The Scarlet Gown being verses by a St. Andrews Man

Excerpt

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.

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!

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....