The Scarlet Gown

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Title: The Scarlet Gown
being verses by a St. Andrews Man
Author: R. F. Murray
Release Date: October 8, 2005 [eBook #16821]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SCARLET GOWN***
Transcribed from the 1891 Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton & Co. edition by David Price, [email protected]
THE SCARLET GOWN:?BEING VERSES BY A ST. ANDREWS MAN
ST. ANDREWS, N.B.: A. M. HOLDEN?LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON & CO.?1891
' . . . the little town,?The drifting surf, the wintry year,?The college of the scarlet gown,?St. Andrews by the Northern Sea,?That is a haunted town to me.'
ANDREW LANG.
PREFACE
St. Andrews, but for its Town Council and its School Board, is a quiet place; and the University, except during the progress of a Rectorial Election, is peaceable and well-conducted. I hope these verses may so far reflect St. Andrews life as to be found pleasant, if not over exciting.
I am able to reprint the verses on 'The City of Golf' by the special courtesy of the Editor of the Saturday Review.
A few explanatory notes are given at the end of the book.
R. F. MURRAY.
THE VOICE THAT SINGS
The voice that sings across the night
Of long forgotten days and things,?Is there an ear to hear aright
The voice that sings?
It is as when a curfew rings
Melodious in the dying light,?A sound that flies on pulsing wings.
And faded eyes that once were bright
Brim over, as to life it brings?The echo of a dead delight,
The voice that sings.
THE BEST PIPE
In vain you fervently extol,
In vain you puff, your cutty clay.?A twelvemonth smoked and black as coal,
'Tis redolent of rank decay?And bones of monks long passed away--
A fragrance I do not admire;?And so I hold my nose and say,
Give me a finely seasoned briar.
Macleod, whose judgment on the whole
Is faultless, has been led astray?To nurse a high-born meerschaum bowl,
For which he sweetly had to pay.?Ah, let him nurse it as he may,
Before the colour mounts much higher,?The grate shall be its fate one day.
Give me a finely seasoned briar.
The heathen Turk of Istamboul,?In oriental turban gay,?Delights his unbelieving soul
With hookahs, bubbling in a way?To fill a Christian with dismay
And wake the old Crusading fire.?May no such pipe be mine, I pray;
Give me a finely seasoned briar.
Clay, meerschaum, hookah, what are they
That I should view them with desire??Both now, and when my hair is grey,
Give me a finely seasoned briar.
HYMN OF HIPPOLYTUS TO ARTEMIS
Artemis! thou fairest?Of the maids that be?In divine Olympus,?Hail! Hail to thee!?To thee I bring this woven weed?Culled for thee from a virgin mead,?Where neither shepherd claims his flocks to feed?Nor ever yet the mower's scythe hath come.?There in the Spring the wild bee hath his home,?Lightly passing to and fro?Where the virgin flowers grow;?And there the watchful Purity doth go?Moistening with dew-drops all the ground below,?Drawn from a river untaintedly flowing,?They who have gained by a kind fate's bestowing?Pure hearts, untaught by philosophy's care,?May gather the flowers in the mead that are blowing,?But the tainted in spirit may never be there.
Now, O Divinest, eternally fair,?Take thou this garland to gather thy hair,?Brought by a hand that is pure as the air.?For I alone of all the sons of men?Hear thy pure accents, answering thee again.?And may I reach the goal of life as I began the race,?Blest by the music of thy voice, though darkness ever veil thy face!
ON A CRUSHED HAT
Brown was my friend, and faithful--but so fat!
He came to see me in the twilight dim;?I rose politely and invited him?To take a seat--how heavily he sat!
He sat upon the sofa, where my hat,
My wanton Zephyr, rested on its rim;?Its build, unlike my friend's, was rather slim,?And when he rose, I saw it, crushed and flat.
O Hat, that wast the apple of my eye,
Thy brim is bent, six cracks are in thy crown,
And I shall never wear thee any more;?Upon a shelf thy loved remains shall lie,
And with the years the dust will settle down
On thee, the neatest hat I ever wore!
A SWINBURNIAN INTERLUDE
Short space shall be hereafter
Ere April brings the hour?Of weeping and of laughter,
Of sunshine and of shower,?Of groaning and of gladness,?Of singing and of sadness,?Of melody and madness,
Of all sweet things and sour.
Sweet to the blithe bucolic
Who knows nor cribs nor crams,?Who sees the frisky frolic
Of lanky little lambs;?But sour beyond expression?To one in deep depression?Who sees the closing session
And imminent exams.
He cannot hear the singing
Of birds upon the bents,?Nor watch the wildflowers springing,
Nor smell the April scents.?He gathers grief with grinding,?Foul food of sorrow finding?In books of dreary binding
And drearier contents.
One hope