BALLADE DES PENDUS. (GRINGOIRE.)

Where wide the forest boughs are spread,
When Flora wakes with sylph and fay,
Are crowns and garlands of men dead,
All golden in the morning gay;
Within this ancient garden grey

Are clusters such as no man knows,
Where Moor and Soldan bear the sway:
This is King Louis' orchard close.

These wretched folk wave overhead,

With such strange thoughts as none may say;
A moment still, then sudden sped,

They swing in a ring and waste away.
The morning smites them with her ray ;

They toss with every breeze that blows,
They dance where fires of dawning play:
This is King Louis' orchard close.

All hanged and dead, they've summoned
(With Hell to aid that hears them pray)
New legions of an army dread,

Now down the blue sky flames the day;
The dew dries off; the foul array

Of obscene ravens gathers and goes,
With wings that flaps and beaks that flay:
This is King Louis' orchard close.

Envoi.

Prince, where leaves murmur of the May,
A tree of bitter clusters grows;

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,
He set his strength to blow,

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
To be your Valentine.

The spring-time raised her drowsy head,
Besprent with drifted snow,

"I'll send an April Day," she said,
"To lands of wintry woe.
He came; wan winter's overthrow

With showers that sing and shine
Pied daisies round your path to strow,
To be your Valentine.

Where sands of Egypt swart and red
'Neath suns Egyptian glow,

In places of the princely dead
By the Nile's overflow,

The swallow preened her wings to go,
And for the North did pine,

And fain would brave the frost, her foe,
To be your Valentine.

Envoy.

Spring, Swallow, South Wind, even 30
Their various voice combine,

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,
But his list of forbidden degrees
An extensive morality shows;
Geological evidence goes

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,
He worshipped the river that flows,

And the Dawn, and the Moon, and the trees,
And bogies. and serpents, and crows;
He buried his dead with their toes

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,
Ere elms be black, or limes be sere,
When midnight dances are murdering sleep,
Then comes in the sweet o' the year!

And far from Fleet Street, far from here
The Summer is Queen in the length of the land,

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,
Mingles with musical plash of the weir,
Where drowned green tresses of crowsfoot creep,
Then comes in the sweet o' the year!

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,
When glittering scythes in the hayfield reap,
Then comes in the sweet o' the year!
And it's oh to sail, with the wind to steer,
Where kine knee-deep in the water stand,

On a Highland loch, or a Lowland mere,
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand.
Envoi.

Friend, with the fops while we dawdle here,
Then comes in the sweet o' the year!

And Summer runs out like grains of sand,
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand.

ANDREW LANG.

BALLADE OF YULE.

"Heigo-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly."

This life's most jo ly, Amiens said
Heigh-ho, the Holly! So sang he
As the good duke was comforted

By these reflections, so may we !
The years may darken as they flee,

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
To lands of summer over sea,

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.