BALLADE DES PENDUS. (GRINGOIRE.) Where wide the forest boughs are spread, Are clusters such as no man knows, These wretched folk wave overhead, With such strange thoughts as none may say; They swing in a ring and waste away. They toss with every breeze that blows, All hanged and dead, they've summoned Now down the blue sky flames the day; Of obscene ravens gathers and goes, Envoi. Prince, where leaves murmur of the May, The bodies of men dead are they, This is King Louis' orchard close. ANDREW LANG. VALENTINE IN FORM OF BALLADE. The soft wind from the south land sped, O'er forests where Adonis bled And lily flowers a-row. He crossed the straits like streams that flow The ocean dark as wine To my true love to whisper low The spring-time raised her drowsy head, "I'll send an April Day," she said, With showers that sing and shine Where sands of Egypt swart and red In places of the princely dead The swallow preened her wings to go, And fain would brave the frost, her foe, Envoy. Spring, Swallow, South Wind, even 30 But that they crave on me bestow To be your Valentine. ANDREW LANG. BALLADE OF PRIMITIVE MAN. (To J. A. Farrer.) He lived in a cave by the seas, He lived upon oysters and foes, To prove he had never a pan, But he shaved with a shell when he chose, 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man! He worshipp'd the rain and the breeze, And the Dawn, and the Moon, and the trees, Tucked up, an original plan, Till their knees came right under their nose, 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man! His communal wives, at his ease, He would curb with occasional blows; Or his State had a queen, like the bees (As another philosopher trows): When he spoke it was never in prose, But he sang in a strain that would scan, For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose) 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man! Envoy. MAX, proudly your Aryans pose, But their rigs they undoubtedly ran, For, as every Darwinian knows, 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man! ANDREW LANG. BALLADE OF SUMMER. (To Constance Arkcoll.) When strawberry pottles are common and cheap, And far from Fleet Street, far from here And moonlight nights they are soft and clear, When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand. When clamour that doves in the lindens keep, And better a crust and a beaker of beer, With rose-hung hedges on either hand, Than a palace in town and a prince's cheer, When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand! When big trout late in the twilight leap, When cuckoo clamoureth far and near, On a Highland loch, or a Lowland mere, Friend, with the fops while we dawdle here, And Summer runs out like grains of sand, ANDREW LANG. BALLADE OF YULE. "Heigo-ho, the holly! This life's most jo ly, Amiens said By these reflections, so may we ! And Christmas bring his melancholy; But round the old mahogany tree We drink, we sing Heigh-ho, the Holly! Though some are dead and some are fled The holly berry keeps his red, The merry children keep their glee; They hoard with artless secresy, This gift for Maude, and that for Molly, And Santa Claus he turns the key On Christmas Eve, Heigh-ho, the Holly! Amid the snow the birds are fed, The snow lies deep on lawn and lea, The skies are shining overhead, The robin's tame that was so free. Far North, at home, the "barley bree" They brew; they give the hour to folly. How "Rab and Allen cam' to prie" They sing; we sing Heigh-ho, the Holly i Envoi. Friend, let us pay the wonted fee, The yearly tithe of mirth: be jolly! It is a duty so to be, Though half we sigh, Heigh-ho, the Holly ANDREW LANG. |