SONGS
OF
THE
GREY COUNTRY
BY
JOAN
RUNDALL.
LONDON
:
THE
YEAR BOOK PRESS,
31,
MUSEUM STREET.
1916.
CONTENTS
THE SONG OF THE BROWNIE OF BODESBECK
THE PLACE WHERE TEARS ARE BORN.
FROM
the Land you left behind you,
Where the mountains gird our home
Stray
my errant songs to find you—
Will you read them where you roam?
Songs
of how we fared together
O'er the hills and far away,
Through
the glory of the heather
Many a golden Autumn day.
Will
you read, with eyes a-dreaming
Of the windy woods we knew,
And
the grassy uplands gleaming
In the twilight—starred with dew,
Till
you hear the brown burns brawling
O'er the grey rocks, and the scream
Of
the peewit and the calling
Of the hill-wind, through your dream,
Till
the half-forgotten faces
And the voices that are gone
Call
you o'er the desert places
Where you dwell—afar, alone
Will
my stray songs set the ember
Of your dying dreams aglow,
Help
you sometimes to remember
Dreams that faded long ago ?
STILL
are the woods and silent all the vale,
The wan stars fade, the grey hills dream beneath
Where
far faint moon-beams glimmer cold and pale
Athwart the dark cave where I wait for death—
Death that is on the dawn-winds' icy breath.
Morn
is not yet, and all the Lowland plain
Dreams to the sky—a silent soul asleep.
I
wake, with eyes that look beyond their pain
Into the stars a last long watch to keep—
A last long watch above a world asleep.
How
long, how long I watched this Moffat-dale
By foaming Grey Mare's Tail and Blacks-hope Glen,
While
Clavers' soldiers rode by hill and vale,
Seeking with bloody sword the weary men
Who worshipped God in yonder hidden glen.
How
long we trod, as Scotland's men should tread,
By glen and gully through the starless night,
Onward
to Thee, by faith for ever led,
Onward to Thee, O God, through well-fought fight,
Bearing Thy Covenant toward the light.
So
long, so long! and purer blood has flowed
And braver hearts than mine will throb no more—
Stilled
for the cause wherein my head was bowed.
And these poor features—stained with their own gore—
Were burnt and tortured till they smiled no more.
Changeless
the valley lies and o'er the hill
The red dawn wakens, day by day the same
As
when it shone o'er bloodstained fields and still,
Dead men who died for God when Clavers' came
“God's Covenant " to-day is but a name.
Unchanged,
unchanged the wild white orchids blow,
Starring the crimson mosses. As of yore
The
blue hills dream, the Moffat waters flow
Where once we prayed beside their reedy shore.
Do they forget the sorrows gone before ?
Not
so, not so, o'er yonder purple heath,
Where other men shall pass through peaceful years,
Will
linger dreams of those who sleep beneath—
Song in the sunshine, in the raincloud—tears,
And, over all, the triumph of their death.
Still
shine the stars, the Eastern clouds grow pale,
The wan light wakens over all the sky,
A
far faint dawnlight glimmers o'er the vale.
I am content—content at last to die,
Where God's dim hills are watching with the sky.
See
Note.
I
TROD the Lowland hills when twilight grew
To that wan spirit hour of faded sky
Of
dreaming wind and slowly falling dew
And sweet faint scent where broken blossoms die.
Dim
Hartfell, whence the brown burns fling their spray,
Dark Swatfell, watching o'er the Lowland plains,
And
haunted Gallows Wood where storm-winds play
Remorseless havoc ere the Winter wanes.
Dim
hills and haunted woods at Eventide,
I followed where you called through brake and fern,
But
shadows wandered, voiceless, at my side,
And shadows met me by the rushy burn.
What
shades are these who pass me slowly by
And draw me on o'er pathways old and dim ?
The
shades of those who sought the hills to die
For Covenanting psalm and honoured hymn.
Is
Heaven dreamless and the grave a goal,
Which, having won, its victors reck no more
Of
all the loved Earth thought that stirred their soul
And raised their heart to ecstasy before ?
Is
Heaven dreamless, that the strong, proud men,
Who fled Dundee, yet fleeing, still defied,
In
death should dream not of the misty glen
Which echoed to their psalm and bred their pride ?
Nay,
Bodesbeck's Brownie sleeps and Effie's love
Kept tragic tryst in De'il's Tub long ago ;
O'er
nameless graves men tread the heath above,
Where greater men lie sleeping far below.
They
sleep, but still they gaze with yearning eyes,
Across the gateless bars that bound their shore,
Toward
the purple hills and faded skies,
And misty woodlands that they loved of yore.
Still
in the twilit hour, through brake and fern,
They stray where once they prayed and loved and bled,
Dim
voiceless shadows by the rushy burn,
Pale blossoms in the Garden of the Dead.
See
Note.
IN
the crimson fire of dawnlight I have
seen thy dark eyes shine
With
laughter of the morning, I have seen
those hands of thine
Stretched
up toward the sunrise, adoring
Gods unknown,
In
the red fire of the morning I have claimed
thee for my own.
Moràgh—my Tinker Lass.
In
the glory of the mountains I have seen
thee tramping by
With
thy pack upon thy shoulder and thy
proud head held so high,
I
heard thee sing of faery folk and Gods of
old who rise
To
bless thee by the pathway for the laughter
in thine eyes.
Moràgh—my Tinker Lass.
In
the grey dusk of the gleaming, alone I
saw thee stray
By
crag and torrent mourning for the passing
of the day,
Till
shadows from the twilight stole and
called thee by thy
name,
And
the laughter of thine eyes, lass, flashed
a greeting when they
came.
Moràgh—my Tinker Lass.
In
the crimson fire of morning thy hands
have sought my own—
No
more, no more to wander or worship
Gods unknown.
The
dawn of Love is rising, Moràgh, within
thine eyes,
The
dawn that shines, for ever, beyond the
farthest skies.
Moràgh, my Tinker Lass.
(A Song by the Road).
COME,
lass of mine, the dewy dusk is falling,
The peat-smoke heavenward curls in wreathing spires ;
Homeward,
again, our hearts the hills are calling,
Who ask no hearthlight but the clear star fires,
Only the clear star fires.
Come,
Moràgh lass, the long road lies before us—
The rugged pathway by our footsteps worn
Tramping
along with God's clear starlight o’er us,
To rest beside the pool where tears are born,
The place where tears are born.
Who
but a tinker ever came to love them ?
The still dark waters whence, at close of day,
The
tears of earth are born and, far above them,
Blow on the breezes o'er the world away,
So far, so far away.
There
bloom no star-white flowers, no purple heather,
Only the reeds beside the marshy brim,
Unresting,
rustle in the wind together
Through dreamless years by waters old and dim,
By waters old and dim.
On
whirring wings above the silent water
The wild bird hastens in the winter's mom,
For
there no echoing gun-shot ever sought her—
Who hunts beside the pool where tears are born ?
The place where tears are born,
Only
the tinker seeks that place of sorrows,
And dreams beside the waters dark and still
Of
sunlit yesterdays and dark tomorrows,
And winter days that creep across the hill,
Of snow upon the hill.
Rest,
lass, awhile—the weary stars are dying,
Too soon they fade amid the mists of morn—
Dream
on, Moràgh, where winds of sleep are sighing
Around the pool where tears of Earth are born,
The place where tears are born.
Some
day, lass, in the silence of the heather,
We two must meet the night that knows no morn ;
Ah
! Moràgh, might we tread that road together !
Here by the silent pool where tears are born,
The place where tears are born.
YOU
are dying, will you leave behind you
All the memories of the vanished years,
All the laughter and the foolish tears,
The
joy that charmed, the pain that came to blind you ?
When
I lay your body in the heather
By the sheepfold, will you never hear
My footsteps on the roadway—far or near—
Tramping
alone where once we tramped together ?
You
who loved, in June as in December,
The windy upland and the silent vale,
The ragged pine-wood where the hill winds wail,
O
! can it be that you will not remember ?
You
always slept with God's clear stars above you,
Dim hills about you and your hand in mine.
Yet you will sleep tonight where no stars shine
And
only darkness gathers round to love you.
And
I shall listen vainly for your laughter,
Or vainly seek the softness of your hair.
O ! Can it be that you will never share
My
night of pain and hopeless dawnlight after ?
Heart
of the hills in June as in December !
O, carry with you to the Silent Land
Dreams of the road we followed hand in hand—
That
when I join you we may both remember.
Moràgh,
I lay your body in the heather
And tramp my lone trail, dreaming of your eyes.
Oh, draw me homeward when the long day dies
That
we may tramp the hills of God together.
(A
Sacrifice to War.)
Too
sad for sighs, and far too proud for tears
You fell, great grove, upon the silent hill,
When Red War laid your splendour low and still
Claiming
your service in your evening years.
Dim
dreams of childhood woke beneath your sway,
Laughter of lovers whispered through your leaves,
And gracious sorrow when the old year grieves
At
Autumntide was yours until today.
Far,
far away, you heard the song of strife,
Of mighty tumult e'er your dead leaves fell
Through winter days—each folded in the shell—
Your
young buds dreamed of War and shattered life.
Pale
Spring awoke, with sorrow in her eyes,
To bring you death before your leaves were born.
No more you heard the bird-songs in the morn,
But
ringing axes and the woodmen's cries.
Too
sad for sighs and far too proud for tears,
Great grove, you yielded all your splendid life
To serve your country in her hour of strife
And
find fulfilment in your evening years.
Moffat. 1915.
DARK
wood, dim wood where shadowy pathways wind
Through dusky brackens up the windy hill,
In summer days thy trees are never still
And
winter gales to thee are never kind,
But
all day long they murmur as they blow
Of how they laid thy woody summit bare,
Of how they wreaked remorseless havoc there
With
shattered tree and many a broken bough.
And
all day long they whisper thy grim name—
The name a felon left thee long ago,
Who trod his weary path of sin and woe
And
died upon thy Gallows-tree of shame.
Still
haunts his last prayer on thine errant breeze
With old, dead smiles and half-forgotten fears
And deathless echoes of the dying years
Under
the twilight of thy windy trees.
Who
dreams of faeryland below thy shade
Hath surely seen some faery faces shine
Amid thy golden fern and ragged pine
In
twilit hours that all too swiftly fade.
And
who has heard the restless winds that blow
Thy boughs—for ever hears them in his sleep,
Blended with voices of the trees that weep
Their
sister trees that fell so long ago.
Today,
new boughs of green are spreading forth
On thy lone summit. O'er that place of death
New life awakes—O storm wind, guard thy breath
Nor
blow too fiercely from the bitter North
That
o'er the woodland old, in distant years,
On yonder windy summit—as a crown—
The younger wood may stand and—smiling down—
Bless
the old wood and its grim name of tears.
See
Note.
LITTLE
green larchwood, where bird-song and wind song
Carol their joy in the dew of the morn,
What
would I give for a sight of your beauty,
The flush of your green on the gold of the corn !
Far,
far below you a brown burn is singing
Over the rocks in the heart of the glen,
The
hills and the heather are shining above you
Blessing the field they have yielded to men.
Golden
the dawnlight breaks o'er you and pierces
The gloom of your shadow with shimmering bars.
Golden
the last rays of dying day linger
Over your boughs that are seeking the stars.
Little
green larchwood where wild flowers are blowing,
Where bird-song and wind-song are sweet in the morn,
What
would I give for a sight of your beauty.
The flush of your green on the gold of the corn !
ON
Windy Way when morning breaks
Across the dreaming sky,
A
little drifting wind awakes
To kiss the stars goodbye.
On
shining wing the sunbeams pass
Across a world of grey
To
steal the jewels from the grass
On Windy Way, on Windy Way.
On
Windy Way your heart will sing
Through sunlight and through shade,
Where
harebells through the heather spring
And fallen brackens fade.
But
where the winds of weary years
Through broken branches stray,
Perchance
your heart will dream of tears
On Windy Way, on Windy Way.
On
Windy Way when daylight dies
And shadows fall too soon,
Though
tears are shining in your eyes
Yet seek the rising moon.
On
silver wing her beam will pass
Across a world of grey
To
scatter jewels o'er the grass
On Windy Way, on Windy Way.
WILL
you come homeward to the Silent Valley ?
Home to the Borderland you used to love,
When
winds of Autumn fill the glen with weeping
And grey mist veils the mountain tops above.
Come
home, with springing footstep on the pathway
That skirts the shaggy wood and broken wall.
You
used to love the pine trees' ragged beauty,
The plaintive sorrow of the curlew's call.
Come
home, and tell the story of your wandering,
Smile in our eyes and charm away our tears,
Sing
us the songs we cannot sing without you,
Waken the echoes of the vanished years.
Will
you come homeward to the Silent Valley
Home to the Borderland of clouded skies ?
You
used to love our purple hills of sorrow—
Have they no charm now for your Southern eyes ?
WHEN
the young moon wakes on the water,
Where lake reeds rustle and sway,
Come
seek, come seek for the treasure—
The Gold of the King's Highway.
When
heather-winds blow on the hillside
Come, gather the gold of the plain.
Though
you rifle the travellers' treasure
‘Twill bloom by the lake again.
Does
it fade away in your fingers
And die in the dim dawnlight ?
What
matter ! 'Twas gold in the moon-hour
And you were a King—for a night.
When
the King-cups blow by the water
Where lake-reeds rustle and sway,
Come
gather them in the moonlight,
They are Gold of the King's Highway.
See
Note.
O'ER
windy plains of the Lowland
By heathery hill they rise,
The old grey towers of the Border,
The grim grey towers of the Border,
The beacon towers of the Border
Under
the windy skies.
They
stand by the long white roadway,
In fields of daisied grass,
And over the plains they echo
Echo the traveller's greeting,
The greeting cried from the roadway
By
travelling men who pass.
And
still in the twilit gloaming
They dream of the raider bands,
Of marching feet on the roadway
Of flashing spears on the roadway,
Carrying Death by the roadway
Into
the Borderlands.
The
blood-red blaze of the beacons
Burns for a dreaming hour,
While the clash of mortal combat,
The clash of a long-dead combat
Echoes across the silence
Over
the Border Tower.
Song
that is blent with sorrow,
Laughter and battle cry,
Voices born of the Border—
From old grey Towers of the Border
Echo across the Border
Under
the windy sky.
CAN
I forget thee, Red Lover of mine,
When the peat fire burns no more
On the empty hearth and the sheeling door
Stands
wide and dark, when the dawn-stars shine,
And
the grief of a lonely heart is thine ?
Red Lover, Ohone !
Ohone !
Thy
love is born of the silent fog
And the burning birth of the day,
Of the restless sea far, far away
And
the dark still pools of the reedy bog,
The
voiceless love in the eyes of a dog,
This is thy love for me.
When
the cold grey mist comes out of the West
And the wan stars fade in the sky,
Tramping the dark hills—thou and I,
We
gather the strayed sheep home to rest,
A
dew-drenched lamb in the warmth of my breast.
Red Lover, Horo ! Horo !
Far
have we followed the path of the wind
Over the purple heather,
Over the hills together.
Under
the sun when skies are kind
Into
the storm when snow-clouds blind
Red Lover, Horo ! Horo !
The
love and the laughter have seen their day
And the joys of my youth are o'er,
Death stands in the dusk at the sheeling door
Waving
the dreams of youth away,
Only
thy love lives on for aye
Red Lover, Ohone ! Ohone !
Can
I forget thee, Red Lover, of mine?
Nay, to the distant shore
Thy love will follow me ever more,
Afar,
afar, when the dawn stars shine
And
the grief of a lonely heart is thine,
Red Lover, Ohone!
Ohone!
LEAN
down, O Mother, to the glowing coal,
The red flames light your dim eyes for a space,
But
they will light no more your darkened soul
That yearns in vain for Michael's absent face.
He
will not come. Watch not the fast
shut door
With longing eyes. Oh, whisper not his name
With
eager lips, for Michael comes no more
Home from the mountains as of old he came.
Mother,
the winter moon was newly born
When Michael's life-blood stained the virgin snow.
Wrapped
in his plaid he fell and, e'er the morn,
The hand of Death had stanched the crimson flow.
Now
wanes the moon and Michael comes no more.
I dug his grave. Another herds his sheep.
Yet
still you watch for him and, by the door,
His old dog mourns with eyes that cannot weep.
Ah
! Michael sleeps below the snow to-night—
Gaze not, O Mother, through the frozen pane.
The
morn will bring him not to thee. The white
Still stars he loved will shine for him in vain.
The
clock ticks on. The dying embers
fall.
Lean down, O Mother, to the glowing bars.
Michael
will never hear you when you call,
His love is hidden in the cold white stars.
BESIDE
the grey stone dyke he stands—so still—
He seems a statue on the Mountainside
Hewn
from the dark rocks scattered o'er the hill.
Weary he bends above his staff. His wide
Eyes
roam the purple heath, the golden fern,
The
faded tree that whispers by the burn.
The
dead leaves rustle down like fallen tears,
A wan light glimmers in the Western skies.
Into
the growing dusk the old man peers—
Visions of vanished ages in his eyes—
Dreams
of dead youth and words of love that died
By
yonder burn some distant eventide.
Far
in the vale his cottage window gleams,
A wan star wakens where the twilight dies
Amid
the faded clouds. His gathered
dreams
Fall from the lonely sorrow of his eyes,
Homeward
he turns. The dead, sweet days he knew
Still
wand'ring by him through the starry dew.
THERE
is a grave where I have knelt in prayer
In the North land upon the wild sea shore,
Oft
have I wept for those who slumber there,
But now I know that I shall weep no more.
For
hearts are light beneath your Southern sky
And little joys will swiftly banish pain,
Yet,
pray for me that once before I die
I may stand weeping by that grave again—
That
lonely grave where lies the hope of years,
That silent grave beside the great North Sea.
There
are no blossoms in that place of sleep,
Only the brown weed yielded by the tide,
Only
the tall green sand-bents vigil keep
And wailing sea birds wheel their courses wide.
Here,
in your Southern garden roses glow,
A thousand birds make music in the trees,
Yet,
ah, for one breath of the winds which blow
About that grave beside the great North Seas
That
lonely grave where lies the hope of years,
That silent grave beside the great North Sea.
WIND
on the sand and white, wind-driven foam,
Blanching the black rocks in the wan dawn-light.
And
still the curling waves draw home, draw home
That which the storm-wind gave them in the night—
A broken branch.
Upon
the wide wet sand it lay at noon,
Torn from the Pine-wood on the steep hillside,
Stripped
of its sweet green beauty, soon, too soon,
Tossed on the gale and yielded to the tide—
A broken branch.
Never
again to rise ! Ah! broken bough—
Cast by the fierce gale to the hungry main—
Pride
of the woodland once, and now, and now
Bird song and wind-song call to you in vain !
A broken branch.
Golden
the young day when the storm-winds fall,
Black, sodden drift-logs float upon the tide
Commingling
with the waves, they call, they call
Little dark pinewood on the far hillside,
Farewell, Farewell."
AH
! cold grey sea that sweeps the lonely shore,
And fills the hollows of the rocks with foam,
What
bells are those I hear amid the roar
Of thy great voice ; as sailors, drawing home
Hear
o’er the water from some steepled tower
Sweet,
distant bells ? In this wan twilit hour,
No
land bells ring. The storm has
spent its wrath.
Yet still thy grey waves thunder, and the swell
Sweeps
up and turns to that which sent it forth.
Lo, as it turns, there tolls a mighty bell
Amid
the hollows of thy watery caves
Where
pale immortals dwell beneath the waves—
Kings
of the sea below the blinding spray
They weep the ships that steer for home no more :
And
o'er the crested wave for ever sway
The bells of ocean to the lonely shore—
Tolling
a knell across the flying foam
For
drowning men who dream in vain of home.
See
Note
DREAM-HAUNTED
memories of an outworn world,
Dim
tears that fall, unseen, in twilit hours
And
far, faint voices from the vanished years
Of
old, dead loves that wake at eventide.
Such
memories bravely builded still endure
When
shrines of youth are falling to decay,
No
hand can crush or seize them—they remain
Changeless
through changing years as grey stones stand
Deathless,
in dying woods by waters old.
Some
souls there be that suffer instantly
The
agony of Life's chastising blow
Upon
their heart—suffer with blinding tears,
With
hot remorse and anguish of regret
Which,
passing swiftly, leave no scar behind,
No
kinder tears to fall by lonely fires,
No
mellowed grief to haunt an old, sweet dream.
Such
spirits weep and soon forget their pain.
Not
so the Wanderer—Grief seared his soul.
No
sudden pain was his, no swift return
To
lighter joy. He strayed across the World,
Seeking
a balm to heal his heart—too full
Of
woe to find relief in tears—a balm
To
soothe his soul and bring forgetfulness
Of
all the dead life he would know no more.
He
came by long white roadways from the sea,
Through
purple mountains in the twilit hour,
With
weary feet, to his forgotten home-
The
Silent Valley of the Borderland-
High
on the hillside e'er the darkness fell
He
stood—alone—amid the fading world.
Far,
far below the Silent Valley lay—
Locked
in the hills—serene and sorrowful—
His
old loved home, forgotten in glad years,
Now
grown most precious to his empty heart.
“There,
surely, I shall find, at last,” he cried,
“The
balm I seek—erstwhile in vain, in vain—
“Goodnight,
dark hills, the Silent Valley calls
“And
I would follow through the growing gloom
“Because
the mountains are too sad at night
“For
any restless soul to share their sleep.
“Deep
in the Valley tears are shed, unseen,
“And
shadows fall—Blest veil for weary eyes
“Which
yearn, in vain, toward the troublous sky
“Where
high above the clouds white stars are born
“To
sing the songs that I have longed to learn—
“World-gladdening
music I can never hear
“Save
in a broken lilt—too far away
“For
any star-born note to fill my soul
“Or
still the voice of memory that I dread.
“Deep
in the Valley by the silent loch
“Come
weary hearts to pray and there—at last—
“I
too shall rest upon the reedy shore,
“Pouring
my pent-up sorrow in the ground,
“The
ground that bore my boyhood's eager dream.”
So
mused he—stepping homeward through the gloom
O'er
rugged pathways down the mountainside.
Fast-falling
shadows drew him on apace,
Southward
the drifting mist arose and fell—
Wraithlike
and joyless on the loch's green shore
Where
ripples brimming to the rushy strand
Died
with the dying wind amid the reeds.
Sudden—across
the sky the full moon gleamed,
The
clouds rolled back. The Valley—filled with light
Lay
radiant and Danae to the hills.
With
dim home-yearning eyes the Wanderer sought
The
dark bird-haunted woods he knew of old,
The
long green pathway through the dewy fern,
The
old familiar landmarks on the road.
“How
changed,” he murmured, “by the passing years,
“Old
trees cut down and young plantations grown
“To
early beauty. Houses built anew
“And
old, loved homesteads fallen to decay.
“New
fields are claimed from out the heather waste
“And
new built dykes about new sheepfolds stand.
“Only
the grey stones by the loch remain—
“Unchanged,
unchanging—sentinels of Time—
“The
Watchers of the World, remembering all
“And
building memory to a structure fair,
“Not
fleeing from it as I seek to flee,
“Nor
seeking dumb forgetfulness and void
“Far
peace that knows no thought of pain.
“Grey
stones !” he cried, “you hold the balm I seek,
“Now
are my wanderings ended, now I know
“’Tis
memory—not oblivion I need.
“This
balm I seek—deep in my heart it dwells
“Where
grievous memories to glorious dreams
“Would
turn, could I but face them as these stones
“Have
faced each memory for a thousand years
“And
woven visions by the waters old.
“Deep
in the Silent Valley, far away
“From
all the outworn world where young dreams die,
“They
stand when Spring irradiates the Earth,
“And
watch each day pass by on shining wings.
“The
summer blossoms round them. They
alone
“Bloom
not nor die. They have no tears to
shed
“When
flowers fade and swallows fly away
“And
winter falls. Unchanging still
they stand.
“Are
they too sad to weep, too old to smile ?
“Or
does death hold them ever in his grasp ?
“Nay,
dead men oftimes seem to breathe a sigh
“Through
pallid lips—These are too still for death.
“Theirs
is the quietude of memory,
“The
knowledge that all things on Earth are old,
“That
each new day which breaks across the world
“Is
but the counterpart of long-dead days—
“Born
of dead centuries and dying time.
“That
every day men love and women bear
“With
agony new men into the world
“To
work, to wonder and to pass away—
“Leaving
no trace behind, no thought, no word
“Except
a name to linger with a smile
“On
lips that smile at nought but memory.
“Perpetual
memory, perpetual stones—
“Deep
in the Silent Valley still they stand,
“Keeping
their watch where strong men come to pray
“Above
the green grave of some dead desire,
“Or
women, weeping, learn to smile again
“And
then, courageous, grasp at Life anew
“Defiant
of the sweeping scythe of Time
“Which,
having broken, wounds no more the heart
“Whose
great hours pass away to come no more
“Save
in the guise of deathless memory
“Which
stands unchanging as th' unchanging stones—
“A
monument beside a broken road,
“Engraven—
‘I have touched the heights of bliss
“
‘And heard the white stars sing—I too have known
“
‘One great adventure in a little life’.”
*
*
* *
Then
came the Wanderer down the mountainside
And
paused—where moon-winds o'er water strayed—
He
saw his broken dreams pass bravely by,
Listened
in vain for one beloved voice,
One
step that came no more across the grass.
Then
built a strange new dream within his heart
Where
sorrow dwelt—admitted as a friend—
Where
joy and peace were reconciled at last
To
share their little sovereignty with pain.
He
dared to resurrect that memory
Which
he had feared and striven to forget.
He
found her—not the sad-eyed ghost of old
But
radiant, fair, yet deathless as the stones
Which
stand for ever by the misty loch—
Unmoved,
unchanging, all consolidate
Symbols
of memory, of days that died
Within
his arms yet will not pass away
From
out his heart which holds them 'gainst the world—
His
memory, his stone, his monument,
His
fragment of the songs the white stars sing,
The
great adventure of his little life.
*
* *
*
The
moon rode high—the dark rocks darker grew.
Far,
far away one friendly window glowed—
Calling
him home to warmth of fire and friend,
To
well-spread board and laughter of bright eyes.
“To-night,”
he cried, “I face my life anew
“With
shining eyes and swift steps o'er the grass.
“For
I have realized my inmost soul
“And
I have grasped my own heart's deepest wound,
“Oh,
I have dared to look on memory
“And,
having dared, shall look and look again
“Till
all that was will rise within my heart—
“Dear,
glad-eyed ghost ! Dear voice, ah
dear, dear eyes
“That
weep no more but ever watch with me
“Through
passing years—unchanging and unmoved
“As
these grey stones that watch the world grow old
“Yet
still remember her first maidenhood.
“Oh!
I could sleep to-night amid the hills—
“No
more, no more are they too sad for me.
“Nay,
I should hear each song the white stars sing
“And
join with them in perfect unison
“Till
dawn-wind whispered to the breaking day.
“My
crown of sorrow is my crown of life
“Drawn
from the shadow to the light I pass—
“Toward
my home.”
ONE
last song when day is dying,
One last tale by twilight told,
See, the leaves are turning gold !
Down
the glen the wind is sighing,
Ah ! the year is growing old,
Come
away, the light is dying.
Come,
your footsteps on the heather,
Crush the brackens where they lie,
Heed no more the yearning cry,
Wind
and water blend together
In your heart— “Goodbye, goodbye !”
Darkness
hides the dying heather.
Come
away, the songs are ended,
All the dreams we wove are flown
All the flowers we plucked are blown,
Purple
hills in grey mist blended
Wait the winter's icy gown.
Come
away, the dreams are ended,
Who
will gather o'er the heather
Ragged robin, scented fern,
Who will cross the foaming burn
By
stepping stones we laid together.
When we dream with hearts that yearn
Far
away from hills and heather ?
Come
away, the day is dying,
Fades the last song with the gold
Of the West.
The tale is told,
Down
the glen the winds are sighing,
See, the year is growing old,
Close
the book, the light is dying.
FAREWELL,
farewell,
Ah ! faery dream of faery hour,
Ah ! dim Grey Land where Faeries
dwell
Still
in the heart of every flower,
Still in the windy grasses swell.
Though
gathered sorrows dim the West
And veils of dusk the hills
enfold,
Grey
Land where dreams come home to rest
Thy woof of tears is warped with
gold.
Farewell, Grey Land, farewell.
THE BROWNIE OF BODESBECK
In the
days of his youth the Brownie was a handsome man—well-known and famous in
the Lowland Valleys. Claverhouse’s men twisted and distorted
him with rack and fire, but denied him the death he craved. He sought refuge in
the hills that surround the Moffat Valley and hid in a cave whence he emerged
under cover of darkness to render services to the farmers in return for food
left on the doorstep. For a long while people feared him, taking him for one of
the faery folk of the glens, and supposing him to possess evil powers. Slowly
he won his way to their hearts till the children would come to his cave and
listen to his stories, though they never lost their belief in his supernormal
powers. Perhaps they were right. To-day he sleeps in the shadow of the dark
hill which bears his name. This is the story as I have gathered it from the
people of his own Valley.
THE GARDEN OF THE DEAD
De’il’s
Tub, or the Devil’s Beef Tub, was surely designed by God as a stage
setting for tragedy. The miniature valley lies black and sunless under the dark
hills, where here and there grey boulders and stunted trees break the steep
slopes. Here, by night, came the
men of the Covenant, singing their psalms under the friendly stars.
Effie, a
farm lassie, made a tryst to meet there her lover, whom the Dundee’s
men were harrying through the glens ; but her secret was betrayed, and she kept
her tryst only to see her man shot down before her eyes in De’il’s
Tub.
In those
lonely places the shadows of the men who gave their life for their faith have
been very real to me.
THE GALLOWS WOOD
The Gallow's Wood at Moffat and
the hill on which it stands take their name from the Gallows Tree which was
once upon its summit. The tree was
blown down in a great storm, and little now remains save the grim name and a
shadowy tradition of one felon who climbed the hill to his death, and who now,
some say, comes to stand by the gate in the darkness and tread the fatal path
he trod long since. I have called him a felon, but I would do him justice. He
was only a sheep-stealer—probably a thief hanged by a rascal.
GOLD OF THE KING'S HIGHWAY
This is a very old legend which I had from my
Highland nurse. King Cups or Marsh Marigolds turn to gold in the light of the
young moon.
“Many
a beggar,” she told me, “knows this and pulls the
flowers. Then he is rich as the king himself all night. But in the morning the
gold is gone.”
THE RED LOVER
A sable collie has brown eyes that flash garnet-red
in the light. His brown coat is red against the darker brown of the moors when
he drives the sheep homeward at set of sun. It was for this reason that Red Lover came by his name and
because of the love which he bore his master-passing the love of any man. When
the Shepherd died in the sheeling, the Red Lover did not tarry long before he
went away to seek his master on those hills which are beyond our sight
THE BELLS
The idea of the Bell should not be taken in any
mystical sense. It is an actual fact. Others with whom I have spoken have heard
the same sound of bells in the rolling of great waters as the waves draw back
from the shore—particularly at night when the Earth sounds are
still. It seems as though the waves tolled a knell for the lives they had
claimed.
J.
R.