amid the thyme and dew,
Sir Eldric dealt the stroke of grace,
And sank a-dying too,
And thought upon that other's plight
Who was not sure of Heaven to-night.
He dipped his fingers in his breast;
He sought in vain to rise;
He leaned across his foe at rest,
And murmured, "I baptise!"
When lo! the sun broke overhead:
There, at his side, Himself lay dead!
----A. M. F. Robinson (Darmesteter).
[Illustration: 0138
THE MOWERS
|They were three bonny mowers,
Were mowing half the day;
They were three bonny lasses
A-making of the hay.
"Who'll go and fetch the basket?"
"Not I." "Nor I." "Nor I."
They had no time for falling out
Ere Nancibel came by.
[Illustration: 0139]
"What's in your basket, Nancibel?"
"There's cakes and currant wine,
There's venison and good cider, lads;
Come quickly, come and dine."
They were two bonny mowers
Fell to among the best;
The youngest sits a-fasting,
His head upon his breast.
"What ails ye, bonny mower,
You sit so mournfully?"
"Alas! what ails me, Nancibel?
'Tis all the love of thee."
"Now laugh and quaff, my bonny lad,
And think no more o' me.
My lover is a finer man
Than any twain o' ye.
"He's bought for me a kirtle,
He's bought for me a coat,
Of three-and-thirty colours,
Wi' tassels at the throat.
"And twenty Maids of Honour
They stitched at it a year,
And sewed in all their needlework
The kisses of my dear!"
----A. M. F. Robinson (Darmesteter).
THE TOWER OF ST MAUR
|Where's my little son, Nourrice,
And whither is he gone?
The youngest son of all I have,
He should not gang alone."
"The child is safe enough, lady;
He's barely gone an hour:
He's gone to see the mason-men,
Are building at the tower."
"You should have kept him here, Nourrice,
If I was sleeping then--
He's over young to gang alone
Among the mason-men."
"Lie still, lie still, my sweet lady,
There's nought to sorrow for;
The child is safe enough, I think,
I' the keeping of St Maur!"
An hour's gone by, an hour or two,
And still they're out-of-door--
"I wish they'd come at last, Nourrice,
My heart is sick and sore."
"Now hush, lady, my sweet lady,
The moon's still small and young;
If they're home before the curfew bell
They'll not ha' stayed too long."
St Maur has ta'en his youngest son,
To the riverside they're gone,
To see the busy mason-men
Building a tower of stone.
"O why do they build the tower so strong
Against the riverside?
I never saw the wall, father,
That was so strong and wide."
"God knows the tower had need be strong
Between my foes and thee!
Should once Lord Armour enter, child,
An ill death would ye dee."
"We need not fear Lord Armour, father,
Nor any of his kin;
Since God has given us such a wall,
They cannot enter in."
"O twice, my babe, and thrice, my babe,
Ere ever that I was born,
Lord Armour's men have entered in
Betwixt the night and the morn.
"And once I found my nurse's room
Was red with bloody men...
I would not have thy mother die
As died my mother then.
"And 'tis not seven nights ago
I heard, clear in a dream,
The bugle cry of Armour,
Shrill over wood and stream."
"But if so foul a raid, father,
Fell out so long agone,
Why did they never build before
A wall and tower of stone?"
"Many's the time, my pretty babe,
Ere ever this way you went,
We built the tower both thick and broad--
An' we might as well ha' stent.
"Many's the time we built the tower,
Wi' the grey stone and the brown.
But aye the floods in autumn
Washed all the building down.
"And in my mind I see the morn
When we'll be brought to dee--
Yoursel' and your seven brothers,
And your young mother, and me.
"And oh, were it any but Armour,
Oh God, were it any but she--
Before the Lord, my eyes grow dark
With the ill sight that I see."
Among the busy mason-men,
Are building at the tower,
There's a swarthy gipsy mason,
A lean man and a dour.
He's lain the hammer down at last
Out of his bony hand...
"Did ye never hear the spell, St Maur,
Gars any tower to stand?"
"O what's the spell, thou black gipsy,
I prithee rede it now:
There never was any mason-man
Shall earn such wage as thou."
"I dared not speak the spell, St Maur,
Lest you should do me an ill,
For a cruel spell, and an evil spell,
Is the spell that works your will."
"There's no spell but I'll risk it, man,
An' the price were half my lands--
To keep my wife and children safe
Out of Lord Armour's hands."
"O, more than lands, and more than fee,
You'll pay me for the spell----"
"An' the price were half my heart's red
blood,
I'd pay it down as well."
"O what's the blood of a sinful heart
To bind the stones that fall?
St Maur, you'll build your christened child
Alive into the wall."
St Maur has turned on his heel so light,
And angry he turns away:
"Gang to the devil another time
When ye ask what ye ask to-day."
He's ta'en his young son by the hand--
He's opened wide the gate,
"Your mother's been sick a month by now,
And she'll mourn sore if we're late."
They had not gone a little way,
An' the child began to call--
"See how the flood runs high, father,
And washes at the wall!"
They had not gone a mickle way,
St Maur began to brood,
"'Tis the bugle cry of Armour,
Shrill over stream and wood."
"And must they slay me, father dear,
And my seven brothers tall?"
"Gin that's the blast of Armour, laddie,
I fear they'll slay us all,"
"And will they slay my mother, then,
That looks so bonny and small?"
"Come back, come back, thou little lad
To the masons at the wall."
The flood runs high and still more high,
And washes stone from stone--
"In another hour," say the masons,
"Our work is all undone."
The flood runs high and still more high,
And the bugle rings anear;
The masons looking o'er the wall
Are blue and stark with fear.
There's one that's neither stark nor wan,
But never he looked so well;
"Shall I gang to the devil, St Maur?" he
cries,
"Or say, shall I gang to yoursel'?"
He's set the child high in the air
Upon his shoulder bone;
"Shall I leave them all for Armour,
Or shall I take but one?"
Never an answer spake St Maur,
And never a word he said:
There was not one o' the mason men
Looked half so wan and dead.
The gipsy's ta'en the frighted child
And set him in the wall:
"There's a bonny game to play, little man,
The bonniest game of all.
"You'll stand so still and stark, my lad;
I'll build in two's and three's;
And I'll throw you a red, red apple in,
When the stones reach to your knees.
"You'll stand so still and stark, my lad;
I'll lay the stones in haste;
And I'll throw you the forester's whistle
When they reach above your waist.
"You'll stand so still and stark, my lad,
You'll watch the stones that rise;
And I'll throw you in your father's sword,
When they reach above your eyes.
"And if you tire o' the play, my lad,
You've but to raise a shout:
At the least word o' your father's mouth,
I'll stop and pluck you out."
The gipsy-man builds quick and light,
As if he played a play,
And the child laughs with a frighted laugh,
And the tower ceases to sway.
St Maur stares out of his bloodshot eyes,
Like one that's well-nigh mad;
The tower stands fast, and the stones rise high
About the little lad.
"O father, father, lift me out!
The stones reach over my eyes,
And I cannot see you now, father,
So swift the walls uprise.
"O father, lift me out, father!
I cannot breathe at all,
For the stones reach up beyond my head,
And it's dark down i' the wall."
But never an answer spake St Maur,
Never a word but one:
"Have you finished your devil's work, mason,
Or when will the deed be done?"
"Oh, the work is done that ye wished, St
Maur,
'Twill last for many a year;
There's scarce a sound in the wall by now
A mother might not hear.
"Gang home, gang home in peace, St Maur,
And sleep sound if you can;
There's never a flood shall rock this tower,
And never a mortal man.
"Gang home and kiss your bonny wife,
And bid her mourn and fast...
She'll weep a year for her youngest child,
But she'll dry her eyes at last.
"You'll say he fell in the flood, St Maur,
But you'll not deceive yoursel',
For you've lost the bonniest thing you had,
And you'll remember well.
"Your wife will mourn him a year, St Maur,
You'll mourn him all your life,
For you've lost the bonniest thing you had,
Better than bairns or wife."
-----A. M. F. Robinson (Darmesteter).
[Illustration: 0149]
[Illustration: 01;0]
A BALLAD OF HELL
|A letter from my love to-day!
Oh, unexpected, dear appeal!"
She struck a happy tear away
And broke the crimson seal.
"My love, there is no help on earth,
No help in heaven; the dead man's bell
Must toll our wedding; our first hearth
Must be the well-paved floor of hell."
The colour died from out her face,
Her eyes like ghostly candles shone;
She cast dread looks about the place,
Then clenched her teeth, and read right on.
"I may not pass the prison door;
Here must I rot from day to day,
Unless I wed whom I abhor,
My cousin, Blanche of Valencay.
"At midnight with my dagger keen
I'll take my life; it must be so.
Meet me in hell to-night, my queen,
For weal and woe."
She laughed although her face was wan,
She girded on her golden belt,
She took her jewelled ivory fan,
And at her glowing missal knelt.
Then rose, "And am I mad?" she said,
She broke her fan, her belt untied;
With leather girt herself instead,
And stuck a dagger at her side.
She waited, shuddering in her room
Till sleep had fallen on all the house.
She never flinched; she faced her doom:
They two must sin to keep their vows.
Then out into the night she went;
And stooping, crept by hedge and tree;
Her rose-bush flung a snare of scent,
And caught a happy memory.
She fell, and lay a minute's space;
She tore the sward in her distress;
The dewy grass refreshed her face;
She rose and ran with lifted dress.
She started like a morn-caught ghost
Once when the moon came out and stood
To watch; the naked road she crossed,
And dived into the murmuring wood.
The branches snatched her streaming cloak;
A live thing shrieked; she made no stay!
She hurried to the trysting-oak--
Right well she knew the way.
Without a pause she bared her breast
And drove her dagger home and fell,
And lay like one that takes her rest,
And died and wakened up in hell.
She bathed her spirit in the flame,
And near the centre took her post;
From all sides to her ears there came
The dreary anguish of the lost.
The devil started at her side
Comely, and tall, and black as jet.
"I am young Malespina's bride;
Has he come hither yet?"
"My poppet, welcome to your bed."
"Is Malespina here?"
"Not he! To-morrow he must wed
His cousin Blanche, my dear!"
"You lie; he died with me to-night."
"Not he! It was a plot." "You lie."
"My dear, I never lie outright."
"We died at midnight, he and I."
The devil went. Without a groan
She, gathered up in one fierce prayer,
Took root in hell's midst all alone,
And waited for him there.
She dared to make herself at home,
Amidst the wail, the uneasy stir.
The blood-stained flame that filled the dome,
Scentless and silent, shrouded her.
How long she stayed I cannot tell;
But when she felt his perfidy,
She marched across the floor of hell;
And all the damned stood up to see.
The devil stopped her at the brink;
She shook him off; she cried, "Away!"
"My dear, you have gone mad, I think."
"I was betrayed: I will not stay."
[Illustration: 0154]
Across the weltering deep she ran--
A stranger thing was never seen:
The damned stood silent to a man;
They saw the great gulf set between.
To her it seemed a meadow fair;
And flowers sprang up about her feet;
She entered heaven; she climbed the stair;
And knelt down at the mercy-seat.
Seraphs and saints with one great voice
Welcomed that soul that knew not fear;
Amazed to find it could rejoice,
Hell raised a hoarse half-human cheer.
----John Davidson.
THE WEDDING OF PALE BRONWEN
I.
|The wind was waked by the morning light,
And it cried in the gray birch-tree,
And the cry was plain in Bronwen's bower,
"Oh, Bronwen, come to me!"
Pale, pale sleeps Bronwen, pale she wakes;
"What bird to my bower is flown?
For my lover, Red Ithel, is at the wars
Before Jerusalem town."
But still the wind sang in the tree,
"Come forth,'tis your wedding morn,
And you must be wed in Holy Land
Ere your little babe is born."
And still the wind had her true-love's cry,
"Kind Bronwen, come!" until
She could not rest, and rose to look
To the sea beyond Morva Hill.
And afar came the cry over Morva Hill,
"Kind Bronwen, come to me!"
Till she could not stay, for very love,
And stole away to the sea.
She crossed the hill to the fishing-boats,
And away she sailed so fine,
"Is it far, my love, in the summer sun
To the shores of fair Palestine?"
II.
There was no sun at sea that day,
To watch pale Bronwen drown,
But the sun was hot on the deadly sands