Ballads in Blue China | Page 9

fire, the frost, the waters cold,
Efface the evil and the just; From Thebes, that Eriphyle sold, To
drown'd Caer-Is, whose sweet bells toll'd Beneath the wave a dreamy
chime That echo'd from the mountain-hold, - "Where are the cities of
old time?"
ENVOY.
Prince, all thy towns and cities must Decay as these, till all their crime,
And mirth, and wealth, and toil are thrust Where are the cities of old
time.

BALLADE OF THE ROYAL GAME OF GOLF. (EAST FIFESHIRE.)

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!

The auld folk are crouse, and they craw That their putting is pawky and
slee; In a bunker they're nae gude ava', But to girn, and to gar the sand
flee. And a lassie can putt--ony she, - Be she Maggy, or Bessie, or Jean,
But a cleek-shot's the billy for me, Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
I hae play'd in the frost and the thaw, I hae play'd since the year
thirty-three, I hae play'd in the rain and the snaw, And I trust I may play
till I dee; And I tell ye the truth and nae lee, For I speak o' the thing I
hae seen - Tom Morris, I ken, will agree - Tak' aye tent to be up on the
green!
ENVOY.
Prince, faith you're improving a wee, And, Lord, man, they tell me
you're keen; Tak' the best o' advice that can be, Tak' aye tent to be up
on the green!

DOUBLE BALLADE OF PRIMITIVE MAN. TO J. A. FARRER.

He lived in a cave by the seas, He lived upon oysters and foes, But his
list of forbidden degrees, An extensive morality shows; Geological
evidence goes To prove he had never a pan, But he shaved with a shell
when he chose, - 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man.
He worshipp'd the rain and the breeze, He worshipp'd the river that
flows, And the Dawn, and the Moon, and the trees, And bogies, and
serpents, and crows; He buried his dead with their toes Tucked-up, an
original plan, Till their knees came right under their nose, - 'Twas the
manner of Primitive Man.
His communal wives, at his ease, He would curb with occasional blows;
Or his State had a queen, like the bees (As another philosopher trows):
When he spoke, it was never in prose, But he sang in a strain that
would scan, For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose) 'Twas the
manner of Primitive Man!
On the coasts that incessantly freeze, With his stones, and his bones,
and his bows; On luxuriant tropical leas, Where the summer eternally
glows, He is found, and his habits disclose (Let theology say what she
can) That he lived in the long, long agos, 'Twas the manner of Primitive
Man!
From a status like that of the Crees, Our society's fabric arose, -
Develop'd, evolved, if you please, But deluded chronologists chose, In

a fancied accordance with Mos es, 4000 B. C. for the span When he
rushed on the world and its woes, - 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!
But the mild anthropologist,--HE'S Not RECENT inclined to suppose
Flints Palaeolithic like these, Quaternary bones such as those! In
Rhinoceros, Mammoth and Co.'s, First epoch, the Human began,
Theologians all to expose, - 'Tis the MISSION of Primitive Man.
ENVOY.
MAX, proudly your Aryans pose, But their rigs they undoubtedly ran,
For, as every Darwinian knows, 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!
{2}

BALLADE OF AUTUMN.

We built a castle in the air, In summer weather, you and I, The wind
and sun were in your hair, - Gold hair against a sapphire sky: When
Autumn came, with leaves that fly Before the storm, across the plain,
You fled from me, with scarce a sigh - My Love returns no more again!
The windy lights of Autumn flare: I watch the moonlit sails go by; I
marvel how men toil and fare, The weary business that they ply! Their
voyaging is vanity, And fairy gold is all their gain, And all the winds of
winter cry, "My Love returns no more again!"
Here, in my castle of Despair, I sit alone with memory; The wind-fed
wolf has left his lair, To keep the outcast company. The brooding owl
he hoots hard by, The hare shall kindle on thy hearth-stane, The
Rhymer's soothest prophecy,--{3} My Love returns no