Chapter I: PASSED upon the wings of Steam

Along Tay’s valley fair,
The book I read had such a theme
As bids the Soul despair.

A tale of miserable men
Of hearts with doubt distraught,
Wherein a melancholy pen
With helpless problems fought.

Where many a life was brought to dust,
And many a heart laid low,
And many a love was smirched with lust—
I raised mine eyes, and, oh!—

I marked upon a common wall,
These simple words of hope,
That mute appeal to one and all,
_Cheer up_! _Use Sunlight Soap_!

Our moral energies have range
Beyond their seeming scope,
How tonic were the words, how strange,
_Cheer up_! _Use Sunlight Soap_!

‘Behold,’ I cried, ‘the inner touch
That lifts the Soul through cares!’
I loved that Soap-boiler so much
I blessed him unawares!

Perchance he is some vulgar man,
Engrossed in £ s. d.
But, ah! through Nature’s holy plan
He whispered hope to me!

ODE TO GOLF

‘DELUSIVE Nymph, farewell!’
How oft we’ve said or sung,
When balls evasive fell,
Or in the jaws of ‘Hell,’
Or salt sea-weeds among,
’Mid shingle and sea-shell!

How oft beside the Burn,
We play the sad ‘two more’;
How often at the turn,
The heather must we spurn;
How oft we’ve ‘topped and swore,’
In bent and whin and fern!

Yes, when the broken head
Bounds further than the ball,
The heart has inly bled.
Ah! and the lips have said
Words we would fain recall—
Wild words, of passion bred!

In bunkers all unknown,
Far beyond ‘Walkinshaw,
Where never ball had flown—
Reached by ourselves alone—
Caddies have heard with awe
The music of our moan!

Yet, Nymph, if once alone,
The ball hath featly fled—
Not smitten from the bone—
That drive doth still atone;
And one long shot laid dead
Our grief to the winds hath blown!

So, still beside the tee,
We meet in storm or calm,
Lady, and worship thee;
While the loud lark sings free,
Piping his matin psalm
Above the grey sad sea!

FRESHMAN’S TERM

RETURN again, thou Freshman’s year,
When bloom was on the rye,
When breakfast came with bottled beer,
When Pleasure walked the High;
When Torpid Bumps were more by far
To every opening mind
Than Trade, or Shares, or Peace, or War,
To senior humankind;
When ribbons of outrageous hues
Were worn with honest pride,
When much was talked of boats and crews,
When Proctors were defied:
When Tick was in its early bloom,
When Schools were far away,
As vaguely distant as the tomb,
Nor more regarded—they!
When arm was freely linked with arm
Beneath the College limes,
When Sunday grinds possessed a charm
Denied to _College Rhymes_:
When ices were in much request
Beside the April fire,
When men were very strangely dressed
By Standen or by Prior.
Return, ye Freshman’s Terms! They _do_
Return, and much the same,
To boys, who, just like me and you,
Play the absurd old game!

A TOAST

Kate Kennedy is the Patron Saint of St. Leonard’s and St. Salvator. Her history is quite unknown.

THE learned are all ‘in a swither,’
(They don’t very often agree,)
They know not her ‘whence’ nor her ‘whither,’
The Maiden we drink to together,
The College’s Kate Kennedie!

Did she shine in days early or later?
Did she ever achieve a degree?
Was she pretty or plain? Did she mate, or
Live lonely? And who was the _pater_
Of mystical Kate Kennedie?

The learned may scorn her and scout her,
But true to her colours are _we_,
The learned may mock her and flout her,
But surely we’ll rally about her,
In the College that stands by the Sea!

So here’s to her memory! here to
The mystical Maiden drink we,
We pledge her, and we’ll persevere too,
Though the reason is not very clear to
The critical mind, nor to _me_.
Here’s to Kate! she’s our own, and she’s dear to
The College that stands by the Sea.

DEATH IN JUNE

FOR CRICKETERS ONLY

_June is the month of Suicides_

WHY do we slay ourselves in June,
When life, if ever, seems so sweet?
When “Moon,” and “tune,” and “afternoon,”
And other happy rhymes we meet,
When strawberries are coming soon?
Why do we do it?’ you repeat!

Ah, careless butterfly, to thee
The strawberry seems passing good;
And sweet, on Music’s wings, to flee
Amid the waltzing multitude,
And revel late—perchance till three—
For Love is monarch of thy mood!

Alas! to _us_ no solace shows
For sorrows we endure—at Lord’s,
When Oxford’s bowling _always_ goes
For ‘fours,’ for ever to the cords—
Or more, perhaps, with ‘overthrows’;—
These things can pierce the heart like swords!

And thus it is though woods are green,
Though mayflies down the Test are rolling,
Though sweet, the silver showers between,
The finches sing in strains consoling,
We cut our throats for very spleen,
And very shame of Oxford’s bowling!

TO CORRESPONDENTS

MY Postman, though I fear thy tread,
And tremble as thy foot draws nearer,
’Tis not the Christmas Dun I dread,
_My_ mortal foe is much severer,—
The Unknown Correspondent, who,
With undefatigable pen,
And nothing in the world to do,
Perplexes literary men.

From Pentecost and Ponder’s End
They write: from Deal, and from Dacotah,
The people of the Shetlands send
No inconsiderable quota;
They write for _autographs_; in vain,
In vain does Phyllis write, and Flora,
They write that Allan Quatermain
Is not at all the book for Brora.

They write to say that they have met
This writer ‘at a garden party,
And though’ this writer ‘_may_ forget,’
_Their_ recollection’s keen and hearty.
‘And will you praise in your reviews
A novel by our distant cousin?’
These letters from Provincial Blues
Assail us daily by the dozen!

O friends with time upon your hands,
O friends with postage-stamps in plenty,
O poets out of many lands,
O youths and maidens under twenty,
Seek out some other wretch to bore,
Or wreak yourselves upon your neighbours,
And leave me to my dusty lore
And my unprofitable labours!

BALLADE OF DIFFICULT RHYMES

WITH certain rhymes ’tis hard to deal;
For ‘silver’ we have ne’er a rhyme.
On ‘orange’ (as on orange peel)
The bard has slipped full many a time.
With ‘babe’ there’s scarce a sound will chime,
Though ‘astrolabe’ fits like a glove;
But, ye that on Parnassus climb,
Why, why are rhymes so rare to _Love_?

A rhyme to ‘cusp,’ to beg or steal,
I’ve sought, from evensong to prime,
But vain is my poetic zeal,
There’s not one sound is worth a ‘dime’:
‘Bilge,’ ‘coif,’ ‘scarf,’ ‘window’—deeds of crime
I’d do to gain the rhymes thereof;
Nor shrink from acts of moral grime—
Why, why are rhymes so rare to _Love_?

To ‘dove’ my fancies flit, and wheel
Like butterflies on banks of thyme.
‘Above’?—or ‘shove’—alas! I feel,
They’re too much used to be sublime.
I scorn with angry pantomime,
The thought of ‘move’ (pronounced as _muv_).
Ah, in Apollo’s golden clime
Why, why are rhymes so rare to _Love_?

ENVOI

Prince of the lute and lyre, reveal
New rhymes, fresh minted, from above,
Nor still be deaf to our appeal.
Why, _why_ are rhymes so rare to _Love_?

BALLANT O’ BALLANTRAE

TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

Written in wet weather, this conveyed to the Master of Ballantrae a wrong idea of a very beautiful and charming place, with links, a river celebrated by Burns, good sea-fishing, and, on the river, a ruined castle at every turn of the stream. ‘Try Ballantrae’ is a word of wisdom.

WHAN suthern wunds gar spindrift flee
Abune the clachan, faddums hie,
Whan for the cluds I canna see
The bonny lift,
I’d fain indite an Ode to _thee_
Had I the gift!

Ken ye the coast o’ wastland Ayr?
Oh mon, it’s unco bleak and bare!
Ye daunder here, ye daunder there,
And mak’ your moan,
They’ve rain and wund eneuch to tear
The suthern cone!

Ye’re seekin’ sport! There’s nane ava’,
Ye’ll sit and glower ahint the wa’
At bleesin’ breakers till ye staw,
If that’s yer wush;
‘There’s aye the Stinchar.’ Hoot awa’,
She wunna fush!

She wunna fush at ony gait,
She’s roarin’ reid in wrathfu’ spate;
Maist like yer kimmer when ye’re late
Frae Girvan Fair!
Forbye to speer for leave I’m blate
For fushin’ there!

O Louis, you that writes in Scots,
Ye’re far awa’ frae stirks and stots,
Wi’ drookit hurdies, tails in knots,
An unco way!
_My_ mirth’s like thorns aneth the pots
In Ballantrae!

SONG BY THE SUB-CONSCIOUS SELF

RHYMES MADE IN A DREAM