Underwoods

Book I.—_in English_

PAGE I. ENVOY—Go, little book 1 II. A SONG OF THE ROAD—The gauger walked 2 III. THE CANOE SPEAKS—On the great streams 4 IV. It is the season 7 V. THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL—A naked house, a naked 9 moor VI. A VISIT FROM THE SEA—Far from the loud sea 12 beaches VII. TO A GARDENER—Friend, in my mountain-side 14 demesne VIII. TO MINNIE—A picture frame for you to fill 16 IX. TO K. DE M.—A lover of the moorland bare 17 X. TO N. V. DE G. S.—The unfathomable sea 19 XI. TO WILL. H. LOW—Youth now flees 21 XII. TO MRS. WILL. H. LOW—Even in the bluest 24 noonday of July XIII. TO H. F. BROWN—I sit and wait 26 XIV. TO ANDREW LANG—Dear Andrew 29 XV. ET TU IN ARCADIA VIXISTI—In ancient tales, 31 O friend XVI. TO W. E. HENLEY—The year runs through her 36 phases XVII. HENRY JAMES—Who comes to-night 38 XVIII. THE MIRROR SPEAKS—Where the bells 39 XIX. KATHARINE—We see you as we see a face 41 XX. TO F. J. S.—I read, dear friend 42 XXI. REQUIEM—Under the wide and starry sky 43 XXII. THE CELESTIAL SURGEON—If I have faltered 44 XXIII. OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS—Out of the sun 45 XXIV. Not yet, my soul 50 XXV. It is not yours, O mother, to complain 53 XXVI. THE SICK CHILD—O mother, lay your hand on 56 my brow XXVII. IN MEMORIAM F. A. S.—Yet, O stricken heart 58 XXVIII. TO MY FATHER—Peace and her huge invasion 60 XXIX. IN THE STATES—With half a heart 62 XXX. A PORTRAIT—I am a kind of farthing dip 63 XXXI. Sing clearlier, Muse 65 XXXII. A CAMP—The bed was made 66 XXXIII. THE COUNTRY OF THE CAMISARDS—We travelled 67 in the print of olden wars XXXIV. SKERRYVORE—For love of lovely words 68 XXXV. SKERRYVORE: THE PARALLEL—Here all is sunny 69 XXXVI. My house, I say 70 XXXVII. My body which my dungeon is 71 XXXVIII. Say not of me that weakly I declined 73

Book Ii.—_in Scots_

I. THE MAKER TO POSTERITY—Far ’yont amang the 77 years to be II. ILLE TERRARUM—Frae nirly, nippin’, Eas’lan’ 80 breeze III. When aince Aprile has fairly come 85 IV. A MILE AN’ A BITTOCK 87 V. A LOWDEN SABBATH MORN—The clinkum-clank o’ 89 Sabbath bells VI. THE SPAEWIFE—O, I wad like to ken 98 VII. THE BLAST—1875—It’s rainin’. Weet’s the 100 gairden sod VIII. THE COUNTERBLAST—1886—My bonny man, the 103 warld, it’s true IX. THE COUNTERBLAST IRONICAL—It’s strange that 108 God should fash to frame X. THEIR LAUREATE TO AN ACADEMY CLASS DINNER 110 CLUB—Dear Thamson class, whaure’er I gang XI. EMBRO HIE KIRK—The Lord Himsel’ in former 114 days XII. THE SCOTSMAN’S RETURN FROM ABROAD—In mony a 118 foreign pairt I’ve been XIII. Late in the nicht 125 XIV. MY CONSCIENCE!—Of a’ the ills that flesh 130 can fear XV. TO DOCTOR JOHN BROWN—By Lyne and Tyne, by 133 Thames and Tees XVI. It’s an owercome sooth for age an’ youth 138

Book I.—_in English_

I—ENVOY

GO, little book, and wish to all Flowers in the garden, meat in the hall, A bin of wine, a spice of wit, A house with lawns enclosing it, A living river by the door, A nightingale in the sycamore!

II—A SONG OF THE ROAD

THE gauger walked with willing foot, And aye the gauger played the flute; And what should Master Gauger play But Over the hills and far away?

Whene’er I buckle on my pack And foot it gaily in the track, O pleasant gauger, long since dead, I hear you fluting on ahead.

You go with me the self-same way— The self-same air for me you play; For I do think and so do you It is the tune to travel to.

For who would gravely set his face To go to this or t’other place? There’s nothing under Heav’n so blue That’s fairly worth the travelling to.

On every hand the roads begin, And people walk with zeal therein; But wheresoe’er the highways tend, Be sure there’s nothing at the end.

Then follow you, wherever hie The travelling mountains of the sky. Or let the streams in civil mode Direct your choice upon a road;

For one and all, or high or low, Will lead you where you wish to go; And one and all go night and day Over the hills and far away!

Forest of Montargis, 1878.

III—THE CANOE SPEAKS

ON the great streams the ships may go About men’s business to and fro. But I, the egg-shell pinnace, sleep On crystal waters ankle-deep: I, whose diminutive design, Of sweeter cedar, pithier pine, Is fashioned on so frail a mould, A hand may launch, a hand withhold: I, rather, with the leaping trout Wind, among lilies, in and out; I, the unnamed, inviolate, Green, rustic rivers, navigate; My dipping paddle scarcely shakes The berry in the bramble-brakes; Still forth on my green way I wend Beside the cottage garden-end; And by the nested angler fare, And take the lovers unaware. By willow wood and water-wheel Speedily fleets my touching keel; By all retired and shady spots Where prosper dim forget-me-nots; By meadows where at afternoon The growing maidens troop in June To loose their girdles on the grass. Ah! speedier than before the glass The backward toilet goes; and swift As swallows quiver, robe and shift And the rough country stockings lie Around each young divinity. When, following the recondite brook, Sudden upon this scene I look, And light with unfamiliar face On chaste Diana’s bathing-place, Loud ring the hills about and all The shallows are abandoned. . . .

IT is the season now to go About the country high and low, Among the lilacs hand in hand, And two by two in fairy land.

The brooding boy, the sighing maid, Wholly fain and half afraid, Now meet along the hazel’d brook To pass and linger, pause and look.

A year ago, and blithely paired, Their rough-and-tumble play they shared; They kissed and quarrelled, laughed and cried, A year ago at Eastertide.

With bursting heart, with fiery face, She strove against him in the race; He unabashed her garter saw, That now would touch her skirts with awe.

Now by the stile ablaze she stops, And his demurer eyes he drops; Now they exchange averted sighs Or stand and marry silent eyes.

And he to her a hero is And sweeter she than primroses; Their common silence dearer far Than nightingale and mavis are.

Now when they sever wedded hands, Joy trembles in their bosom-strands And lovely laughter leaps and falls Upon their lips in madrigals.

V—THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL

A naked house, a naked moor, A shivering pool before the door, A garden bare of flowers and fruit And poplars at the garden foot: Such is the place that I live in, Bleak without and bare within.

Yet shall your ragged moor receive The incomparable pomp of eve, And the cold glories of the dawn Behind your shivering trees be drawn; And when the wind from place to place Doth the unmoored cloud-galleons chase, Your garden gloom and gleam again, With leaping sun, with glancing rain. Here shall the wizard moon ascend The heavens, in the crimson end Of day’s declining splendour; here The army of the stars appear. The neighbour hollows dry or wet, Spring shall with tender flowers beset; And oft the morning muser see Larks rising from the broomy lea, And every fairy wheel and thread Of cobweb dew-bediamonded. When daisies go, shall winter time Silver the simple grass with rime; Autumnal frosts enchant the pool And make the cart-ruts beautiful; And when snow-bright the moor expands, How shall your children clap their hands! To make this earth our hermitage, A cheerful and a changeful page, God’s bright and intricate device Of days and seasons doth suffice.

VI—A VISIT FROM THE SEA

FAR from the loud sea beaches Where he goes fishing and crying, Here in the inland garden Why is the sea-gull flying?

Here are no fish to dive for; Here is the corn and lea; Here are the green trees rustling. Hie away home to sea!

Fresh is the river water And quiet among the rushes; This is no home for the sea-gull But for the rooks and thrushes.

Pity the bird that has wandered! Pity the sailor ashore! Hurry him home to the ocean, Let him come here no more!

High on the sea-cliff ledges The white gulls are trooping and crying, Here among the rooks and roses, Why is the sea-gull flying?

VII—TO A GARDENER

FRIEND, in my mountain-side demesne My plain-beholding, rosy, green And linnet-haunted garden-ground, Let still the esculents abound. Let first the onion flourish there, Rose among roots, the maiden-fair, Wine-scented and poetic soul Of the capacious salad bowl. Let thyme the mountaineer (to dress The tinier birds) and wading cress, The lover of the shallow brook, From all my plots and borders look.

Nor crisp and ruddy radish, nor Pease-cods for the child’s pinafore Be lacking; nor of salad clan The last and least that ever ran About great nature’s garden-beds. Nor thence be missed the speary heads Of artichoke; nor thence the bean That gathered innocent and green Outsavours the belauded pea.

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