Woman and the Weed / Andrew Lang

(FOUNDED ON A NEW ZEALAND MYTH.)

In the Morning of Time, when his fortunes began,

How bleak, how un-Greek, was the Nature of Man!

From his wigwam, if ever he ventured to roam,

There was nobody waiting to welcome him home;

For the Man had been made, but the woman had not,

And Earth was a highly detestable spot.

Man hated his neighbours; they met and they scowled,

They did not converse but they struggled and howled,

For Man had no tact--he would ne'er take a hint,

And his notions he backed with a hatchet of flint.

Valentine in form of Ballade / Andrew Lang

The soft wind from the south land sped,

He set his strength to blow,

From forests where Adonis bled,

And lily flowers a-row:

He crossed the straits like streams that flow,

The ocean dark as wine,

To my true love to whisper low,

To be your Valentine.

To the Gentle Reader / Andrew Lang

'A French writer (whom I love well) speaks of three kinds of companions,--men, women, and books.'

~ Sir John Davys.

Three kinds of companions, men, women, and books,

Were enough, said the elderly Sage, for his ends.

And the women we deem that he chose for their looks,

And the men for their cellars: the books were his friends:

'Man delights me not,' often, 'nor woman,' but books

Are the best of good comrades in loneliest nooks.

To Robert Louis Stevenson / Andrew Lang

WITH KIRK'S 'SECRET COMMONWEALTH'

O Louis! you that like them maist,

Ye're far frae kelpie, wraith, and ghaist,

And fairy dames, no unco chaste,

And haunted cell.

Among a heathen clan ye're placed,

That kensna hell!

The Poet's Apology / Andrew Lang

No, the Muse has gone away,

Does not haunt me much to-day.

Everything she had to say

Has been said!

'Twas not much at any time

She could hitch into a rhyme,

Never was the Muse sublime,

Who has fled!

The Haunted Homes of England / Andrew Lang

The Haunted Homes of England,

How eerily they stand,

While through them flit their ghosts--to wit,

The Monk with the Red Hand,

The Eyeless Girl--an awful spook--

To stop the boldest breath,

The boy that inked his copybook,

And so got 'wopped' to death!

The Fairy's Gift / Andrew Lang

"Take short views."--Sydney Smith

The Fays that to my christ'ning came

(For come they did, my nurses taught me),

They did not bring me wealth or fame,

'Tis very little that they brought me.

But one, the crossest of the crew,

The ugly old one, uninvited,

Said, "I shall be avenged on You,

My child; you shall grow up short-sighted!"

The Fairy Minister / Andrew Lang

People of Peace! a peaceful man,

Well worthy of your love was he,

Who, while the roaring Garry ran

Red with the life-blood of Dundee,

While coats were turning, crowns were falling,

Wandered along his valley still,

And heard your mystic voices calling

From fairy knowe and haunted hill.

Rhyme of Oxford Cockney Rhymes / Andrew Lang

Though Keats rhymed "ear" to "Cytherea,"

And Morris "dawn" to "morn,"

A worse example, it is clear,

By Oxford Dons is "shorn."

G-y, of Magdalen, goes beyond

These puny Cockneys far,

And to "Magrath" rhymes--Muse despond!--

"Magrath" he rhymes to "star"!

Ode to Golf / Andrew Lang

'Delusive Nymph, farewell!'

How oft we've said or sung,

When balls evasive fell,

Or in the jaws of 'Hell,'

Or salt sea-weeds among,

'Mid shingle and sea-shell!

Jeanne d'Arc / Andrew Lang

The honour of a loyal boy,

The courage of a paladin,

With maiden's mirth, the soul of joy,

These dwelt her happy breast within.

From shame, from doubt, from fear, from sin,

As God's own angels was she free;

Old worlds shall end, and new begin

To be

For Mark Twain's Jubilee / Andrew Lang

To brave Mark Twain, across the sea,

The years have brought his jubilee;

One hears it half with pain,

That fifty years have passed and gone

Since danced the merry star that shone

Above the babe, Mark Twain!

Culloden / Andrew Lang

Dark, dark was the day when we looked on Culloden

And chill was the mist drop that clung to the tree,

The oats of the harvest hung heavy and sodden,

No light on the land and no wind on the sea.

Britannia / Andrew Lang

From Jules Lemaître

Thy mouth is fresh as cherries on the bough,

Red cherries in the dawning, and more white

Than milk or white camellias is thy brow;

And as the golden corn thy hair is bright,

The corn that drinks the Sun's less fair than thou;

While through thine eyes the child-soul gazeth now--

Eyes like the flower that was Rousseau's delight.*

Before the Snow / Andrew Lang

(AFTER ALBERT GLATIGNY.)

The winter is upon us, not the snow,

The hills are etched on the horizon bare,

The skies are iron grey, a bitter air,

The meagre cloudlets shudder to and fro.

One yellow leaf the listless wind doth blow,

Like some strange butterfly, unclassed and rare.

Your footsteps ring in frozen alleys, where

The black trees seem to shiver as you go.

Ballant o'Ballantrae / Andrew Lang

Whan suthern wunds gar spindrift flee

Abune the clachan, faddums hie,

Whan for the cluds I canna see

The bonny lift,

I'd fain indite an Ode to Thee

Had I the gift!

Ken ye the coast o' wastland Ayr?

Ballade of the Royal Game of Golf / Andrew Lang

There are laddies will drive ye a ba'

To the burn frae the farthermost tee,

But ye mauna think driving is a',

Ye may heel her, and send her ajee,

Ye may land in the sand or the sea;

And ye're dune, sir, ye're no worth a preen,

Tak' the word that an auld man'll gie,

Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!

Ballade of the Muse / Andrew Lang

Quem tu, Melpomene, semel.

The man whom once, Melpomene,

Thou look'st on with benignant sight,

Shall never at the Isthmus be

A boxer eminent in fight,

Nor fares he foremost in the flight

Of Grecian cars to victory,

Nor goes with Delian laurels dight,

The man thou lov'st, Melpomene!

Ballade of the Bookworm / Andrew Lang

Far in the Past I peer, and see

A Child upon the Nursery floor,

A Child with books upon his knee,

Who asks, like Oliver, for more!

The number of his years is IV,

And yet in Letters hath he skill,

How deep he dives in Fairy-lore!

The Books I loved, I love them still!

Ballade of the Book-Hunter / Andrew Lang

In torrid heats of late July,

In March, beneath the bitter bise,

He book-hunts while the loungers fly,--

He book-hunts, though December freeze;

In breeches baggy at the knees,

And heedless of the public jeers,

For these, for these, he hoards his fees,--

Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.