New Collected Rhymes

“Not for Tearlach alone the red claymore was plying,
But to bring back the old life that comes not again.”

The Last of the Leal

December 31, 1787

Here’s a health to every man
Bore the brunt of wind and weather;
Winnowed sore by Fortune’s fan,
Faded faith of chief and clan:
Nairne and Caryl stand together;
Here’s a health to every man
Bore the brunt of wind and weather!

Oh, round Charlie many ran,
When his foot was on the heather,
When his sword shone in the van.
Now at ending of his span,
Gask and Caryl stand together!

Ne’er a hope from plot or plan,
Ne’er a hope from rose or heather;
Ay, the King’s a broken man;
Few will bless, and most will ban.
Nairne and Caryl stand together!

Help is none from Crown or clan,
France is false, a fluttered feather;
But Kings are not made by man,
Till God end what God began,
Nairne and Caryl stand together,
Gask and Caryl stand together;
Here’s a health to every man
Bore the brunt of wind and weather!

Jeanne d’Arc

The honour of a loyal boy,
The courage of a paladin,
With maiden’s mirth, the soul of joy,
These dwelt her happy breast within.
From shame, from doubt, from fear, from sin,
As God’s own angels was she free;
Old worlds shall end, and new begin
To be

Ere any come like her who fought
For France, for freedom, for the King;
Who counsel of redemption brought
Whence even the armed Archangel’s wing
Might weary sore in voyaging;
Who heard her Voices cry “Be free!”
Such Maid no later human spring
Shall see!

Saints Michael, Catherine, Margaret,
Who sowed the seed that Thou must reap,
If eyes of angels may be wet,
And if the Saints have leave to weep,
In Paradise one pain they keep,
Maiden! one mortal memory,
One sorrow that can never sleep,
For Thee!

CRICKET RHYMES

To Helen

(After seeing her bowl with her usual success.)

St. Leonard’s Hall

Helen, thy bowling is to me
Like that wise Alfred Shaw’s of yore,
Which gently broke the wickets three:
From Alfred few could smack a four:
Most difficult to score!

The music of the moaning sea,
The rattle of the flying bails,
The grey sad spires, the tawny sails —
What memories they bring to me,
Beholding thee!

Upon our old monastic pitch,
How sportsmanlike I see thee stand!
The leather in thy lily hand,
Oh, Helen of the yorkers, which
Are nobly planned!

Ballade of Dead Cricketers

Ah, where be Beldham now, and Brett,
Barker, and Hogsflesh, where be they?
Brett, of all bowlers fleetest yet
That drove the bails in disarray?
And Small that would, like Orpheus, play
Till wild bulls followed his minstrelsy? [2 - So Nyren tells us.]
Booker, and Quiddington, and May?