Related quotes
Nothing Becomes My Medication On Meditation
nothing
othing
thing
hing
ing
noth ing
g one
othing
thing
hing
ing
nothing
g one
you must be the one! ! ! ! ! !
Little Crocues Of Happiness
At first
the loss
& the world losing
all meaning
nothing
meaning
anyt hing
anymore
& then the loss
of the loss
& the world
finding you
yet again
like 'ittle crocuses
of happiness.
poem by Dónall Dempsey
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ineffables
utter nothing
save this moment's
warming wanton
breath of orphan
no promises
then I shall hold you
to nothing
less this body
moment
brave stave
search sheerest
trembling
presence
present
tense
holy oil toil
we ink sweat
lick slick breathe
let
as you
utter all
this
nothing
being
everyt hing
I keel
head over
tongue tied
fail flail fishing
wondrous
ineffables
your
bewildering
re sh 2011
poem by Randy Resh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Home of Death
'Death, whaur do ye bide, auld Death?'
'I bide in ilka breath,'
Quo' Death;
'No i' the pyramids,
No whaur the wormie rids
'Neth coffin-lids;
I bidena whaur life has been,
An' whaur's nae mair to be dune.'
'Death, whaur do ye bide, auld Death?'
'Wi' the leevin, to dee 'at are laith,'
Quo' Death;
'Wi' the man an' the wife
'At loo like life,
Bot strife;
Wi' the bairns 'at hing to their mither,
Wi' a' 'at loo ane anither.'
'Death, whaur do ye bide, auld Death?'
'Abune an' aboot an' aneth,'
Quo' Death;
'But o' a' the airts
An' o' a' the pairts,
In herts-
Whan the tane to the tither says, Na,
An' the north win' begins to blaw.'
poem by George MacDonald
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Swallow
Pretty swallow, once again
Come and pass me in the rain.
Pretty swallow, why so shy?
Pass again my window by.
The horsepond where he dips his wings,
The wet day prints it full of rings.
The raindrops on his [ ] track
Lodge like pearls upon his back.
Then again he dips his wing
In the wrinkles of the spring,
Then oer the rushes flies again,
And pearls roll off his back like rain.
Pretty little swallow, fly
Village doors and windows by,
Whisking oer the garden pales
Where the blackbird finds the snails;
Whewing by the ladslove tree
For something only seen by thee;
Pearls that on the red rose hing
Fall off shaken by thy wing.
On that low thatched cottage stop,
In the sooty chimney pop,
Where thy wife and family
Every evening wait for thee.
poem by John Clare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Use The Man
I heard somebody fixed today
There was no last goodbyes to say
His will to live ran out
I heard somebody turned to dust
Looking back at what he left
A list of plans and photographs
Songs that never will be sung
These are the thinge he wont get done
Ive seen the man use the needle, seen the needle use the man
Ive seen them crawl from the cradle to the gutter on their hands
The fight a war but its fatal, its so hard to understand
Ive seen the man use the needle, seen the needle use that man
Just one shot to say goodbye
One last taste to mourn and cry
Scores and shoots, the lights go dim
Just one shot to do him in
He hangs his head and wonders why
Why the monkey only lies
But pay the pauper, he did choose
He hing his head inside the noose
Ive seen the man use the needle, seen the needle use that man
Ive seen them crawl from the cradle to the coffin on their hands
They fight a war but its fatal, its so hard to understand
Ive seen the man use the needle, seen the needle in his hand
Cryptic writing on the wall, the beginning of the end
Ive seen myself use the needle, seen the needle in my hand
song performed by by Megadeth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Birks Of Aberfeldy
Now simmer blinks on flow'ry braes,
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays,
Come, let us spend the lightsome days
In the birks of Aberfeldie!
Bonnie lassie, will ye go,
Will ye go, will ye go,
Bonnie lassie, will ye go
To the birks of Aberfeldie?
The little birdies blithely sing,
While o'er their heads the hazels hing;
Or lightly flit on wanton wing
In the birks of Aberfeldie!
Bonnie lassie, will ye go…
The braes ascend like lofty wa's,
The foaming stream, deep-roaring, fa's,
O'er-hung wi' fragrant spreading shaws,
The birks of Aberfeldie.
Bonnie lassie, will ye go…
The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers,
White o'er the linns the burnie pours,
And, rising, weets wi' misty showers
The birks of Aberfeldie.
Bonnie lassie, will ye go…
Let Fortune's gifts at random flee,
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me,
Supremely blest wi' love and thee
In the birks of Aberfeldie.
Bonnie lassie, will ye go…
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Birks Of Aberfeldie, The
Now simmer blinks on flow'ry braes,
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays,
Come, let us spend the lightsome days
In the birks of Aberfeldie!
Bonnie lassie, will ye go,
Will ye go, will ye go,
Bonnie lassie, will ye go
To the birks of Aberfeldie?
The little birdies blithely sing,
While o'er their heads the hazels hing;
Or lightly flit on wanton wing
In the birks of Aberfeldie!
Bonnie lassie, will ye go...
The braes ascend like lofty wa's,
The foaming stream, deep-roaring, fa's,
O'er-hung wi' fragrant spreading shaws,
The birks of Aberfeldie.
Bonnie lassie, will ye go...
The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers,
White o'er the linns the burnie pours,
And, rising, weets wi' misty showers
The birks of Aberfeldie.
Bonnie lassie, will ye go...
Let Fortune's gifts at random flee,
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me,
Supremely blest wi' love and thee
In the birks of Aberfeldie.
Bonnie lassie, will ye go...
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Winter's Spring
The winter comes; I walk alone,
I want no bird to sing;
To those who keep their hearts their own
The winter is the spring.
No flowers to please--no bees to hum--
The coming spring's already come.
I never want the Christmas rose
To come before its time;
The seasons, each as God bestows,
Are simple and sublime.
I love to see the snowstorm hing;
'Tis but the winter garb of spring.
I never want the grass to bloom:
The snowstorm's best in white.
I love to see the tempest come
And love its piercing light.
The dazzled eyes that love to cling
O'er snow-white meadows sees the spring.
I love the snow, the crumpling snow
That hangs on everything,
It covers everything below
Like white dove's brooding wing,
A landscape to the aching sight,
A vast expanse of dazzling light.
It is the foliage of the woods
That winters bring--the dress,
White Easter of the year in bud,
That makes the winter Spring.
The frost and snow his posies bring,
Nature's white spurts of the spring.
poem by John Clare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Vanad Teksad Ja Kitarr
Tulede valgel uinuv linn
Saadab mind teele taas
Hvasti tled siis ja lehvitad kaugelt veel
Ma pole su beib, ei mannekeen
Ja arvan, et sa vist tead
Neid lootusi petma pean
Kuid vaba on siis mu hing
(Bridge):
Ei karda ikest ja vastutuult
Nendega vaid koos pin elama
Pole midagi uut siin pikese all
Kuula mind veelkord
(Chorus):
Liiga ohtlik on mu tee
Anna nd andeks, et pgenen
Jtan kik ja riskin veel
Elu pole vaid mng ega disneyland
Vrad linnad, vrad teed
Tuttavaks said, et minna veel
Vanad teksad ja kitarr
Nad on mul kik, mida vajan nd
Piksest plenud nol mu naeru neb
Suitsune lokaal, tundamatud vrad nod
See elu just haarab mind
Siin on glamuur kui kassikuld
Kus igaks on kui staar
Ja unistus, mis neid seob
Nii meeletult veider nib
(Chorus)
song performed by by Vanilla Ninja
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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32 Footsteps
32 footsteps leading to the room where the paint doesnt want to dry
32 footsteps running down the road where the dirt reaches the sky
32 feathers in my brand-new indian headdress
32 new moons shining in 32 skies
Whats the reason, whyd she go
Wheres my baby, I dont know
32 footsteps, counted them myself, 32 footsteps
Bing bang bingalong, cing cang cingalong, ding dang dingalong day
Fing fang fingalong, ging gang gingalong, hing hang hingalong hay
Jing jang jingalong, king kang kingalong, ling lang lingalong lay
Ming mang mingalong, ning nang ningalong, ping pang pingalong pay
Whats the reason, whyd she go
Wheres my baby, I dont know
32 footsteps, counted them myself, 32 footsteps
32 lies my ears never saw when the floorboards gave way
32 walls come tumbling down and the night turns to day
32 infantrymen running in place
32 boxcars, all of them have your face
Whats the reason, whyd she leave
Dont you know were on the eve of
32 footsteps, counted them myself, 32 footsteps
(no) 28
(no) 29
(no) 30
31
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Winter's Whitest Spurts
Although John Clare declared that he
saw spring in winter’s whitest spurts,
for many this is hard to see
when, freezing, all our body hurts,
and winter’s direst discontent
makes cold blasts pierce the frozen soul.
We wonder where the summer went
when icy winds exact their toll,
and whistling toll for all of us
on nights we wish would be more silent.
each blast a blaring blunderbuss
that’s aimed to make us all an island,
disconnected from the spring
and summer, fall, that we remember
when we for warmth our cold arms fling
around each other in December.
Inspired by John Clare’s “The Winter’s Spring”:
THE winter comes; I walk alone,
I want no bird to sing;
To those who keep their hearts their own
The winter is the spring.
No flowers to please-no bees to hum-
The coming spring's already come.
I never want the Christmas rose
To come before its time;
The seasons, each as God bestows,
Are simple and sublime.
I love to see the snowstorm hing;
'Tis but the winter garb of spring.
I never want the grass to bloom:
The snowstorm's best in white.
I love to see the tempest come
And love its piercing light.
The dazzled eyes that love to cling
O'er snow-white meadows sees the spring.
I love the snow, the crumpling snow
That hangs on everything,
It covers everything below
Like white dove's brooding wing,
A landscape to the aching sight,
A vast expanse of dazzling light.
It is the foliage of the woods
That winters bring-the dress,
White Easter of the year in bud,
That makes the winter Spring.
The frost and snow his posies bring,
Nature's white spurts of the spring.
12/24/09
poem by Gershon Hepner
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ballads on Mr. Heron's Election - Ballad Second
Fy, let us a' to Kirkcudbright,
For there will be bickerin' there;
For Murray's light horse are to muster,
And O how the heroes will swear!
And there will be Murray, Commander,
And Gordon, the battle to win;
Like brothers they'll stand by each other,
Sae knit in alliance and kin.
And there will be black-nebbit Johnie,
The tongue o' the trump to them a';
An he get na Hell for his haddin',
The Deil gets na justice ava.
And there will be Kempleton's birkie,
A boy no sae black at the bane;
But as to his fine Nabob fortune,
We'll e'en let the subject alane.
And there will be Wigton's new Sheriff;
Dame Justice fu' brawly has sped,
She's gotten the heart of a Bushby,
But, Lord! what's become o' the head?
And there will be Cardoness, Esquire,
Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes;
A wight that will weather damnation,
The Devil the prey will despise.
And there will be Douglasses doughty,
New christening towns far and near;
Abjuring their democrat doings,
By kissin' the-o' a Peer:
And there will be folk frae Saint Mary's
A house o' great merit and note;
The deil ane but honours them highly-
The deil ane will gie them his vote!
And there will be Kenmure sae gen'rous,
Whose honour is proof to the storm,
To save them from stark reprobation,
He lent them his name in the Firm.
And there will be lads o' the gospel,
Muirhead wha's as gude as he's true;
And there will be Buittle's Apostle,
Wha's mair o' the black than the blue.
And there will be Logan M'Dowall,
Sculdudd'ry an' he will be there,
And also the Wild Scot o' Galloway,
Sogering, gunpowder Blair.
But we winna mention Redcastle,
The body, e'en let him escape!
He'd venture the gallows for siller,
An 'twere na the cost o' the rape.
But where is the Doggerbank hero,
That made "Hogan Mogan" to skulk?
Poor Keith's gane to hell to be fuel,
The auld rotten wreck of a Hulk.
And where is our King's Lord Lieutenant,
Sae fam'd for his gratefu' return?
The birkie is gettin' his Questions
To say in Saint Stephen's the morn.
But mark ye! there's trusty Kerroughtree,
Whose honor was ever his law;
If the Virtues were pack'd in a parcel,
His worth might be sample for a';
And strang an' respectfu's his backing,
The maist o' the lairds wi' him stand;
Nae gipsy-like nominal barons,
Wha's property's paper-not land.
And there, frae the Niddisdale borders,
The Maxwells will gather in droves,
Teugh Jockie, staunch Geordie, an' Wellwood,
That griens for the fishes and loaves;
And there will be Heron, the Major,
Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys;
Our flatt'ry we'll keep for some other,
Him, only it's justice to praise.
And there will be maiden Kilkerran,
And also Barskimming's gude Knight,
And there will be roarin Birtwhistle,
Yet luckily roars i' the right.
And there'll be Stamp Office Johnie,
(Tak tent how ye purchase a dram!)
And there will be gay Cassencarry,
And there'll be gleg Colonel Tam.
And there'll be wealthy young Richard,
Dame Fortune should hing by the neck,
For prodigal, thriftless bestowing-
His merit had won him respect.
And there will be rich brother nabobs,
(Tho' Nabobs, yet men not the worst,)
And there will be Collieston's whiskers,
And Quintin-a lad o' the first.
Then hey! the chaste Interest o' Broughton
And hey! for the blessin's 'twill bring;
It may send Balmaghie to the Commons,
In Sodom 'twould make him a king;
And hey! for the sanctified Murray,
Our land wha wi' chapels has stor'd;
He founder'd his horse among harlots,
But gied the auld naig to the Lord.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Bludy Serk
THIS hinder yeir I hard be tald
Thair was a worthy King;
Dukis, Erlis, and Barronis bald,
He had at his bidding.
The Lord was ancean and ald,
And sexty yeiris cowth ring;
He had a dochter fair to fald,
A lusty Lady ying.
Off all fairheid scho bur the flour,
And eik hir faderis air;
Off lusty laitis and he honour,
Meik bot and debonair:
Scho wynnit in a bigly bour,
On fold wes nane so fair,
Princis luvit hir paramour
In cuntreis our allquhair.
Thair dwelt a lyt besyde the King
A foull Gyand of ane;
Stollin he has the Lady ying,
Away with hir is gane,
And kest her in his dungering
Quhair licht scho micht se nane;
Hungir and cauld and grit thristing
Scho fand into hir waine.
He wes the laithliest on to luk
That on the grund mycht gang:
His nailis wes lyk ane hellis cruk,
Thairwith fyve quarteris lang;
Thair wes nane that he ourtuk,
In rycht or yit in wrang,
Bot all in schondir he thame schuk,
The Gyand wes so strang.
He held the Lady day and nycht
Within his deip dungeoun,
He wald nocht gif of hir a sicht
For gold nor yit ransoun--
Bot gif the King mycht get a knycht,
To fecht with his persoun,
To fecht with him beth day and nycht,
Quhill ane wer dungin doun.
The King gart seik baith fer and neir,
Beth be se and land,
Off ony knycht gif he mycht heir
Wald fecht with that Gyand:
A worthy Prince, that had no peir,
Hes tane the deid on hand
For the luve of the Lady cleir,
And held full trew cunnand.
That Prince come prowdly to the toun
Of that Gyand to heir,
And fawcht with him, his awin persoun,
And tuke him presoneir,
And kest him in his awin dungeoun
Allane withouten feir,
With hungir, cauld, and confusioun,
As full weill worthy weir.
Syne brak the bour, had hame the bricht
Unto her fadir fre.
Sa evill wondit wes the Knycht
That he behuvit to de;
Unlusum was his likame dicht,
His sark was all bludy;
In all the world was thair a wicht
So peteouss for to se?
The Lady murnyt and maid grit mane,
With all her mekill mycht--
'I luvit nevir lufe bot ane,
That dulfully now is dicht;
God sen my lyfe were fra me tane
Or I had seen yone sicht,
Or ellis in begging evir to gane
Furth with yone curtass knycht.'
He said 'Fair lady, now mone I
De, trestly ye me trow;
Take ye my serk that is bludy,
And hing it forrow yow;
First think on it, and syne on me,
Quhen men cumis yow to wow.'
The Lady said 'Be Mary fre,
Thairto I mak a vow.'
Quhen that scho lukit to the sark
Scho thocht on the persoun,
And prayit for him with all hir hart
That lowsit hir of bandoun,
Quhair scho was wont to sit full merk
Into that deip dungeoun;
And evir quhill scho wes in quert,
That was hir a lessoun.
Sa weill the Lady luvit the Knycht
That no man wald scho tak:
Sa suld we do our God of micht
That did all for us mak;
Quhilk fullily to deid was dicht,
For sinfull manis sak,
Sa suld we do beth day and nycht,
With prayaris to him mak.
This King is lyk the Trinitie,
Baith in hevin and heir;
The manis saule to the Lady,
The Gyand to Lucefeir,
The Knycht to Chryst, that deit on tre
And coft our synnis deir;
The pit to Hele with panis fell,
The Syn to the woweir.
The Lady was wowd, but scho said nay
With men that wald hir wed;
Sa suld we wryth all sin away
That in our breist is bred.
I pray to Jesu Chryst verray,
For ws his blud that bled,
To be our help on domisday
Quhair lawis ar straitly led.
The saule is Godis dochtir deir,
And eik his handewerk,
That was betrayit with Lucefeir,
Quha sittis in hell full merk:
Borrowit with Chrystis angell cleir,
Hend men, will ye nocht herk?
And for his lufe that bocht us deir
Think on the BLUDY SERK!
poem by Robert Henryson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Epistle to James Smith
Friendship, mysterious cement of the soul!
Sweet'ner of Life, and solder of Society!
I owe thee much-Blair.
Dear Smith, the slee'st, pawkie thief,
That e'er attempted stealth or rief!
Ye surely hae some warlock-brief
Owre human hearts;
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief
Against your arts.
For me, I swear by sun an' moon,
An' ev'ry star that blinks aboon,
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon,
Just gaun to see you;
An' ev'ry ither pair that's done,
Mair taen I'm wi' you.
That auld, capricious carlin, Nature,
To mak amends for scrimpit stature,
She's turn'd you off, a human creature
On her first plan,
And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature
She's wrote the Man.
Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme,
My barmie noddle's working prime.
My fancy yerkit up sublime,
Wi' hasty summon;
Hae ye a leisure-moment's time
To hear what's comin?
Some rhyme a neibor's name to lash;
Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' cash;
Some rhyme to court the countra clash,
An' raise a din;
For me, an aim I never fash;
I rhyme for fun.
The star that rules my luckless lot,
Has fated me the russet coat,
An' damn'd my fortune to the groat;
But, in requit,
Has blest me with a random-shot
O'countra wit.
This while my notion's taen a sklent,
To try my fate in guid, black prent;
But still the mair I'm that way bent,
Something cries "Hooklie!"
I red you, honest man, tak tent?
Ye'll shaw your folly;
"There's ither poets, much your betters,
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters,
Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors,
A' future ages;
Now moths deform, in shapeless tatters,
Their unknown pages."
Then farewell hopes of laurel-boughs,
To garland my poetic brows!
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs
Are whistlin' thrang,
An' teach the lanely heights an' howes
My rustic sang.
I'll wander on, wi' tentless heed
How never-halting moments speed,
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread;
Then, all unknown,
I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead
Forgot and gone!
But why o' death being a tale?
Just now we're living sound and hale;
Then top and maintop crowd the sail,
Heave Care o'er-side!
And large, before Enjoyment's gale,
Let's tak the tide.
This life, sae far's I understand,
Is a' enchanted fairy-land,
Where Pleasure is the magic-wand,
That, wielded right,
Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand,
Dance by fu' light.
The magic-wand then let us wield;
For ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd,
See, crazy, weary, joyless eild,
Wi' wrinkl'd face,
Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field,
We' creepin pace.
When ance life's day draws near the gloamin,
Then fareweel vacant, careless roamin;
An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin,
An' social noise:
An' fareweel dear, deluding woman,
The Joy of joys!
O Life! how pleasant, in thy morning,
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning!
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning,
We frisk away,
Like school-boys, at th' expected warning,
To joy an' play.
We wander there, we wander here,
We eye the rose upon the brier,
Unmindful that the thorn is near,
Among the leaves;
And tho' the puny wound appear,
Short while it grieves.
Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot,
For which they never toil'd nor swat;
They drink the sweet and eat the fat,
But care or pain;
And haply eye the barren hut
With high disdain.
With steady aim, some Fortune chase;
Keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace;
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race,
An' seize the prey:
Then cannie, in some cozie place,
They close the day.
And others, like your humble servan',
Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin,
To right or left eternal swervin,
They zig-zag on;
Till, curst with age, obscure an' starvin,
They aften groan.
Alas! what bitter toil an' straining-
But truce with peevish, poor complaining!
Is fortune's fickle Luna waning?
E'n let her gang!
Beneath what light she has remaining,
Let's sing our sang.
My pen I here fling to the door,
And kneel, ye Pow'rs! and warm implore,
"Tho' I should wander Terra o'er,
In all her climes,
Grant me but this, I ask no more,
Aye rowth o' rhymes.
"Gie dreepin roasts to countra lairds,
Till icicles hing frae their beards;
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards,
And maids of honour;
An' yill an' whisky gie to cairds,
Until they sconner.
"A title, Dempster merits it;
A garter gie to Willie Pitt;
Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit,
In cent. per cent.;
But give me real, sterling wit,
And I'm content.
"While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale,
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal,
Be't water-brose or muslin-kail,
Wi' cheerfu' face,
As lang's the Muses dinna fail
To say the grace."
An anxious e'e I never throws
Behint my lug, or by my nose;
I jouk beneath Misfortune's blows
As weel's I may;
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose,
I rhyme away.
O ye douce folk that live by rule,
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm an'cool,
Compar'd wi' you-O fool! fool! fool!
How much unlike!
Your hearts are just a standing pool,
Your lives, a dyke!
Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces
In your unletter'd, nameless faces!
In arioso trills and graces
Ye never stray;
But gravissimo, solemn basses
Ye hum away.
Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise;
Nae ferly tho' ye do despise
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys,
The rattling squad:
I see ye upward cast your eyes-
Ye ken the road!
Whilst I-but I shall haud me there,
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where-
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair,
But quat my sang,
Content wi' you to mak a pair.
Whare'er I gang.
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Brus Book IV
[English harshness to prisoners]
In Rawchryne leve we now the king
In rest foroutyn barganyng,
And off his fayis a quhile speke we
That throu thar mycht and thar powste
5 Maid sic a persecucioune
Sa hard, sa strayt and sa feloune
On thaim that till hym luffand wer
Or kyn or freynd on ony maner
That at till her is gret pite.
10 For thai sparyt off na degre
Thaim that thai trowit his freynd wer
Nother off the kyrk na seculer,
For off Glaskow Byschop Robert
And Marcus off Man thai stythly speryt
15 Bath in fetrys and in presoune,
And worthy Crystoll off Seytoun
Into Loudoun betresyt was
Throu a discipill off Judas
Maknab, a fals tratour that ay
20 Wes off his dwelling nycht and day
Quhom to he maid gud cumpany.
It wes fer wer than tratoury
For to betreys sic a persoune
So nobill and off sic renoune,
25 Bot tharoff had he na pite,
In hell condampnyt mocht he be.
For quhen he him betrasyt had
The Inglismen rycht with him rad
In hy in Ingland to the king,
30 That gert draw him and hede and hing
Foroutyn pete or mercy.
It wes gret sorow sekyrly
That so worthy a persoune as he
Suld on sic maner hangyt be,
35 Thusgat endyt his worthynes.
Off Crauford als Schyr Ranald wes
And Schyr Bryce als the Blar
Hangyt intill a berne in Ar.
The queyn and als Dame Marjory,
40 Hyr dochter that syne worthily
Wes coupillyt into Goddis band
With Walter Stewart off Scotland,
That wald on na wys langar ly
In the castell off Kyldromy
45 To byd a sege, ar ridin raith
With knychtis and squyeris bath
Throu Ros rycht to the gyrth off Tayne.
Bot that travaill thai maid in vayne,
For thai off Ros that wald nocht ber
50 For thaim na blayme na yeit danger
Out off the gyrth thame all has tayne
And syne has send thaim everilkane
Rycht intill Ingland to the king,
That gert draw all the men and hing,
55 And put the ladyis in presoune
Sum intill castell sum in dongeoun.
It wes gret pite for till her
The folk be troublyt on this maner.
[The siege of Kildrummy Castle]
That tyme wes in Kyldromy
60 Wyth men that wycht and hardy
Schyr Neile the Bruce and I wate weile
That thar the erle was off Adheill.
The castell weill vittalyt thai
And mete and fuell gan purvay
65 And enforcyt the castell sua
That thaim thocht na strenth mycht it ta.
And quhen it to the king was tauld
Off Ingland how thai schup till hauld
That castell, he wes all angry
70 And callyt his sone till hym in hy
The eldest and aperand ayr
A young bacheler and stark and fayr
Schyr Edward callyt off Carnauerane,
That wes the sterkast man of ane
75 That men fynd mycht in ony countre
Prynce of Walys that tyme wes he.
And he gert als call erlys twa
Glosyster and Harfurd war tha
And bad thaim wend into Scotland
80 And set a sege with stalwart hand
To the castell off Kyldromy.
And all the halderis halyly
He bad distroy for-owtyn ransoun
Or bryng thaim till him in presoune.
85 Quhen thai the commaundment had tane
Thai assemblyt ane ost onane
And to the castell went in hy
And it assegyt vigorusly
And mony tyme full hard assaylyt.
90 Bot for to tak it yeit thai failyt
For thai within war rycht worthy
And thaim defendyt douchtely
And ruschyt thair fayis oft agayne
Sum beft sum woundyt sum alslayne
95 And mony tymys ische thai wald
And bargane at the barrais hald
And wound thar fayis oft and sla.
Schortly thai thaim contenyt sua
That thai withoute disparyt war
100 And thocht till Ingland for to far
For thai sa styth saw the castell
And with that it wes warnyst weill
And saw the men defend thaim sua
That thai nane hop had thaim to ta,
105 Nane had thai done all that sesoune
Gyff it ne had bene fals tresoun
For thar with thaim wes a tratour.
A fals lourdane a losyngeour
Hosbarne to name maid the tresoun,
110 I wate nocht for quhat enchesoun
Na quham with he maid that conwyn
Bot as thai said that war within
He tuk a culter hate glowand
That yeit wes in a fyr brynnand
115 And went him to the mekill hall
That then with corn wes fyllyt all
And heych up in a mow it did,
Bot it full lang wes nocht thar hid
For men sayis oft that fyr na prid
120 But discovering may na man hid,
For the pomp oft the prid furth schawis
Or ellis the gret boist that it blawis,
Na thar may na man fyr sa covyr
Than low or rek sall it discovyr.
125 Sa fell it her, for fyr all cler
Son throu the thak-burd gan apper
Fyrst as a stern syne as a mone
And weill bradder tharefter sone
The fyr out syne in bles brast
130 And the rek rais rycht wondre fast.
The fyr our all the castell spred
That mycht na force of man it red.
Than thai within drew to the wall
That at that tyme wes bataillit all
135 Within rycht as it wes withoute
That bataillyne withoutyn dout
Savit thar lyvis, for it brak
Bles that thaim wald ourtak.
And quhen thar fayis the myscheiff saw
140 Till armys went thai in a thraw
And assaylyt the castell fast
Quhar thai durst come for fyris blast,
Bot thai within that myster had
Sa gret defence and worthy mad
145 That thai full oft thar fayis rusit
For thai nakyn perall refusyt,
Thai travaillyt for to sauff thar lyffis
Bot werd that till the end ay dryvis
The warldis thingis sua thaim travaillyt
150 That thai on twa halfys war assailyt,
In with fyr that thaim sua broilyit
And utouth with folk that thaim sua toilyit
That thai brynt magre thaim the yat
That, for the fyre that wes sua hate
155 Thai durst nocht entyr sua in hy,
Tharfor thar folk thai gan rely
And went to rest for it wes nycht
Till on the morn that day wes lycht.
[The surrender of Kildrummy and the death of Edward I]
At sik myscheiff as ye her say
160 War thai within, the-quhethyr ay
Thai thaim defendyt douchtely
And contenyt thaim sa manlily
That or day throu mekill payn
Thai had muryt up thar yat agayn.
165 But on the morn quhen day wes lycht
And sone wes ryssyn schynand brycht
Thai without in hale bataill
Come purvayt redy till assaill,
Bot thai within that sua war stad
170 That thai vitaill na fewell had
Quhar-with thai mycht the castell hald
Tretyt fyrst and syne thaim yauld
To be in-till the kingis will,
Bot that to Scottis men wes ill
175 As sone eftyr weill wes knawin
For thai war hangyt all and drawyn.
Quhen this cunnand thus tretyt wes
And affermyt with sekyrnes
Thai tuk thaim of the castell sone
180 And in-till schort tyme has done
That all a quarter of Snawdoun
Rycht till the erd thai tummyllyt doun
Syne towart Ingland went thar way.
Bot quhen the king Edward hard say
185 How Neill the Bruce held Kildromy
Agayne his sone sa stalwartly,
He gadryt gret chevalry
And towart Scotland went in hy,
And as in-till Northummyrland
190 He wes with his gret rout ridand
A sekness tuk him in the way
And put him to sa hard assay
That he mycht nocht ga na ryd.
Him worthit magre his abid
195 In-till ane hamillet tharby
A litill toun and unworthy,
With gret payne thidder thai him brocht.
He wes sa stad that he ne mocht
His aynd bot with gret paynys draw
200 Na spek bot giff it war weill law
The-quhether he bad thai suld him say
Quhat toun wes that that he in lay.
'Schyr,' thai said, 'Burch-in-the-sand
Men callis this toun in-till this land.'
205 'Call thai it Burch, als,' said he.
My hop is now fordone to me
For I wend never to thole the payne
Of deid till I throu mekill mayn
The burch of Jerusalem had tane,
210 My lyff wend I thar suld be gayne.
In burch I wyst weill I suld de
Bot I wes nother wys na sle
Till other burch kep to ta.
Now may I na wis forther ga.'
215 Thus pleynyeit he off his foly,
As he had mater sekyrly
Quhen he covyt certante
Off that at nane may certan be,
The-quhether men said enclosit he had
220 A spyryt that him answer maid
Off thingis that he wald inquer.
Bot he fulyt foroutyn wer
That gaiff throuth till that creatur,
For feyndys ar off sic natur
225 That thai to mankind has invy
For thai wate weill and witterly
That thai that weill ar liffand her
Sall wyn the sege quharoff thai wer
Tumblyt throuch thar mekill prid.
230 Quharthrou oft-tymys will betid
That quhen feyndys distrenyeit ar
For till aper and mak answar
Throu force of conjuracioun
That thai sa fals ar and feloun
235 That thai mak ay thar answering
Into doubill understanding
To dissaiff thaim that will thaim trow.
Insample will I set her now
Off a wer as I herd tell
240 Betwix Fraunce and the Flemyngis fell.
The erle Ferandis modyr was
Nygramansour, and Sathanas
Scho rasyt and him askyt syne
Quhat suld worth off the fechtyn
245 Betwix the Fraunce king and hyr sone,
And he, as all tyme he wes wone,
Into dissayt maid his answer
And said till hyr thir thre vers her,
'Rex ruet in bello tumilique carebit honore
250 Ferrandus comitissa tuus mea cara Minerva
Parisius veniet magna comitante caterva.'
This wes the spek he maid perfay
And is in Inglis toung to say,
'The king sall fall in the fechting
255 And sall faile honour off erding,
And thi Ferand Mynerve my der
Sall rycht to Parys went but wer,
Folowand him gret cumpany
Off nobill men and off worthy.'
260 This is the sentence off this saw
That the Latyn gan hyr schaw.
He callyt hyr his Mynerve
For Mynerve ay wes wont to serve
Him, till scho leffyt, at his divis
265 And for scho maid the samyn service
His Mynerve hyr callyt he,
And als throu his sutelte
He callyt hyr der hyr till dissaiff
That scho the tyttar suld consaiff
270 Off his spek the undyrstanding
That mast plesyt till hyr liking.
This doubill spek sua hyr dissavit
That throu hyr feill the ded ressavit,
For scho wes off hyr answer blyth
275 And till hyr sone scho tald it swyth,
And bad him till the batell sped
For suld victory haiff but dred.
And he that herd hyr sermonuyng
Sped him in hy to the fechting
280 Quhar he discomfyt wes and schent
And takin and to Paris sent,
Bot in the fechting nocht-forthi
The king, throu his chevalry,
Wes laid at erd and lawit bath,
285 Bot his men helpyt him weill rath.
And quhen Ferandis moder herd
How hyr sone in the bataill ferd
And at he wes sua discomfyt,
Scho rasyt the ill spyryt als tyt
290 And askyt quhy he gabyt had
Off the answer that he hyr mad,
And he said he had said suth all.
'I said ye that the king suld fall
In the bataill, and say did he,
295 And failyeid erding, as men may se.
And I said that thi sone suld ga
To Paris, and he did rycht sua,
Folowand sic a mengye
That never in his lyff-tyme he
300 Had sic a mengye in leding.
Now seis thou I maid na gabbing.'
The wyff confusyt wes perfay
And durst no mar than till him say
Thusgat throu doubill understanding
305 That bargane come till sic ending
That the ta part dissavyt was.
Rycht sagat fell yt in this cas.
At Jerusalem trowit he
Gravyn in the burch to be,
310 The-quhethyr at Burch-into-the-sand
He swelt rycht in his awn land.
And quhen he to the ded wes ner
The folk that at Kildromy wer
Come with presoneris that thai had tane,
315 And syne to the king ar gane
And for to comfort him thai tald
How thai the castell to thaim yauld
And how thai till his will war brocht,
To do off thame quhatever he thocht,
320 And askyt quhat men suld off thaim do.
Than lukyt he angyrly thaim to
And said grynnand, 'Hangis and drawys.'
That wes wonder off sik sawis,
That he that to the ded wes ner
325 Suld answer apon sic maner
Foroutyn menyng and mercy.
How mycht he traist on Hym to cry
That suthfastly demys all thing
To haiff mercy, for his criying,
330 Off him that throu his felony
Into sic point had na mercy.
His men his maundment has done
And he deyt thatefter sone
And syne wes brocht till berynes.
335 His sone syne king efter wes.
[Douglas and Boyd go from Rathlin to Arran]
To the King Robert agayne ga we
That in Rauchryne with his menye
Lay till wynter ner wes gane
And off that ile his mete has tane
340 James off Douglas wes angry
That thai langar suld ydill ly
And to Schyr Robert Boid said he,
'The pure folk off thys countre
Ar chargit apon gret maner
345 Off us that idill lyis her,
And ik her say that in Arane
Intill a styth castell off stane
Ar Inglis men that with strang hand
Haldys the lordschip off the land
350 Ga we thidder, and weill may fall
Anoy thaim in sum thing we sall.'
Schir Robert said, 'I grant thar-till,
Till her mar ly war litill skill.
Tharfor till Aran pas will we,
355 For I knaw rycht weill the countre
And the castell rycht sua knaw I
We sall cum thar sua prevely
That thai sall haiff na persavyng
Na yeit witting off our cummyng,
360 And we sall ner enbuschyt be
Quhar we thar outecome may se.
Sa sall it on na maner fall
Na scaith thaim on sum wis we sall.'
With that thai buskyt thaim on-ane
365 And at the king thar leiff has tane
And went thaim furth syne on thar way.
Into Kyntyr sone cummyn ar thai,
Syne rowyt alwayis by the land
Till that the nycht wes ner on hand,
370 Than till Arane thai went thar way
And saufly thar aryvyt thai,
And in a glen thar galay drewch
And syne it helyt weill ineuch.
Thar takyll ayris and thar ster
375 Thai hyde all on the samyn maner
And held thar way rycht in the nycht
Sua that or day wes dawyn lycht
Thai war enbuschyt the castell ner
Armyt apon thair best maner
380 And thoucht thai wate war and wery
And for lang fastyng all hungry
Thai thocht to hald thaim all preve
Till that thai weill thar poynt mycht se.
[Douglas plunders the provisions being brought to Brodick Castle]
Schir John the Hastingis at that tid
385 With knychtis off full mekill prid
And squyeris and yemanry,
And that a weill gret cumpany,
Wes in the castell off Brathwik
And oftsys quhen it wald him lik
390 He went huntyng with his menye
And sua the land abandounyt he
That durst nane warne to do his will.
He wes into the castell still
The tyme that James off Douglas
395 As Ik haiff tald enbuschit was.
Sa hapnyt that tyme throu chance
That with vittalis and purvyaunce
And with clething and with armyng
The day befor in the evynning
400 The undyr-wardane arivyt was
With thre batis weill ner the place
Quhar that the folk I spak off ar
Prevely enbuschyt war.
Syne fra tha batis saw thai ga
405 Off Inglismen thretty and ma
Chargit all with syndry thingis.
Sum bar wyne and sum armyngis,
The remanant all chargit wer
With thingis off syndry maner,
410 And other syndry yeid thaim by
As thai war maistrys ydilly.
Thai that enbuschyt war that saw
All foroutyn dreid or aw
Thar buschement on thaim thai brak
415 And slew all that thai mycht ourtak.
The cry rais hidwysly and hey
For thai that dredand war to dey
Rycht as bestis gan rar and cry.
Thai slew thaim foroutyn mercy.
420 Sua that into the samyne sted
Weill ner fourty thar war dede.
Quhen thai that in the castell war
Hard the folk sa cry and rar
Thai ischyt furth to the fechting,
425 Bot quhen the Douglas saw thar cummyng
His men till him he gan rely
And went till meit thaim hastily.
And quhen thai off the castell saw
Him cum on thaim foroutyn aw
430 Thai fled foroutyne mar debate
And thai thaim folowit to the yate
And slew of thaim as thai in past,
Bot thai thair yate barryt fast
That thai mycht do at thame na mar.
435 Tharfor thai left thaim ilkane thar
And turnyt to the se agayne
Quhar that the men war forouth slayn.
And quhen thai that war in the batis
Saw thar cummyng and wyst howgatis
440 Thai had discumfyt thar menye
In hy thai put thaim to the se
And rowyt fast with all thar mayne,
Bot the wynd wes thaim agayne
That sua hey gert the land-bryst rys
445 That thai moucht weld the se na wis.
Then thai durst nocht cum to the land,
Bot held thaim thar sa lang hobland
That off the thre batis drownyt twa
And quhen the Douglas saw it wes sua
450 He tuk armyng and cleything
Vittalis wyne and other thing
That thai fand thar and held thar way
Rycht glaid and joyfull off thar pray.
[The king comes to Arran and is joined by Douglas and Boyd]
Quhen this James off Douglas
455 And his menye throu Goddis grace
War relevyt with armyng
And with vittaill and clething
Syne till a strenth thai held thar way
And thaim full manly governyt ay
460 Till on the tend day that the king
With all that war in his leding
Aryvyt into that countre
With thretty small galayis and thre.
The king aryvyt in Arane
465 And syne to the land is gane
And in a toune tuk his herbery,
And speryt syne specially
Gyff ony man couth tell tithand
Off ony strang man in that land.
470 'Yhis,' said a woman, 'Schyr perfay
Off strang men I kan you say
That ar cummyn in this countre,
And schort quhile syne throu thar bounte
Thai haff discomfyt our wardane
475 And mony off his men has slane,
Intill a stalwart place her-by
Reparis all thar cumpany.'
'Dame,' said the king, 'wald thou me wis
To that place quhar thar repair is
480 I sall reward the but lesing,
For thai ar all off my dwelling
And I rycht blythly wald thaim se
And sua trow I that thai wald me.'
'Yhis,' said scho, 'Schir I will blythly
485 Ga with you and your cumpany
Till that I schaw you thar repair.'
'That is ineuch my sister fayr,
Now ga we forth-wart,' said the king.
Than went thai furth but mar letting
490 Folowand hyr as scho thaim led
Till at the last scho schawyt a sted
To the king in a wode glen
And said, 'Schir, her saw I the men
That yhe sper after mak logyng.
495 Her I trow be thar reparyng.'
The king then blew his horn in hy
And gert the men that wer him by
Hald thaim still and all preve
And syne agayn his horn blew he.
500 James off Douglas herd him blaw
And he the blast alsone gan knaw
And said, 'Sothly yon is the king,
I knaw lang quhill syne his blawyng.'
The thrid tym thar-with-all he blew
505 And then Schir Robert Boid it knew
And said, 'Yone is the king but dreid
Ga we furth till him better speid.'
Than went thai till the king in hy
And hm inclynyt curtasly,
510 And blythly welcummyt thaim the kimg
And wes joyfull of thar meting
And kissit thaim and speryt syne
How thai had farne in thar outyne,
And thai him tauld all but lesing.
515 Syne lovyt thai God off thar meting,
Syne with the king till his herbery
Went bath joyfull and joly.
[The king sends a man to Carrick to see if he might land there]
The king apon the tother day
Gan till his preve menye say,
520 'Ye knaw all weill and ye may se
How we are out off our cuntre
Banyst throu Inglismennys mycht
And that that suld be ouris of rycht
Throu thar maistrys thai occupy,
525 And wald alsua foroutyne mercy
Giff thai haid mycht destroy us all.
Bot God forbeid it suld sa fall
Till us as thai mak manassyng
For than war thar na recoveryng,
530 And mankind biddis us that we
To procur vengeance besy be.
For ye may se we haiff thre thingis
That makis us oft monestingis
For to be worthi wis and wycht
535 And till anoy thaim at our mycht.
Ane is our lyffis saufte
That on na wys suld sauft be
Gyff thai had us at thar liking
The tother that makys us eggyng
540 Is that thai our possessioune
Haldis strenthly agayn resoun.
The thrid is the joy that we abid
Giff that it happyn as weill may tid
That we wyn victour and maistry,
545 Till ourcum thar felony.
Therfor we suld our hartis rais
Sua that na myscheyff us abais
And schaip us alwayis to that ending
That beris in it mensk and loving.
550 And tharfor lordingis gyff ye se
Amang you giff that it speidfull be
I will send a man in Carrik
To spy and sper our kynrik
How it is led and freynd and fa.
555 And giff he seis we land may ta
On Turnberys snuke he may
Mak a fyr on a certane day
And mak takynnyng till us that we
May thar aryve in saufte.
560 And giff he seis we may nocht sua,
Luk on na wys the fyr he ma.
Sua may we thar-throu haiff wittring
Off our passage or our dwelling.'
To this spek all assentyt ar,
565 And than the king withoutyn mar
Callyt ane that wes till him preve
And off Carrik his countre,
And chargyt him in les and mar
As ye hard me divis it ar
570 And set him certane day to mai
The fyr giff he saw it war sua
That thai had possibilite
To maynteyme wer in that cuntre.
And he that wes rycht weill in will
575 His lordis yharnyng to fullfill
As he that worthy wes and leile
And couth secreis rycht weill conseil
Sad he wes boune intill all thing
For to fulfill his commaunding,
580 And said he suld do sa wisely
That na repruff suld efter ly
Syne at the king his leiff has tane
And furth apon his way is gane.
[Cuthbert the spy discovers that Percy, in Turnberry Castle,
controls Carrick]
Now gais the messynger his way
585 That hat Cuthbert as I herd say.
In Carrik sone aryvyt he
And passyt throu all the countre,
Bot he fand few tharin perfay
That gud wald off his maister say,
590 For fele off thaim durst nocht for dreid,
And other sum rycht into deid
War fayis to the nobill king,
That rewyt syne thar barganyng.
Baith hey and law the land wes then
595 All occupyit with Inglismen
That dispytyt atour all thing
Robert the Bruce the douchty king.
Carrik wes giffyn then halyly
To Schir Henry the lord Persy
600 That in Turnberyis castell then
Was with weill ner three hunder men,
And dauntyt sagat all the land
That all wes till him obeysand.
This Cuthbert saw thar felony,
605 And saw the folk sa halely
Be worthyn Inglis baith rich and pur
That he to nane durst him discur,
But thocht to leve the fyr unmaid,
Syne till his maister went but baid
610 And all thar convyne till him tell,
That wes sa angry and sa fell.
[The king thinks he sees a fire; he prepares to cross to Carrick; his hostess
predicts his ultimate success, and gives him her two sons]
The king that intill Arane lay
Quhen that cummyn wes the day
That he set till his messinger
615 As Ik divisit you lang er
Eftyr the fyr he lokyt fast
And als sone as the none wes past
Him thocht weill he saw a fyr
Be Turnbery byrnand weill schyr,
620 And till his menye it gan schaw.
Ilk man thocht weill that he it saw,
Then with blyth hart the folk gan cry,
'Gud king, speid you deliverly
Sua that we sone in the evynnyng
625 Aryve foroutyn persayving.'
'I grant,' said he. 'Now mak you yar,
God furthyr us intill our far.'
Then in schort time men mycht thaim se
Schute all thar galayis to the se
630 And ber to se baith ayr and ster
And other thingis that myster wer,
And as the king apon the sand
Wes gangand up and doun, bidand
Till that his menye redy war,
635 His ost come rycht till him thar,
And quhen that scho him halyst had
A preve spek till him scho made
And said, 'Takis gud kep till my saw,
For or ye pas I sall you schaw
640 Off your fortoun a gret party,
Bot our all specially
A wyttring her I sall you ma
Quhat end that your purpos sall ta,
For in this land is nane trewly
645 Wate thingis to cum sa weill as I.
Ye pas now furth on your viage
To venge the harme and the outrag
That Inglismen has to you done,
Bot ye wat nocht quhat-kyne forton
650 Ye mon drey in your werraying.
Bot wyt ye weill withoutyn lesing
That fra ye now haiff takyn land
Nane sa mychty na sa strenththi of hand
Sal ger you pas out off your countre
655 Till all to you abandounyt be.
Within schort tyme ye sall be king
And haiff the land at your liking
And ourcum your fayis all,
Bot fele anoyis thole ye sall
660 Or that your purpos end haiff tane,
Bot ye sall thaim ourdryve ilkane.
And that ye trowis this sekyrly
My twa sonnys with you sall I
Send to tak part of your travaill,
665 For I wate weill thai sall nocht faill
To be rewardyt weill at rycht
Quhen ye are heyit to your mycht.'
[A discourse on prophecy]
The king that herd all hyr carping
Thankit hyr in mekill thing,
670 For scho confort him sumdeill,
The-quhethir he trowyt nocht full weill
Hyr spek, for he had gret ferly
How scho suld wyt it sekyrly,
As it wes wounderfull perfay
675 How ony mannys science may
Knaw thingis that ar to cum
Determinabilly, all or sum,
Bot giff that he inspyrit war
Off Him that all thing evermar
680 Seys in his presciens
As it war ay in presens, 680*
As was David and Jeremy 681
Samuell, Joell and Ysai,
That throu His haly grace gan tell
685 Fele thingis that efter fell, 684
Bot the prophetis sa thyn ar sawyn
That nane in erd now is knawin.
Bot fele folk ar sa curyous
And to wyt thingis covatous
690 That thai, throu thar gret clergy 689
Or ellys throu thar devilry,
On thir twa maneris makis fanding
Off thingis to cum to haiff knawing.
Ane of thaim is astrologi,
695 Quhar-throu clerkys that ar witty 694
May knaw conjunctiones of planetis,
And quhethir that thar cours thaim settis
In soft segis or in angry,
And off the hevyn all halyly
700 How that the dispositioun 699
Suld apon thingis wyrk her doun
On regiones or on climatis,
That wyrkys nocht ay-quhar agatis
Bot sumquhar les and sumquhar mar
705 Eftyr as thar bemys strekyt ar 704
Othir all evyn or on wry.
Bot me think it war gud maistri
Till ony astrolog to say
'This sall fall her and on this day.'
710 For thoucht a man his lyff haly 709
Studyit sua in astrology
That on sternys his hewid he brak,
The wys man sayis he suld nocht mak
All his lyff certane dayis thre,
715 And yeit suld he ay doute quhill he 714
Saw how that it come till ending.
Than is that na certane demyng.
Or gyff thai men that will study
In the craft off astrology
720 Knaw all mennys nacioun 719
And knew the constellacioun
That kyndlik maneris gyfis thaim till
For till inclyne to gud or ill,
How that thai throu science of clergi
725 Or throu slycht off astrology 724
Couth tell quhatkyn perell apperis
To thaim that haldys kyndlik maneris,
I trow that thai suld faile to say
The thingis that thaim happyn may.
730 For quhethir-sa men inclynyt be 729
To vertu or to mavyte,
He may rychtg weill refreynye his will
Othir throu nurtur or thru skill
And to the contrar turne him all.
735 And men has mony tyme sene fall 734
That men kyndly till ivill gevyn
Throu thar gret wit away has drevyn
Thar ill and worthin off gret renoun
Magre the constellacioun,
740 As Arestotill, giff as men redis 739
He had folowyt his kyndly dedis,
He had bene fals and covatous
Bot his wyt maid him vertuous.
And sen men may on this kyn wys
745 Wyrk agayne that cours that is 744
Principaill caus off thar demyng
Me think thar dome na certane thing.
Nygromancy the tother is
That kennys men on syndry wys
750 Throu stalwart conjuracionys 749
And throu exorcizacionys
To ger spyritis to thaim apper
And giff answeris on ser maner,
As quhilum did the Phitones
755 That quhen Saul abaysyt wes 754
Off the Felystynys mycht,
Raysyt throu hyr mekill slycht
Samuelis spyrite als tite,
Or in his sted the ivill spyrite
760 That gaiff rycht graith answer hyr to, 759
Bot off hyr selff rycht nocht wyst scho.
And man is into dreding ay
Off thingis that he has herd say,
Namly off thingis to cum, quhill he
765 Knaw off the end the certante. 764
And sen thai ar in sic wenyng
Foroutyne certante off witting,
Me think quha sayis he knawis thingis
To cum he makys gret gabingis.
770 Bot quhether scho that tauld the king 769
How his purpos suld tak ending
Wenyt or wist it witterly,
It fell efter halyly
As scho said, for syne king wes he
775 And off full mekill renommé 774.
poem by John Barbour
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Malcolm's Katie: A Love Story - Part III.
The great farm house of Malcolm Graem stood
Square shoulder'd and peak roof'd upon a hill,
With many windows looking everywhere;
So that no distant meadow might lie hid,
Nor corn-field hide its gold--nor lowing herd
Browse in far pastures, out of Malcolm's ken.
He lov'd to sit, grim, grey, and somewhat stern,
And thro' the smoke-clouds from his short clay pipe
Look out upon his riches; while his thoughts
Swung back and forth between the bleak, stern past,
And the near future, for his life had come
To that close balance, when, a pendulum,
The memory swings between me 'Then' and 'Now';
His seldom speech ran thus two diff'rent ways:
'When I was but a laddie, this I did';
Or, 'Katie, in the Fall I'll see to build
'Such fences or such sheds about the place;
'And next year, please the Lord, another barn.'
Katie's gay garden foam'd about the walls,
'Leagur'd the prim-cut modern sills, and rush'd
Up the stone walls--and broke on the peak'd roof.
And Katie's lawn was like a Poet's sward,
Velvet and sheer and di'monded with dew;
For such as win their wealth most aptly take
Smooth, urban ways and blend them with their own;
And Katie's dainty raiment was as fine
As the smooth, silken petals of the rose;
And her light feet, her nimble mind and voice,
In city schools had learn'd the city's ways,
And grafts upon the healthy, lonely vine
They shone, eternal blossoms 'mid the fruit.
For Katie had her sceptre in her hand
And wielded it right queenly there and here,
In dairy, store-room, kitchen--ev'ry spot
Where women's ways were needed on the place.
And Malcolm took her through his mighty fields,
And taught her lore about the change of crops;
And how to see a handsome furrow plough'd;
And how to choose the cattle for the mart;
And how to know a fair day's work when done;
And where to plant young orchards; for he said,
'God sent a lassie, but I need a son--
'Bethankit for His mercies all the same.'
And Katie, when he said it, thought of Max--
Who had been gone two winters and two springs,
And sigh'd, and thought, 'Would he not be your son?'
But all in silence, for she had too much
Of the firm will of Malcolm in her soul
To think of shaking that deep-rooted rock;
But hop'd the crystal current of his love
For his one child, increasing day by day,
Might fret with silver lip, until it wore
Such channels thro' the rock, that some slight stroke
Of circumstance might crumble down the stone.
The wooer, too, had come, Max prophesied;
Reputed wealthy; with the azure eyes
And Saxon-gilded locks--the fair, clear face,
And stalwart form that most women love.
And with the jewels of some virtues set
On his broad brow. With fires within his soul
He had the wizard skill to fetter down
To that mere pink, poetic, nameless glow,
That need not fright a flake of snow away--
But if unloos'd, could melt an adverse rock
Marrow'd with iron, frowning in his way.
And Malcolm balanc'd him by day and night;
And with his grey-ey'd shrewdness partly saw
He was not one for Kate; but let him come,
And in chance moments thought: 'Well, let it be--
'They make a bonnie pair--he knows the ways
'Of men and things: can hold the gear I give,
'And, if the lassie wills it, let it be.'
And then, upstarting from his midnight sleep,
With hair erect and sweat upon his brow,
Such as no labor e'er had beaded there;
Would cry aloud, wide-staring thro' the dark--
'Nay, nay; she shall not wed him--rest in peace.'
Then fully waking, grimly laugh and say:
'Why did I speak and answer when none spake?'
But still lie staring, wakeful, through the shades;
List'ning to the silence, and beating still
The ball of Alfred's merits to and fro--
Saying, between the silent arguments:
'But would the mother like it, could she know?
'I would there was a way to ring a lad
'Like silver coin, and so find out the true;
'But Kate shall say him 'Nay' or say him 'Yea'
'At her own will.' And Katie said him 'Nay,'
In all the maiden, speechless, gentle ways
A woman has. But Alfred only laugh'd
To his own soul, and said in his wall'd mind:
'O, Kate, were I a lover, I might feel
'Despair flap o'er my hopes with raven wings;
'Because thy love is giv'n to other love.
'And did I love--unless I gain'd thy love,
'I would disdain the golden hair, sweet lips,
'Air-blown form and true violet eyes;
'Nor crave the beauteous lamp without the flame;
'Which in itself would light a charnel house.
'Unlov'd and loving, I would find the cure
'Of Love's despair in nursing Love's disdain--
'Disdain of lesser treasure than the whole.
'One cares not much to place against the wheel
'A diamond lacking flame--nor loves to pluck
'A rose with all its perfume cast abroad
'To the bosom of the gale. Not I, in truth!
'If all man's days are three score years and ten,
'He needs must waste them not, but nimbly seize
'The bright consummate blossom that his will
'Calls for most loudly. Gone, long gone the days
'When Love within my soul for ever stretch'd
'Fierce hands of flame, and here and there I found
'A blossom fitted for him--all up-fill'd
'With love as with clear dew--they had their hour
'And burn'd to ashes with him, as he droop'd
'In his own ruby fires. No Phoenix he,
'To rise again because of Katie's eyes,
'On dewy wings, from ashes such as his!
'But now, another Passion bids me forth.
'To crown him with the fairest I can find,
'And makes me lover--not of Katie's face,
'But of her father's riches! O, high fool,
'Who feels the faintest pulsing of a wish
'And fails to feed it into lordly life!
'So that, when stumbling back to Mother Earth,
'His freezing lip may curl in cold disdain
'Of those poor, blighted fools who starward stare
'For that fruition, nipp'd and scanted here.
'And, while the clay, o'ermasters all his blood--
'And he can feel the dust knit with his flesh--
'He yet can say to them, 'Be ye content;
''I tasted perfect fruitage thro' my life,
''Lighted all lamps of passion, till the oil
''Fail'd from their wicks; and now, O now, I know
''There is no Immortality could give
''Such boon as this--to simply cease to be!
''_There_ lies your Heaven, O ye dreaming slaves,
''If ye would only live to make it so;
''Nor paint upon the blue skies lying shades
''Of--_what is not_. Wise, wise and strong the man
''who poisons that fond haunter of the mind,
''Craving for a hereafter with deep draughts
''Of wild delights--so fiery, fierce, and strong,
''That when their dregs are deeply, deeply drain'd,
''What once was blindly crav'd of purblind Chance,
''Life, life eternal--throbbing thro' all space
''Is strongly loath'd--and with his face in dust,
''Man loves his only Heav'n--six feet of Earth!'
'So, Katie, tho' your blue eyes say me 'Nay,'
'My pangs of love for gold must needs be fed,
'And shall be, Katie, if I know my mind.'
Events were winds close nest'ling in the sails
Of Alfred's bark, all blowing him direct
To his wish'd harbour. On a certain day,
All set about with roses and with fire;
One of three days of heat which frequent slip,
Like triple rubies, in between the sweet,
Mild, emerald days of summer, Katie went,
Drawn by a yearning for the ice-pale blooms,
Natant and shining--firing all the bay
With angel fires built up of snow and gold.
She found the bay close pack'd with groaning logs,
Prison'd between great arms of close hing'd wood.
All cut from Malcolm's forests in the west,
And floated hither to his noisy mills;
And all stamp'd with the potent 'G.' and 'M.,'
Which much he lov'd to see upon his goods,
The silent courtiers owning him their king.
Out clear beyond the rustling ricebeds sang,
And the cool lilies starr'd the shadow'd wave.
'This is a day for lily-love,' said Kate,
While she made bare the lilies of her feet;
And sang a lily song that Max had made,
That spoke of lilies--always meaning Kate.
* * * * *
'While Lady of the silver'd lakes,
Chaste Goddess of the sweet, still shrines.
The jocund river fitful makes,
By sudden, deep gloom'd brakes,
Close shelter'd by close weft and woof of vine,
Spilling a shadow gloomy-rich as wine,
Into the silver throne where thou dost sit,
Thy silken leaves all dusky round thee knit!
* * * * *
'Mild soul of the unsalted wave!
White bosom holding golden fire
Deep as some ocean-hidden cave
Are fix'd the roots of thy desire,
Thro' limpid currents stealing up,
And rounding to the pearly cup
Thou dost desire,
With all thy trembling heart of sinless fire,
But to be fill'd
With dew distill'd
From clear, fond skies, that in their gloom
Hold, floating high, thy sister moon,
Pale chalice of a sweet perfume,
Whiter-breasted than a dove--
To thee the dew is--love!'
* * * * *
Kate bared her little feet, and pois'd herself
On the first log close grating on the shore;
And with bright eyes of laughter, and wild hair--
A flying wind of gold--from log to log
Sped, laughing as they wallow'd in her track,
Like brown-scal'd monsters rolling, as her foot
Spurn'd each in turn with its rose-white sole.
A little island, out in middlewave,
With its green shoulder held the great drive brac'd
Between it and the mainland; here it was
The silver lilies drew her with white smiles;
And as she touch'd the last great log of all,
It reel'd, upstarting, like a column brac'd,
A second on the wave--and when it plung'd
Rolling upon the froth and sudden foam,
Katie had vanish'd, and with angry grind
The vast logs roll'd together,--nor a lock
Of drifting yellow hair--an upflung hand,
Told where the rich man's chiefest treasure sank
Under his wooden wealth. But Alfred, laid
With pipe and book upon the shady marge,
Of the cool isle, saw all, and seeing hurl'd
Himself, and hardly knew it, on the logs;
By happy chance a shallow lapp'd the isle
On this green bank; and when his iron arms
Dash'd the bark'd monsters, as frail stems of rice,
A little space apart, the soft, slow tide
But reach'd his chest, and in a flash he saw
Kate's yellow hair, and by it drew her up,
And lifting her aloft, cried out, 'O, Kate!'
And once again said, 'Katie! is she dead?'
For like the lilies broken by the rough
And sudden riot of the armor'd logs,
Kate lay upon his hands; and now the logs
Clos'd in upon him, nipping his great chest,
Nor could he move to push them off again
For Katie in his arms. 'And now,' he said,
'If none should come, and any wind arise
'To weld these woody monsters 'gainst the isle,
'I shall be crack'd like any broken twig;
'And as it is, I know not if I die,
'For I am hurt--aye, sorely, sorely hurt!'
Then look'd on Katie's lily face, and said,
'Dead, dead or living? Why, an even chance.
'O lovely bubble on a troubl'd sea,
'I would not thou shoulds't lose thyself again
'In the black ocean whence thy life emerg'd,
'But skyward steal on gales as soft as love,
'And hang in some bright rainbow overhead,
'If only such bright rainbow spann'd the earth.'
Then shouted loudly, till the silent air
Rous'd like a frighten'd bird, and on its wings
Caught up his cry and bore it to the farm.
There Malcolm, leaping from his noontide sleep,
Upstarted as at midnight, crying out,
'She shall not wed him--rest you, wife, in peace!'
They found him, Alfred, haggard-ey'd and faint,
But holding Katie ever towards the sun,
Unhurt, and waking in the fervent heat.
And now it came that Alfred being sick
Of his sharp hurts and tended by them both,
With what was like to love, being born of thanks,
Had choice of hours most politic to woo,
And used his deed as one might use the sun,
To ripen unmellow'd fruit; and from the core
Of Katie's gratitude hop'd yet to nurse
A flow'r all to his liking--Katie's love.
But Katie's mind was like the plain, broad shield
Of a table di'mond, nor had a score of sides;
And in its shield, so precious and so plain,
Was cut, thro' all its clear depths--Max's name!
And so she said him 'Nay' at last, in words
Of such true sounding silver, that he knew
He might not win her at the present hour,
But smil'd and thought--'I go, and come again!
'Then shall we see. Our three-score years and ten
'Are mines of treasure, if we hew them deep,
'Nor stop too long in choosing out our tools!'
* * * * *
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Cross Roads; Or, The Haymaker's Story
Stopt by the storm, that long in sullen black
From the south-west stained its encroaching track,
Haymakers, hustling from the rain to hide,
Sought the grey willows by the pasture-side;
And there, while big drops bow the grassy stems,
And bleb the withering hay with pearly gems,
Dimple the brook, and patter in the leaves,
The song or tale an hour's restraint relieves.
And while the old dames gossip at their ease,
And pinch the snuff-box empty by degrees,
The young ones join in love's delightful themes,
Truths told by gipsies, and expounded dreams;
And mutter things kept secrets from the rest,
As sweethearts' names, and whom they love the best;
And dazzling ribbons they delight to show,
And last new favours of some veigling beau,
Who with such treachery tries their hearts to move,
And, like the highest, bribes the maidens' love.
The old dames, jealous of their whispered praise,
Throw in their hints of man's deluding ways;
And one, to give her counsels more effect,
And by example illustrate the fact
Of innocence oercome by flattering man,
Thrice tapped her box, and pinched, and thus began.
'Now wenches listen, and let lovers lie,
Ye'll hear a story ye may profit by;
I'm your age treble, with some oddments to't,
And right from wrong can tell, if ye'll but do't:
Ye need not giggle underneath your hat,
Mine's no joke-matter, let me tell you that;
So keep ye quiet till my story's told,
And don't despise your betters cause they're old.
'That grave ye've heard of, where the four roads meet,
Where walks the spirit in a winding-sheet,
Oft seen at night, by strangers passing late,
And tarrying neighbours that at market wait,
Stalking along as white as driven snow,
And long as one's shadow when the sun is low;
The girl that's buried there I knew her well,
And her whole history, if ye'll hark, can tell.
Her name was Jane, and neighbour's children we,
And old companions once, as ye may be;
And like to you, on Sundays often strolled
To gipsies' camps to have our fortunes told;
And oft, God rest her, in the fortune-book
Which we at hay-time in our pockets took,
Our pins at blindfold on the wheel we stuck,
When hers would always prick the worst of luck;
For try, poor thing, as often as she might,
Her point would always on the blank alight;
Which plainly shows the fortune one's to have,
As such like go unwedded to the grave,--
And so it proved.--The next succeeding May,
We both to service went from sports and play,
Though in the village still; as friends and kin
Thought neighbour's service better to begin.
So out we went:--Jane's place was reckoned good,
Though she bout life but little understood,
And had a master wild as wild can be,
And far unfit for such a child as she;
And soon the whisper went about the town,
That Jane's good looks procured her many a gown
From him, whose promise was to every one,
But whose intention was to wive with none.
Twas nought to wonder, though begun by guess;
For Jane was lovely in her Sunday dress,
And all expected such a rosy face
Would be her ruin--as was just the case.
The while the change was easily perceived,
Some months went by, ere I the tales believed;
For there are people nowadays, Lord knows,
Will sooner hatch up lies than mend their clothes;
And when with such-like tattle they begin,
Don't mind whose character they spoil a pin:
But passing neighbours often marked them smile,
And watched him take her milkpail oer a stile;
And many a time, as wandering closer by,
From Jenny's bosom met a heavy sigh;
And often marked her, as discoursing deep,
When doubts might rise to give just cause to weep,
Smothering their notice, by a wished disguise
To slive her apron corner to her eyes.
Such signs were mournful and alarming things,
And far more weighty than conjecture brings;
Though foes made double what they heard of all,
Swore lies as proofs, and prophesied her fall.
Poor thoughtless wench! it seems but Sunday past
Since we went out together for the last,
And plain enough indeed it was to find
She'd something more than common on her mind;
For she was always fond and full of chat,
In passing harmless jokes bout beaus and that,
But nothing then was scarcely talked about,
And what there was, I even forced it out.
A gloomy wanness spoiled her rosy cheek,
And doubts hung there it was not mine to seek;
She neer so much as mentioned things to come,
But sighed oer pleasures ere she left her home;
And now and then a mournful smile would raise
At freaks repeated of our younger days,
Which I brought up, while passing spots of ground
Where we, when children, 'hurly-burlied' round,
Or 'blindman-buffed' some morts of hours away--
Two games, poor thing, Jane dearly loved to play.
She smiled at these, but shook her head and sighed
When eer she thought my look was turned aside;
Nor turned she round, as was her former way,
To praise the thorn, white over then with May;
Nor stooped once, though thousands round her grew,
To pull a cowslip as she used to do:
For Jane in flowers delighted from a child--
I like the garden, but she loved the wild--
And oft on Sundays young men's gifts declined,
Posies from gardens of the sweetest kind,
And eager scrambled the dog-rose to get,
And woodbine-flowers at every bush she met.
The cowslip blossom, with its ruddy streak,
Would tempt her furlongs from the path to seek;
And gay long purple, with its tufty spike,
She'd wade oer shoes to reach it in the dyke;
And oft, while scratching through the briary woods
For tempting cuckoo-flowers and violet buds,
Poor Jane, I've known her crying sneak to town,
Fearing her mother, when she'd torn her gown.
Ah, these were days her conscience viewed with pain,
Which all are loth to lose, as well as Jane.
And, what I took more odd than all the rest,
Was, that same night she neer a wish exprest
To see the gipsies, so beloved before,
That lay a stone's throw from us on the moor:
I hinted it; she just replied again--
She once believed them, but had doubts since then.
And when we sought our cows, I called, 'Come mull!'
But she stood silent, for her heart was full.
She loved dumb things: and ere she had begun
To milk, caressed them more than eer she'd done;
But though her tears stood watering in her eye,
I little took it as her last good-bye;
For she was tender, and I've often known
Her mourn when beetles have been trampled on:
So I neer dreamed from this, what soon befell,
Till the next morning rang her passing-bell.
My story's long, but time's in plenty yet,
Since the black clouds betoken nought but wet;
And I'll een snatch a minute's breath or two,
And take another pinch, to help me through.
'So, as I said, next morn I heard the bell,
And passing neighbours crossed the street, to tell
That my poor partner Jenny had been found
In the old flag-pool, on the pasture, drowned.
God knows my heart! I twittered like a leaf,
And found too late the cause of Sunday's grief;
For every tongue was loosed to gabble oer
The slanderous things that secret passed before:
With truth or lies they need not then be strict,
The one they railed at could not contradict.
Twas now no secret of her being beguiled,
For every mouth knew Jenny died with child;
And though more cautious with a living name,
Each more than guessed her master bore the blame.
That very morning, it affects me still,
Ye know the foot-path sidles down the hill,
Ignorant as babe unborn I passed the pond
To milk as usual in our close beyond,
And cows were drinking at the water's edge,
And horses browsed among the flags and sedge,
And gnats and midges danced the water oer,
Just as I've marked them scores of times before,
And birds sat singing, as in mornings gone,--
While I as unconcerned went soodling on,
But little dreaming, as the wakening wind
Flapped the broad ash-leaves oer the pond reclin'd,
And oer the water crinked the curdled wave,
That Jane was sleeping in her watery grave.
The neatherd boy that used to tend the cows,
While getting whip-sticks from the dangling boughs
Of osiers drooping by the water-side,
Her bonnet floating on the top espied;
He knew it well, and hastened fearful down
To take the terror of his fears to town,--
A melancholy story, far too true;
And soon the village to the pasture flew,
Where, from the deepest hole the pond about,
They dragged poor Jenny's lifeless body out,
And took her home, where scarce an hour gone by
She had been living like to you and I.
I went with more, and kissed her for the last,
And thought with tears on pleasures that were past;
And, the last kindness left me then to do,
I went, at milking, where the blossoms grew,
And handfuls got of rose and lambtoe sweet,
And put them with her in her winding-sheet.
A wilful murder, jury made the crime;
Nor parson 'lowed to pray, nor bell to chime;
On the cross roads, far from her friends and kin,
The usual law for their ungodly sin
Who violent hands upon themselves have laid,
Poor Jane's last bed unchristian-like was made;
And there, like all whose last thoughts turn to heaven,
She sleeps, and doubtless hoped to be forgiven.
But, though I say't, for maids thus veigled in
I think the wicked men deserve the sin;
And sure enough we all at last shall see
The treachery punished as it ought to be.
For ere his wickedness pretended love,
Jane, I'll be bound, was spotless as the dove,
And's good a servant, still old folks allow,
As ever scoured a pail or milked a cow;
And ere he led her into ruin's way,
As gay and buxom as a summer's day:
The birds that ranted in the hedge-row boughs,
As night and morning we have sought our cows,
With yokes and buckets as she bounced along,
Were often deafed to silence with her song.
But now she's gone:--girls, shun deceitful men,
The worst of stumbles ye can fall agen;
Be deaf to them, and then, as twere, ye'll see
Your pleasures safe as under lock and key.
Throw not my words away, as many do;
They're gold in value, though they're cheap to you.
And husseys hearken, and be warned from this,
If ye love mothers, never do amiss:
Jane might love hers, but she forsook the plan
To make her happy, when she thought of man.
Poor tottering dame, it was too plainly known,
Her daughter's dying hastened on her own,
For from the day the tidings reached her door
She took to bed and looked up no more,
And, ere again another year came round,
She, well as Jane, was laid within the ground;
And all were grieved poor Goody's end to see:
No better neighbour entered house than she,
A harmless soul, with no abusive tongue,
Trig as new pins, and tight's the day was long;
And go the week about, nine times in ten
Ye'd find her house as cleanly as her sen.
But, Lord protect us! time such change does bring,
We cannot dream what oer our heads may hing;
The very house she lived in, stick and stone,
Since Goody died, has tumbled down and gone:
And where the marjoram once, and sage, and rue,
And balm, and mint, with curled-leaf parsley grew,
And double marygolds, and silver thyme,
And pumpkins neath the window used to climb;
And where I often when a child for hours
Tried through the pales to get the tempting flowers,
As lady's laces, everlasting peas,
True-love-lies-bleeding, with the hearts-at-ease,
And golden rods, and tansy running high
That oer the pale-tops smiled on passers-by,
Flowers in my time that every one would praise,
Though thrown like weeds from gardens nowadays;
Where these all grew, now henbane stinks and spreads,
And docks and thistles shake their seedy heads,
And yearly keep with nettles smothering oer;--
The house, the dame, the garden known no more:
While, neighbouring nigh, one lonely elder-tree
Is all that's left of what had used to be,
Marking the place, and bringing up with tears
The recollections of one's younger years.
And now I've done, ye're each at once as free
To take your trundle as ye used to be;
To take right ways, as Jenny should have ta'en,
Or headlong run, and be a second Jane;
For by one thoughtless girl that's acted ill
A thousand may be guided if they will:
As oft mong folks to labour bustling on,
We mark the foremost kick against a stone,
Or stumble oer a stile he meant to climb,
While hind ones see and shun the fall in time.
But ye, I will be bound, like far the best
Love's tickling nick-nacks and the laughing jest,
And ten times sooner than be warned by me,
Would each be sitting on some fellow's knee,
Sooner believe the lies wild chaps will tell
Than old dames' cautions, who would wish ye well:
So have your wills.'--She pinched her box again,
And ceased her tale, and listened to the rain,
Which still as usual pattered fast around,
And bowed the bent-head loaded to the ground;
While larks, their naked nest by force forsook,
Pruned their wet wings in bushes by the brook.
The maids, impatient now old Goody ceased,
As restless children from the school released,
Right gladly proving, what she'd just foretold,
That young ones' stories were preferred to old,
Turn to the whisperings of their former joy,
That oft deceive, but very rarely cloy.
poem by John Clare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Believer's Principles : Chap. IV.
Faith and Sense Natural, compared and distinguished.
When Abram's body, Sarah's womb,
Were ripe for nothing but the tomb,
Exceeding old, and wholly dead,
Unlike to bear the promis'd seed:
Faith said, 'I shall an Isaac see;'
'No, no,' said Sense, 'it cannot be;'
Blind Reason, to augment the strife,
Adds, 'How can death engender life?'
My heart is like a rotten tomb,
More dead than ever Sarah's womb;
O! can the promis'd seed of grace
Spring forth from such a barren place?
Sense gazing but on flinty rocks,
My hope and expectation chokes:
But could I, skill'd in Abram's art,
O'erlook my dead and barren heart;
And build my hope on nothing less
That divine pow'r and faithfulness;
Soon would I find him raise up sons
To Abram, out of rocks and stones.
Faith acts as busy boatmen do,
Who backward look and forward row;
It looks intent to things unseen,
Thinks objects visible too mean.
Sense thinks it madness thus to steer,
And only trusts its eye and ear;
Into faith's boat dare thrust its oar,
And put it further from the shore.
Faith does alone the promise eye;
Sense won't believe unless it see;
Nor can it trust the divine guide,
Unless it have both wind and tide.
Faith thinks the promise sure and good;
Sense doth depend on likelihood;
Faith ev'n in storms believes the seers;
Sense calls all men, ev'n prophets, liars.
Faith uses means, but rests on none;
Sense sails when outward means are gone:
Trusts more on probabilities,
Than all the divine promises.
It rests upon the rusty beam
Of outward things that hopeful seem;
Let these its supports sink or cease,
No promise then can yield it peace.
True faith that's of a divine brood,
Consults not with base flesh and blood;
But carnal sense which ever errs,
With carnal reason still confers.
What! my disciples won't believe
That I am risen from the grave?
Why will they pore on dust and death,
And overlook my quick'ning breath?
Why do they slight the word I spake?
And rather sorry counsel take
With death, and with a pow'rful grave,
If they their captive can relieve?
Sense does inquire if tombs of clay
Can send their guests alive away;
But faith will hear Jehovah's word,
Of life and death the sov'reign Lord.
Should I give ear to rotten dust,
Or to the tombs confine my trust;
No resurrection can I see,
For dust that flies into mine eye.
What! Thomas, can't thou trust so much
To me as to thy sight and touch?
Won't thou believe till Sense be guide,
And thrust its hand into my side?
Where is thy faith, if it depends
On nothing but thy finger-ends?
But bless'd are they the truth who seal
By faith, yet neither see nor feel.
Sect. II.
Faith and Sense Spiritual, compared and distinguished. Where also the difference between the Assurance of Faith, and the Assurance of Sense.
The certainty of faith and sense
Wide differ in experience:
Faith builds upon, - Thus saith the Lord;
Sense the views his work and not his word.
God's word without is faith's resort,
His work within doth sense support,
By faith we trust him without pawns,
By sense we handle with our hands.
By faith the word of truth's receiv'd,
By sense we know we have believ'd.
Faith's certain by fiducial acts,
Sense by its evidential facts.
Faith credits the divine report,
Sense to his breathings makes resort:
That on his word of grace will hing,
This on his Spirit witnessing.
By faith I take the Lord for mine,
By sense I feel his love divine:
By that I touch his garment's hem,
By this find virtue thence to stream.
By faith I have mine all on band,
By sense I have some stock in hand;
By that some vision is begun,
By this I some fruition win.
My faith can fend ev'n in exile,
Sense cannot live without a smile.
By faith I to his promise fly,
By sense I in his bosom lie.
Faith builds upon the truth of God,
That lies within the promise broad;
But sense upon the truth of grace
His hand within my heart did place.
Thus Christ's the object faith will eye,
And faith's the object sense may see:
Faith keeps the truth of God in view,
While sense the truth of faith may shew.
Hence faith's assurance firm can stand,
When sense's in the deep may strand;
And faith's persuasion full prevail,
When comfortable sense may sail.
I am assur'd when faith's in act,
Though sense and feeling both I lack;
And thus mysterious is my lot,
I'm oft assur'd when I am not;
Oft pierc'd with racking doubts and fears:
Yet faith these brambles never bears;
But unbelief that cuts my breath,
And stops the language of my faith.
Clamours of unbelieving fears,
So frequently disturb mine ears,
I cannot hear what faith would say,
Till once the noisy clamours stay.
And then will fresh experience find,
When faith gets leave to speak its mind,
The native language whereof is,
My Lord is mine, and I am his.
Sad doubtings compass me about,
Yet faith itself could never doubt;
For, as the sacred volume saith,
Much doubting argues little faith.
The doubts and fears that work my grief,
Flow not from faith, but unbelief;
For faith, whene'er it acteth, cures
The plague of doubts, and me assures.
But when mine eye of faith's asleep,
I dream of drowning in the deep:
But as befals the sleeping eye,
Though in sight remain, it cannot see;
The seeing faculty abides,
Though sleep from active seeing hides;
So faith's assuring pow'rs endure
Ev'n when it ceases to assure.
There still persuasion in my faith,
Ev'n when I'm fill'd with fears of wrath;
The trusting habit still remains,
Though slumbers hold the act in chains.
The assuring faculty it keeps,
Ev'n when its eye in darkness sleeps,
Wrapt up in doubts; but when it wakes,
It rouses up assuring acts.
Sect. III.
The Harmony and Discord between Faith and Sense; how they help, and how they mar each other.
Though gallant Faith can keep the field
When cow'rdly Sense will fly or yield;
Yet while I view their unusual path,
Sense often stands and falls with Faith.
Faith ushers in sweet Peace and Joy,
Which further heartens Faith's employ:
Faith like the head, and Sense the heart,
Do mutual vigour fresh impart.
When lively Faith and Feeling sweet,
Like dearest darlings, kindly meet,
They straight each other help and hug
In loving friendship close and snug.
Faith gives to Sense both life and breath,
And Sense gives joy and strength to Faith;
'O now,' says Faith, 'how fond do I
In Sense's glowing bosom lie!'
Their mutual kindness then is such,
That oft they doting too too much,
Embrace each other out of breath;
As AEsop hugg'd his child to death.
Faith leaping into Sense's arms,
Allur'd with her bewitching charms,
In hugging these, lets rashly slip
The proper object of its grip:
Which being lost, behold the thrall!
Anon Faith loses Sense and all;
Thus unawares cuts Sense's breath,
While Sense trips up the heels of Faith.
Her charms assuming Jesus' place,
While Faith's lull'd in her soft embrace;
Lo! soon in dying pleasures wrapt,
Its living joy away is snapt.
Sect. IV.
The Valour and Victories of Faith.
By Faith I unseen Being see
Forth lower beings call,
And say to nothing, Let it be,
And nothing hatches all.
By faith I know the worlds were made
By God's great word of might;
How soon, Let there be light, he said,
That moment there was light.
By faith I soar and force my flight,
Through all the clouds of sense;
I see the glories out of sight,
With brightest evidence.
By faith I mount the azure sky,
And from the lofty sphere,
The earth a little mote espy,
Unworthy of my care.
By faith I see the unseen things,
Hid from all mortal eyes;
Proud Reason stretching all its wings,
Beneath me flutt'ring lies.
By faith I build my lasting hope
On righteousness divine,
Nor can I sink with such a prop,
Whatever storms combine.
By faith my works, my righteousness,
And duties all I own
But loss and dung; and lay my stress
On what my Lord has done.
By faith I overcome the world,
And all its hurtful charms;
I'm in the heav'nly chariot hurl'd
Through all opposing harms.
By faith I have a conqu'ring pow'r,
To tread upon my foes,
To triumph in a dying hour,
And banish all my woes.
By faith in midst of wrongs I'm right,
In sad decays I thrive;
In weakness I am strong in might,
In death I am alive.
By faith I stand when deep I fall,
In darkness I have light;
Nor dare I doubt and question all
When all is out of sight.
By faith I trust a pardon free
Which puzzles flesh and blood;
To think that God can justify,
Where yet he sees no good.
By faith I keep my Lord's commands,
To verify my trust;
I purify my heart and hands,
And mortify my lust.
By faith my melting soul repents,
When pierced Christ appears;
My heart in grateful praises vents,
Mine eyes in joyful tears.
By faith I can the mountains vast
Of sin and guilt remove;
And them into the ocean cast,
The sea of blood and love.
By faith I see Jehovah high
Upon a throne of grace;
I see him lay his vengeance by,
And smile in Jesus' face.
By faith I hope to see the Sun,
The light of grace that lent;
His everlasting circles run,
In glory's firmament.
By faith I'm more than conqueror,
Ev'n though I nothing can;
Because I set Jehovah's pow'r
Before me in the van.
By faith I counterplot my foes,
Nor need their ambush fear;
Because my life-guard also goes
Behind me in the rear.
By faith I walk, I run, I fly,
By faith I suffer thrall;
By faith I'm fit to live and die,
By faith I can do all.
Sect. V.
The Heights and Depths of Sense.
When Heav'n me grants, at certain times,
Amidst a pow'rful gale,
Sweet liberty to moan my crimes,
And wand'rings to bewail;
Then do I dream my sinful brood,
Drown'd in the ocean main
Of crystal tears and crimson blood,
Will never lie again.
I get my foes beneath my feet,
I bruise the serpent's head;
I hope the vict'ry is complete,
And all my lusts are dead.
How gladly do I think and say,
When thus it is with me,
Sin to my sense is clean away,
And so shall ever be?
But, ah! alas! th' ensuing hour
My lusts arise and swell,
They rage and re-inforce their pow'r,
With new recruits from hell,
Though I resolv'd and swore, through grace,
In very solemn terms,
I never should my lusts embrace,
Nor yield unto their charms;
Yet such deceitful friends they are,
While I no danger dream,
I'm snar'd before I am aware,
And hurry'd down the stream.
Into the gulph of sin anon,
I'm plunged head and ears;
Grace to my sense is wholly gone,
And I am chain'd in fears;
Till straight, my Lord, with sweet surprise,
Returns to loose my bands,
With kind compassion in his eyes,
And pardon in his hands.
Yet thus my life is nothing else,
But heav'n and hell by turns;
My soul that now in Goshen dwells,
Anon in Egypt mourns.
Sect. VI.
Faith and Frames compared; or, Faith building upon Sense discovered.
Faith has for its foundation broad
A stable rock on which I stand,
The truth and faithfulness of God,
All other grounds are sinking sand,
My frames and feelings ebb and flow;
And when my faith depends on them,
It fleets and staggers to and fro,
And dies amidst the dying frame.
That faith is surely most unstay'd,
Its stagg'ring can't be counted strange,
That builds its hope of lasting aid
On things that ev'ry moment change.
But could my faith lay all its load
On Jesus' everlasting name,
Upon the righteousness of God,
And divine truth that's still the same:
Could I believe what God has spoke,
Rely on his unchanging love,
And cease to grasp at fleeting smoke,
No changes would my mountain move,
But when, how soon the frame's away,
And comfortable feelings fail;
So soon my faith falls in decay,
And unbelieving doubts prevail:
This proves the charge of latent vice,
And plain my faith's defects may show;
I built the house on thawing ice,
That tumbles with the melting snow,
When divine smiles in sight appear,
And I enjoy the heav'nly gale;
When wind and tide and all is fair,
I dream my faith shall never fail:
My heart will false conclusions draw,
That strong my mountain shall remain;
That in my faith there is no flaw,
I'll never never doubt again.
I think the only rest I take,
Is God's unfading word and name;
And fancy not my faith so weak,
As e'er to trust a fading frame.
But, ah! by sudden turns I see
My lying heart's fallacious guilt,
And that my faith, not firm in me,
On sinking sand was partly built;
For, lo! when warming beams are gone,
And shadows fall; alas, 'tis odd,
I cannot wait the rising Sun,
I cannot trust a hiding God.
So much my faith's affiance seems
Its life from fading joys to bring,
That when I loose the dying streams,
I cannot trust the living spring.
When drops of comfort quickly dry'd,
And sensible enjoyments fail;
When cheering apples are deny'd,
Then doubts instead of faith prevail.
But why, though fruit be snatch'd from me,
Should I distrust the glorious Root;
And still affront the standing tree,
By trusting more to falling fruit?
The smallest trials may evince
My faith unfit to stand the shock,
That more depends on fleeting sense,
Than on the fix'd eternal Rock.
The safest ark when floods arise,
Is stable truth that changes not;
How weak's my faith, that more relies
On feeble sense's floating boat?
For when the fleeting frame is gone,
I straight my state in question call;
I droop and sink in deeps anon,
As if my frame were all in all.
But though I miss the pleasing gale,
And Heav'n withdraw the charming glance;
Unless Jehovah's oath can fail,
My faith may keep its countenance.
The frame of nature shall decay,
Time-changes break her rusty chains;
Yea, heav'n and earth shall pass away;
But faith's foundation firm remains.
Heav'n's promises so fix'dly stand,
Ingrav'd with an immortal pen,
In great Immanuel's mighty hand,
All hell's attempts to raze are vain.
Did Faith with none but Truth advise,
My steady soul would move no more
Than stable hills when tempests rise,
Or solid rocks when billows roar.
But when my faith the counsel hears
Of present sense and reason blind,
My wav'ring spirit then appears
A feather toss'd with ev'ry wind.
Lame legs of faith unequal, crook;
Thus mine, alas! unev'nly stand,
Else I would trust my stable Rock,
Not fading frames and feeble sand.
I would, when dying comforts fly,
As much as when they present were,
Upon my living joy rely.
Help, Lord, for here I daily err.
poem by Ralph Erskine
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