{Idyls and Legends of Inverburn 1865}

185

THE LEGEND OF THE LITTLE FAY.

A MELODY.

_____

THE LITTLE FAY.

YOU are the grey grey Troll,     
     With the great green eyes,
But I love you, grey grey Troll,—
     You are so wise!
Tell me, this sweet morn,
     Tell me all you know—
Tell me, was I born?
     Tell me, did I grow?
Fell I from the blue,
     Like a drop of rain,
Then, as violets do,
     Blossom’d up again?
Why am I so frail?                                                                      186
     Why am I so small?
Why am I so pale?
     Why am I at all?
Tell me!—while I lie
     On this lily-bed,
While the dragon-fly,
With his round red Eye,
     Floats above my head.

THE TROLL.

When the summer day
Makes the greenwood gay
     And the blue sky clear,
What do you do and say?
     What do you see and hear?

THE LITTLE FAY.

          When the summer day
          Makes the greenwood gay
               And the blue sky clear,
          I roam wherever I may,
               And I feel no fear;
I rise from my bed of an acorn-cup,                                                      187
     And shake the dew from my hair and eyes,
Then I stoop to a dew-drop and drink it up,
     And it seems to strengthen my wings to rise;
               Then I fly! I fly!         
               I rise up high,
     High as the greenwood tree,
The humming-bee and the butterfly,
And the moth with its broad brown wings, go by,
While down on the leaf of an oak I lie,
     Curl’d up where none can see!
But I seem to hear strange voices call,
Like the hum of a distant waterfall,
     Sighing and saddening me;
And still I lie and hearken there,
Swinging and floating high in air,
And the voices make me sad and pale,
     Till the sunbeams go,
And the large green fly with his silken sail.
     Floats by me slow,
And the leaves grow dark and are lightly roll’d,
The soft boughs flutter, the dews fall cold,
     And the shadows grow,
               Before I know!                                                                     188
And down I fall to the side of the stream,
And with palpitating silver gleam
          I see it flow,
As the moon comes out above the place,
And I stoop to drink, and smile to trace
The water-kelpie’s cold strange face
          Gleaming below.

THE TROLL.

When the night is blue,
And the moon shines thro’
     The boughs of the greenwood tree,
What do you say and do?
     What do you hear and see?

THE LITTLE FAY.

          When the night is blue,
          And the moon shines thro’         
               The boughs of the greenwood tree,
          Round my acorn-cup the dew          
               Sparkles silverlee!
And I lie so still, while up in the air
     Open the little dewy eyes,                                                                189
And the moon goes by with her yellow hair,
     The kelpie hides his face and cries;               
                    And I lie! I lie!              
                    With little eye
     That twinkles near the ground,
And the dismal bat goes screaming by,
And from far away comes the corn-craik’s cry,
And I seem to hear a human sigh
     And a human kiss’s sound;
And I know not why, but unaware
Fold little hands and pray a prayer,
     And all things sigh around:
The moon grows white, the green leaves moan,
The brown moth flits with a weary drone,
The elfins cry as they flit and fleet,
     And the small stars sadder seem;
Then I pray the more, and my lips are sweet
     With some sweet theme!
I press my lips together tight,
And pray till my face grows wan and white,
     And the dim stars beam
     As in a dream;
And I pray, though I know not why I pray,                                           190
I pray, though I know not what I say,
     And the moon-rays round me stream,
The greenwood shakes, the wild wind speaks,
A fiend slides by with bloodless cheeks,
The wild-hair’d kelpie waves arms and shrieks
     With teeth that gleam!

THE TROLL.

Then why art thou so frail?
     Why art thou so small?
Why art thou so pale?
     Why art thou at all?
Shall I tell thee, little soul?
     Shall I still thy cries?

THE LITTLE FAY.

O tell me, grey grey Troll,—
     You are so wise!

THE TROLL.

                    With a soul love-laden,
                         On a summer day,
                    A mortal maiden                                                                         191
                         Gave her heart away;
                    For the sun was glowing
                         Under greenwood tree,
                    The flowers were blowing,
                    And the stream was flowing,
                    And, coming, going,
                         Humm’d the honey-bee;
     And all sweet sounds and all sweet things,
     Whatever shines, whatever sings,
          From the bees whose horns were chiming
                         In the pleasant forest bowers,
          To the little fairies rhyming
                         In the sugar’d cells of flowers,     
          Said, “Love him! love him! love him!”          
                         And she blush’d and sigh’d to hear,     
          And murmur’d, “Yes, I love him!    
          I cannot choose but love him!          
                         He is so dear!”

THE LITTLE FAY.

O see, thou grey grey Troll,
     The stream whirls round and sighs!
Around thy brow, grey Troll,                                                      192
     Float moths and butterflies!
Afar strange echoes roll,
     The kelpie starts and cries!
The great fly looks at me
     With his round red eyes,
And the wasp and honey-bee
     Above me fall and rise,—
O pause not, grey grey Troll,—
     You are so wise !

THE TROLL.

                    With a soul love-laden,
                         On a summer night,
                    The mortal maiden
                         Lay pale and white;
                    And the white moon, flying
                         O’er the boughs, could see
                    The maiden lying,
                    Sighing and dying,
                         Under greenwood tree;
     And her lover stoop’d in the pale moonshine,
     And his eye was cold as the salt sea-brine,
                         And there came a sound                                                        193
                         From underground,
And a voice that said: “She is mine! she is mine!”
          Then the maiden, clinging
                         To her lover’s side,
          Kiss’d him softly,
                         And smiled and died.
                    But a gentle Fairy,
                              Who saw it all,
                    Turn’d the kiss she gave him
                              To a Spirit small,
                    To a gentle Spirit
                              With a pale sad face,
                    To a gentle Spirit
                              To guard this place;
                    And the little Spirit,
                              In sun and shade,
                    Haunted the greenwood,
                              And sigh’d and pray’d:
                    Praying, praying,
                              Upon this spot,
                    It knew not wherefore,
                              For it knew not what.
     And all sweet sounds and all sweet things,                                                  194
     Whatever shines, whatever sings,    
                    From the bees whose hours were chiming          
                              In the pleasant forest-bowers,     
                    To the little fairies rhyming         
                              In the sugar’d cells of flowers,
                    Have heard the Spirit praying         
                              And join’d its gentle cry,
                    Have caught the Spirit’s sorrow    
                              And pray’d they knew not why;
     And all sweet sounds and all sweet things,
     Whatever shines, whatever sings,    
                    In the end shall follow          
                              The little Fay,     
                    As she floateth upward,     
                    And floating upward         
                              Shall sing and say:    
                    “When the sun was shining         
                              On the summer day,     
                    When the mortal maiden          
                              Gave her heart away,     
                    We whisper’d, whisper’d,          
                              In the maiden’s ear,     
                    Saying, ‘Love him! love him!                                                      195
                              And have no fear!’    
                    And she said, ‘I love him!          
                              He is so dear!’”     
                    Then the Greater Spirit         
                              On His throne shall hear.

THE LITTLE FAY.

                    You have told me why         
                              I am frail and small!                    
                    You have told me why     
                              I am here at all!
                    I pay thy wisdom    
                              With kisses three—
                    Stronger, longer,    
                              My prayers shall be.
                    I love you, grey grey Troll,—     
                              With the great green eyes,
                    I love you, grey grey Troll,     
                              You are so wise.

[Notes:
‘The Legend of the Little Fay’ is not included in the 1884 edition of ‘The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan’.]

196

VILLAGE VOICES.

_____

I.

JANUARY WIND.

I.

THE wind, wife, the wind; how it blows, how it blows;
It grips the latch, it shakes the house, it whistles, it screams, it crows,
It dashes on the window-pane, then rushes off with a cry,
Ye scarce can hear your own loud voice, it clatters so loud and high;
And far away upon the sea it floats with thunder-call,
The wind, wife, the wind, wife; the wind that did it all!

 

II.

The wind, wife, the wind; how it blew, how it blew;
The very night our boy was born, it whistled, it scream’d, it crew;
And while you moan’d upon your bed, and your heart was dark with fright,               197
I swear it mingled with the soul of the boy you bore that night;
It scarcely seems a winter since, and the wind is with us still,—
The wind, wife; the wind, wife; the wind that blew us ill!

 

III.

The wind, wife, the wind; how it blows, how it blows!
It changes, shifts, without a cause, it ceases, it comes and goes;
And David ever was the same, wayward, and wild, and bold—
For wilful lad will have his way, and the wind no hand can hold;
But ah! the wind, the changeful wind, was more in the blame than he;
The wind, wife; the wind, wife, that blew him out to sea!

 

IV.

The wind, wife, the wind; now ’tis still, now ’tis still;                                                  [4:1]
And as we sit I seem to feel the silence shiver and thrill,
’Twas thus the night he went away, and we sat in silence here,                                   198
We listen’d to our beating hearts, and all was weary and drear;
We long’d to hear the wind again, and to hold our David’s hand—
The wind, wife; the wind, wife, that blew him out from land!

 

V.

The wind, wife, the wind; up again, up again!
It blew our David round the world, yet shriek’d at our window-pane;
And ever since that time, old wife, in rain, and in sun, and in snow,
Whether I work or weary here, I hear it whistle and blow,
It moans around, it groans around, it wanders with scream and cry—                        [5:5]
The wind, wife; the wind, wife; may it blow him home to die!

 

199

II.

 APRIL RAIN.

I.

SHOWERS, showers, nought but showers, and it wants a week of May,
Flowers, flowers, summer flowers, are hid in the green and the grey;
Green buds and grey shoots cover their sparkling gear,
They stir beneath, they long to burst, for the May is so near, so near,—
While I spin and I spin, and the fingers of the Rain
Fall patter, pitter, patter, on the pane.

 

II.

Showers, showers, silver showers, murmur and softly sing,
Flowers, flowers, summer flowers, are swelling and hearkening;
It wants a week of May, when John and I will be one,                                              [2:3]
The flowers will burst, the birds will sing, as we walk to church in the sun,            200 [2:4]
So patter goes my heart, in a kind of pleasant pain,
To the patter, pitter, patter of the Rain.

 

201

III.

SUMMER MOON.

I.

SUMMER Moon, O Summer Moon, across the west you fly,
You gaze on half the earth at once with sweet and steadfast eye;
Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, were I aloft with thee,
I know that I could look upon my boy who sails at sea.

 

II.

Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, you throw your silver showers
Upon a glassy sea that lies round shores of fruit and flowers,
The blue tide trembles on the shore, with murmuring as of bees,                                [2:3]
And the shadow of the ship lies dark near shades of orange trees.                             [2:4]

202

III.

Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, now wind and storm have fled,
Your light creeps thro’ a cabin-pane and lights a flaxen head:
He tosses with his lips apart, lies smiling in your gleam,
For underneath his folded lids you put a gentle dream.

 

IV.

Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, his head is on his arm,
He stirs with balmy breath and sees the moonlight on the Farm,
He stirs and breathes his mother’s name, he smiles and sees once more
The Moon above, the fields below, the shadow at the door.

 

V.

Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, across the lift you go,
Far south you gaze and see my Boy, where groves of orange grow!
Summer Moon, O Summer Moon, you turn again to me,
And seem to have the smile of him who sleeps upon the sea.                                     [5:4]

 

203

IV.

DECEMBER SNOW.

I.

THE cold, cold snow! the snow that lies so white!
The moon and stars are hidden, there is neither warmth nor light—
I wonder, wife—I wonder, wife—where Jeanie lies this night?

 

II.

’Tis cold, cold, cold, since Jeanie went away,
The world has changed, I sit and wait, and listen night and day,
The house is silent, silent, and my hair has grown so grey—
’Tis cold, cold, cold, wife, since Jeanie went away.

 

III.

And tick! tick! tick! the clock goes evermore,
It chills me, wife,—it seems to keep our child beyond the door;
I watch the firelight shadows as they float upon the floor,                                           204
And tick! tick! tick! wife, the clock goes evermore!

 

IV.

’Tis cold, cold, cold!—’twere better she were dead,
Not that I heed the Minister, and the bitter things he said,—
But to think my lassie cannot find a place to lay her head—
’Tis cold, cold, cold, wife—better she were dead!

 

V.

The cold, cold snow! the snow that lies so white!
Beneath the snow her little one is hidden out of sight,
But up above, the wind blows keen, there’s neither warmth nor light,
I wonder, wife,—I wonder, wife,—where Jeanie lies this night!                                 [5:4]

 

[Notes:
Alterations in the 1884 edition of ‘The Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan’:
Part I: January Wind:
v. 4, l.1: The wind, wife; the wind; now ’tis still, now ’tis still;
v. 5, l. 5: It moans around, it groans around, it comes with scream and cry—
Part II: April Rain:
v. 2, l. 3: It wants a week of May, when my love and I will be one,
v, 2, l. 4: The flowers will burst, the birds will sing, as we walk to church in the sun.
Part III: Summer Moon:
v. 2, l. 3: And on the blue tide’s silver edge drop blossoms in the breeze,
v. 2, l. 4: And the shadow of the ship lies dark near shades of orange-trees.
v. 5, l. 4: And seem to have the smile of him who sleeps upon the sea!
Part IV: December Snow:
v. 3, l. 2: It chills me, wife—it seems to keep our bairn beyond the door;
v. 5, l. 4: I wonder, wife—I wonder, wife—where Jeanie lies this night! ]

205

NOTE.

     THE preceding poems, both the Idyls and the Legends, are more or less dramatic—in so far as the writer, in no instance save the “Preamble,” speaks in his own person. This leads to a variety of style, which may or may not be a recommendation. All the scenes are Scottish; but the speakers, with one exception, are educated men, who, although they sometimes have recourse to Scottish phrases and idioms, do not habitually employ the vernacular. The Weaver, who tells the tale of “Poet Andrew,” uses Scottish words liberally, but it has not always been thought necessary to represent his actual pronunciation. To print “auld” for “old,” and “cauld” for “cold,” “o’” for “of,” and the like, is to confuse, not vivify or verify, the text; and, indeed, the actual pronunciation is arbitrary and contradictory in the extreme. The author subjoins a brief glossary of the few words and phrases with which English readers can have any difficulty.

THE END.

BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS,
WHITEFRIARS.

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Idyls and Legends of Inverburn Contents