Songs Of The Road

THE ORPHANAGE

      When, ere the tangled web is reft,           The  kid-gloved  villain  scowls  and sneers,      And hapless innocence is left           With no assets save sighs and tears,      'Tis then, just then, that in there stalks           The hero, watchful of her needs;      He talks, Great heavens how he talks!           But we forgive him, for his deeds.      Life is the drama here to-day           And Death the villain of the plot.      It is a realistic play.           Shall it end well or shall it not?      The hero?   Oh, the hero's part           Is vacant – to be played by you.      Then act it well! An orphan's heart           May beat the lighter if you do.

SEXAGENARIUS LOQUITUR

     From our youth to our age     We have passed each stage          In  old immemorial  order,     From primitive days     Through flowery ways          With love like a hedge as their border.     Ah, youth was a kingdom of joy,          And we were the king and the queen,             When I was a year             Short of thirty, my dear,          And you were just nearing nineteen.     But dark follows light     And day follows night          As the old planet circles the sun;     And nature still traces     Her score on our faces          And tallies the years as they run.     Have they chilled the old warmth in your            heart?          I swear that they have not in mine,             Though I am a year             Short of sixty, my dear,          And you are – well, say thirty-nine.

NIGHT VOICES

     Father, father, who is that a-whispering?          Who is it who whispers in the wood?               You say it is the breeze               As it sighs among the trees,     But there's some one who whispers in the          wood.     Father, father, who is that a-murmuring?          Who is it who murmurs in the night?               You say it is the roar               Of the wave upon the shore,     But there's some one who murmurs in the          night.     Father, father, who is that who laughs            at us?          Who is it who chuckles in the glen?               Oh, father, let us go,               For the light is burning low,     And there's somebody laughing in the            glen.     Father, father, tell me what you're waiting            for,          Tell me why your eyes are on the            door.               It is dark and it is late,               But you sit so still and straight,     Ever staring, ever smiling, at the door.

THE MESSAGE

(From Heine)

     Up, dear laddie, saddle quick,          And spring upon the leather!     Away post haste o'er fell and waste          With whip and spur together!     And when you win to Duncan's kin          Draw one of them aside     And shortly say, "Which daughter may          We welcome as the bride?"     And if he says, "It is the dark,"          Then quickly bring the mare,     But if he says, "It is the blonde,"          Then you have time to spare;     But buy from off the saddler man          The stoutest cord you see,     Ride at your ease and say no word,          But bring it back to me.

THE ECHO

(After Heine)

     Through the lonely mountain land          There rode a cavalier.     "Oh ride I to my darling's arms,          Or to the grave so drear?"          The Echo answered clear,          "The grave so drear."     So onward rode the cavalier          And clouded was his brow.     "If now my hour be truly come,          Ah well, it must be now!"          The Echo answered low,          "It must be now."

ADVICE TO A YOUNG AUTHOR

     First begin     Taking in.     Cargo stored,     All aboard,     Think about     Giving out.     Empty ship,     Useless trip!     Never strain     Weary brain,     Hardly fit,     Wait a bit!     After rest     Comes the best.     Sitting still,     Let it fill;     Never press;     Nerve stress     Always shows.     Nature knows.     Critics kind,     Never mind!     Critics flatter,     No matter!     Critics curse,     None the worse.     Critics blame,     All the same!     Do your best.     Hang the rest!

A LILT OF THE ROAD

Being the doggerel Itinerary of a Holiday in September, 1908     To St. Albans' town we came;     Roman Albanus – hence the name.     Whose shrine commemorates the faith     Which led him to a martyr's death.     A high cathedral marks his grave,     With noble screen and sculptured nave.     From thence to Hatfield lay our way,     Where the proud Cecils held their sway,     And ruled the country, more or less,     Since the days of Good Queen Bess.     Next through Hitchin's Quaker hold     To Bedford, where in days of old     John Bunyan, the unorthodox,     Did a deal in local stocks.     Then from Bedford's peaceful nook     Our pilgrim's progress still we took     Until we slackened up our pace     In Saint Neots' market-place.     Next day, the motor flying fast,     Through Newark, Tuxford, Retford          passed,     Until at Doncaster we found     That we had crossed broad Yorkshire's          bound.     Northward and ever North we pressed,     The Brontë Country to our West.     Still on we flew without a wait,     Skirting the edge of Harrowgate,     And through a wild and dark ravine,     As bleak a pass as we have seen,     Until we slowly circled down     And settled into Settle town.     On Sunday, in the pouring rain,     We started on our way again.     Through Kirkby Lonsdale on we drove,     The weary rain-clouds still above,     Until at last at Windermere     We felt our final port was near,     Thence the lake with wooded beach     Stretches far as eye can reach.     There above its shining breast     We enjoyed our welcome rest.     Tuesday saw us – still in rain —     Buzzing on our road again.     Rydal first, the smallest lake,     Famous for great Wordsworth's sake;     Grasmere next appeared in sight,     Grim Helvellyn on the right,     Till we made our downward way     To the streets of Keswick gray.     Then amid a weary waste     On to Penrith Town we raced,     And for many a flying mile,     Past the ramparts of Carlisle,     Till we crossed the border line     Of the land of Auld lang syne.     Here we paused at Gretna Green,     Where many curious things were seen     At the grimy blacksmith's shop,     Where flying couples used to stop     And forge within the smithy door     The chain which lasts for evermore.     They'd soon be back again, I think,     If blacksmith's skill could break the link.     Ecclefechan held us next,     Where old Tom Carlyle was vexed     By the clamour and the strife     Of this strange and varied life.     We saw his pipe, we saw his hat,     We saw the stone on which he sat.     The solid stone is resting there,     But where the sitter? Where, oh! where?     Over a dreary wilderness     We had to take our path by guess,     For Scotland's glories don't include     The use of signs to mark the road.     For forty miles the way ran steep     Over bleak hills with scattered sheep,     Until at last, 'neath gloomy skies,     We saw the stately towers rise     Where noble Edinburgh lies —     No city fairer or more grand     Has ever sprung from human hand.     But I must add (the more's the pity)     That though in fair Dunedin's city     Scotland's taste is quite delightful,     The smaller Scottish towns are frightful.     When in other lands I roam     And sing "There is no place like home."     In this respect I must confess     That no place has its ugliness.     Here on my mother's granite breast     We settled down and took our rest.     On Saturday we ventured forth     To push our journey to the North.     Past Linlithgow first we sped,     Where the Palace rears its head,     Then on by Falkirk, till we pass     The famous valley and morass     Known as Bannockburn in story,     Brightest scene of Scottish glory.     On pleasure and instruction bent     We made the Stirling hill ascent,     And saw the wondrous vale beneath,     The  lovely  valley  of  Monteith,     Stretching under sunlit skies     To where the Trossach hills arise.     Thence we turned our willing car     Westward ho!   to Callander,     Where childish memories awoke     In the wood of ash and oak,     Where in days so long gone by     I heard the woodland pigeons cry,     And, consternation in my face,     Legged it to some safer place.     Next morning first we viewed a mound,     Memorial of some saint renowned,     And then the mouldered ditch and ramp     Which marked an ancient Roman camp.     Then past Lubnaig on we went,     Gazed on Ben Ledi's steep ascent,     And passed by lovely stream and valley     Through Dochart Glen to reach Dalmally,     Where on a rough and winding track     We wished ourselves in safety back;     Till on our left we gladly saw     The spreading waters of Loch Awe,     And still more gladly – truth to tell —     A very up-to-date hotel,     With Conan's church within its ground,     Which gave it quite a homely sound.     Thither we came upon the Sunday,     Viewed Kilchurn Castle on the Monday,     And Tuesday saw us sally forth     Bound for Oban and the North.     We came to Oban in the rain,     I need not mention it again,     For you may take it as a fact     That in that Western Highland tract     It sometimes spouts and sometimes drops,     But never, never, never stops.     From Oban on we thought it well     To take the steamer for a spell.     But ere the motor went aboard     The Pass of Melfort we explored.     A lovelier vale, more full of peace,     Was never seen in classic Greece;     A wondrous gateway, reft and torn,     To open out the land of Lome.     Leading on for many a mile     To the kingdom of Argyle.     Wednesday saw us on our way     Steaming out from Oban Bay,     (Lord, it was a fearsome day!)     To right and left we looked upon     All the lands of Stevenson —     Moidart, Morven, and Ardgour,     Ardshiel,  Appin,  and  Mamore —     If their tale you wish to learn     Then to "Kidnapped" you must turn.     Strange that one man's eager brain     Can make those dead lands live again!     From the deck we saw Glencoe,     Where upon that night of woe     William's men did such a deed     As even now we blush to read.     Ben Nevis towered on our right,     The clouds concealed it from our sight,     But it was comforting to say     That over there Ben Nevis lay'.     Finally we made the land     At Fort William's sloping strand,     And in our car away we went     Along that lasting monument,     The good broad causeway which was made     By King George's General Wade.     He built a splendid road, no doubt,     Alas! he left the sign-posts out.     And so we wandered, sad to say,     Far from our appointed way,     Till twenty mile of rugged track     In a circle brought us back.     But the incident we viwed     In a philosophic mood.     Tired and hungry but serene     We settled at the Bridge of Spean.     Our journey now we onward press     Toward the town of Inverness,     Through a country all alive     With memories of "forty-five."     The noble clans once gathered here,     Where now are only grouse and deer.     Alas, that men and crops and herds     Should ever yield their place to birds!     And that the splendid Highland race     Be swept aside to give more space     For forests where the deer may stray     For some rich owner far away,     Whose keeper guards the lonely glen     Which once sent out a hundred men!     When from Inverness we turned,     Feeling that a rest was earned.     We stopped at Nairn, for golf links famed,     "Scotland's Brighton" it is named,     Though really, when the phrase we heard,     It seemed a little bit absurd,     For Brighton's size compared to Nairn     Is just a mother to her bairn.     We halted for a day of rest,     But took one journey to the West     To view old Cawdor's tower and moat     Of which unrivalled Shakespeare wrote,     Where once Macbeth, the schemer deep,     Slew royal Duncan in his sleep,     But actors since avenged his death     By often murdering Macbeth.     Hard by we saw the circles gray     Where Druid priests were wont to pray.     Three crumbling monuments we found,     With Stonehenge monoliths around,     But who had built and who had planned     We tried in vain to understand,     As future learned men may search     The reasons for our village church.     This was our limit, for next day     We turned upon, our homeward way,     Passing   first   Culloden's   plain     Where the tombstones of the slain     Loom above the purple heather.     There the clansmen lie together —     Men from many an outland skerry,     Men from Athol and Glengarry,     Camerons from wild  Mamore,     MacDonalds from the Irish Shore,     Red MacGregors and McLeods     With their tartans for their shrouds,     Menzies, Malcolms from the islands,     Frasers from the upper Highlands —     Callous is the passer by     Who can turn without a sigh     From the tufts of heather deep     Where the noble clansmen sleep.     Now we swiftly made our way     To Kingussie in Strathspey,     Skirting many a nameless loch     As we flew through Badenoch,     Till   at   Killiecrankie's  Pass,     Heather changing  into grass     We descended once again     To the fertile lowland plain,     And by Perth and old Dunblane     Reached the banks of Allan Water,     Famous for the miller's daughter,     Whence at last we circled back     Till we crossed our Stirling track.     So our little journey ended,     Gladness and instruction blended —     Not a care to spoil our pleasure,     Not a thought to break our leisure,     Drifting on from Sussex hedges     Up through Yorkshire's fells and ledges     Past the deserts and morasses     Of the dreary Border passes,     Through the scenes of Scottish story     Past the fields of battles gory.     In the future it will seem     To have been a happy dream,     But unless my hopes are vain     We may dream it soon again.

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With acknowledgment to my friend Sir A. Quiller-Couch.