Читать книгу New Collected Rhymes - Lang Andrew, May Kendall - Страница 3

The Maiden called for her great destrier,

But he lashed like a fiend when the Maid drew near:

“Lead him forth to the Cross!” she cried, and he stood

Like a steed of bronze by the Holy Rood!

Then I saw the Maiden mount and ride,

With a good steel sperthe that swung by her side,

And girt with the sword of the Heavenly Bride,

That is sained with crosses five for a sign,

The mystical sword of St. Catherine.

And the lily banner was blowing wide,

With the flowers of France on the field of fame

And, blent with the blossoms, the Holy Name!

And the Maiden’s blazon was shown on a shield,

Argent, a dove, on an azure field;

That banner was wrought by this hand, ye see,

For the love of the Maid and chivalry.

Her banner was borne by a page of grace,

With hair of gold, and a lady’s face;

And behind it the ranks of her men were dressed —

Never a man but was clean confessed,

Jackman and archer, lord and knight,

Their souls were clean and their hearts were light:

There was never an oath, there was never a laugh,

And La Hire swore soft by his leading staff!

Had we died in that hour we had won the skies,

And the Maiden had marched us through Paradise!

A moment she turned to the people there,

Who had come to gaze on the Maiden fair;

A moment she glanced at the ring she wore,

She murmured the Holy Name it bore,

Then, “For France and the King, good people pray!”

She spoke, and she cried to us, “On and away!”

And the shouts broke forth, and the flowers rained down,

And the Maiden led us to Orleans town.

Lone places of the deer,

   Corrie, and Loch, and Ben,

Fount that wells in the cave,

Voice of the burn and the wave,

Softly you sing and clear

   Of Charlie and his men!

Here has he lurked, and here

   The heather has been his bed,

The wastes of the islands knew

And the Highland hearts were true

To the bonny, the brave, the dear,

   The royal, the hunted head.

Oh, it’s hame, hame, hame,

   And it’s hame I wadna be,

Till the Lord calls King James

   To his ain countrie,

Bids the wind blaw frae France,

   Till the Firth keps the faem,

And Loch Garry and Lochiel

   Bring Prince Charlie hame.

May the lads Prince Charlie led

   That were hard on Willie’s track,

When frae Laffen field he fled,

   Wi’ the claymore at his back,

May they stand on Scottish soil

   When the White Rose bears the gree,

And the Lord calls the King

   To his ain countrie!

Bid the seas arise and stand

   Like walls on ilka side,

Till our Highland lad pass through

   With Jehovah for his guide.

Dry up the River Forth,

   As Thou didst the Red Sea,

When Israel cam hame

   To his ain countrie. 1

Though now we take King Lewie’s fee

   And drink King Lewie’s wine,

We’ll bring the King frae ower the sea,

   As in auld lang syne.

For, he that did proud Pharaoh crush,

   And save auld Jacob’s line,

Will speak to Charlie in the Bush,

   Like Moses, lang syne.

For oft we’ve garred the red coats run,

   Frae Garry to the Rhine,

Frae Baugé brig to Falkirk moor,

   No that lang syne.

The Duke may with the Devil drink,

   And wi’ the deil may dine,

But Charlie’s dine in Holyrood,

   As in auld lang syne.

For he who did proud Pharaoh crush,

   To save auld Jacob’s line,

Shall speak to Charlie in the Bush,

   Like Moses, lang syne.

      A wonderful star shone forth

      From the frozen skies of the North

Upon Rome, for an Old Year’s night:

      And a flower on the dear white Rose

      Broke, in the season of snows,

To bloom for a day’s delight.

      Lost is the star in the night,

      And the Rose of a day’s delight

Fled “where the roses go”:

      But the fragrance and light from afar,

      Born of the Rose and the Star,

Breathe o’er the years and the snow.

Day of the King and the flower!

   And the girl of my heart’s delight,

The blackbird sings in the bower,

   And the nightingale sings in the night

   A song to the roses white.

Day of the flower and the King!

   When shall the sails of white

Shine on the seas and bring

   In the day, in the dawn, in the night,

   The King to his land and his right?

Day of my love and my may,

   After the long years’ flight,

Born on the King’s birthday,

   Born for my heart’s delight,

   With the dawn of the roses white!

Black as the blackbird’s wing

   Is her hair, and her brow as white

As the white rose blossoming,

   And her eyes as the falcon’s bright

   And her heart is leal to the right.

When shall the joy bells ring?

   When shall the hours unite

The right with the might of my King,

   And my heart with my heart’s delight;

   In the dawn, in the day, in the night?

’Twas a day of faith and flowers,

   Of honour that could not die,

Of Hope that counted the hours,

   Of sorrowing Loyalty:

And the Blackbird sang in the closes,

   The Blackbird piped in the spring,

For the day of the dawn of the Roses,

   The dawn of the day of the King!

White roses over the heather,

   And down by the Lowland lea,

And far in the faint blue weather,

   A white sail guessed on the sea!

But the deep night gathers and closes,

   Shall ever a morning bring

The lord of the leal white roses,

   The face of the rightful King?

Red roses under the sun

   For the King who is lord of land;

But he dies when his day is done,

For his memory careth none

   When the glass runs empty of sand.

White roses under the moon

   For the King without lands to give;

But he reigns with the reign of June,

With the rose and the Blackbird’s tune,

   And he lives while Faith shall live.

Red roses for beef and beer;

   Red roses for wine and gold;

But they drank of the water clear,

In exile and sorry cheer,

   To the kings of our sires of old.

Red roses for wealth and might;

   White roses for hopes that flee;

And the dreams of the day and the night,

For the Lord of our heart’s delight —

   For the King that is o’er the sea.

There’s an ending o’ the dance, and fair Morag’s safe in France,

And the Clans they hae paid the lawing,

And the wuddy has her ain, and we twa are left alane,

Free o’ Carlisle gaol in the dawing.

      So ye’ll tak the high road, and I’ll tak the laigh road,

      An’ I’ll be in Scotland before ye:

      But me and my true love will never meet again,

      By the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond.

For my love’s heart brake in twa, when she kenned the Cause’s fa’,

And she sleeps where there’s never nane shall waken,

Where the glen lies a’ in wrack, wi’ the houses toom and black,

And her father’s ha’s forsaken.

While there’s heather on the hill shall my vengeance ne’er be still,

While a bush hides the glint o’ a gun, lad;

Wi’ the men o’ Sergeant Môr shall I work to pay the score,

Till I wither on the wuddy in the sun, lad!

      So ye’ll tak the high road, and I’ll tak the laigh road,

      An’ I’ll be in Scotland before ye:

      But me and my true love will never meet again,

      By the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomond.

“The heather’s in a blaze, Willie,

   The White Rose decks the tree,

The Fiery Cross is on the braes,

   And the King is on the sea!

“Remember great Montrose, Willie,

   Remember fair Dundee,

And strike one stroke at the foreign foes

   Of the King that’s on the sea.

“There’s Gordons in the North, Willie,

   Are rising frank and free,

Shall a Kenmure Gordon not go forth

   For the King that’s on the sea?

“A trusty sword to draw, Willie,

   A comely weird to dree,

For the Royal Rose that’s like the snaw,

   And the King that’s on the sea!”

He cast ae look across his lands,

   Looked over loch and lea,

He took his fortune in his hands,

   For the King was on the sea.

Kenmures have fought in Galloway

   For Kirk and Presbyt’rie,

This Kenmure faced his dying day,

   For King James across the sea.

It little skills what faith men vaunt,

   If loyal men they be

To Christ’s ain Kirk and Covenant,

   Or the King that’s o’er the sea.

Dark, dark was the day when we looked on Culloden

   And chill was the mist drop that clung to the tree,

The oats of the harvest hung heavy and sodden,

   No light on the land and no wind on the sea.

There was wind, there was rain, there was fire on their faces,

   When the clans broke the bayonets and died on the guns,

And ’tis Honour that watches the desolate places

   Where they sleep through the change of the snows and the suns.

Unfed and unmarshalled, outworn and outnumbered,

   All hopeless and fearless, as fiercely they fought,

As when Falkirk with heaps of the fallen was cumbered,

   As when Gledsmuir was red with the havoc they wrought.

Ah, woe worth you, Sleat, and the faith that you vowed,

   Ah, woe worth you, Lovat, Traquair, and Mackay;

And woe on the false fairy flag of Macleod,

   And the fat squires who drank, but who dared not to die!

Where the graves of Clan Chattan are clustered together,

   Where Macgillavray died by the Well of the Dead,

We stooped to the moorland and plucked the pale heather

   That blooms where the hope of the Stuart was sped.

And a whisper awoke on the wilderness, sighing,

   Like the voice of the heroes who battled in vain,

“Not for Tearlach alone the red claymore was plying,

   But to bring back the old life that comes not again.”