Loneliness

The Text is that obtained in 1800 by Alexander Fraser Tytler from Mrs. Brown of Falkland, and by him committed to writing. The first ten and the last two stanzas show corruption, but the rest of the ballad is in the best style.

The Story emphasises the necessity of asking the consent of a brother to the marriage of his sister, and therefore the title The Cruel Brother is a misnomer. In ballad-times, the brother would have been well within his rights; it was rather a fatal oversight of the bridegroom that caused the tragedy.

Danish and German ballads echo the story, though in the commonest German ballad, Graf Friedrich, the bride receives an accidental wound, and that from the bridegroom's own hand.

The testament of the bride, by which she benefits her friends and leaves curses on her e...

    O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains,
        Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend!
    Here lie the loving husband's dear remains,
        The tender father and the gen'rous friend.
    The pitying heart that felt for human woe;
        The dauntless heart that feared no human pride;
    The friend of man, to vice alone a foe;
        "For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side."

Have yo seen awr Mary's bonnet?
It's a stunner, - noa mistak!
Ther's a bunch o' rooasies on it,
An a feather daan her back.
Yollo ribbons an fine laces,
An a cock-a-doodle-doo,
An raand her bonny face is
A string o' pooasies blue.

When shoo went to church last Sundy,
Th' parson could'nt find his text;
An fat old Mistress Grundy
Sed, "A'a, Mary! pray what next!"
Th' lads wink'd at one another, -
Th' lasses snikered i' ther glee,
An th' whooal o'th' congregation
Had her bonnet i' ther ee.

Sooin th' singers started singin,
But they braik daan one bi one,
For th' hymn wor on "The flowers
Of fifty summers gone."
But when they saw awr Mary,
They made a mullock on it,
For they thowt 'at all them flaars
Had been put on Ma...

Here in Samarcand they offer emeralds,
Pure as frozen drops of sea-water,
Rubies, pale as dew-ponds stained with slaughter,
Where the fairies fought for a king's daughter
In the elfin upland.
Here they sell you jade and calcedony,
And the matrix of the turquoise,
Spheres of onyx held in eagles' claws,
But they keep the gems as far asunder
From the dull stones as the lightning from the thunder;
They can never come together
On the mats of Turkish leather
In the booths of Samarcand.

Here they sell you balls of nard and honey,
And squat jars of clarid butter,
And the cheese from Kurdistan.
When you offer Frankish money,
Then they scowl and curse and mutter,
Deep in Kurdish or Persan
For they want your heart out and my hand
In the booths o...

            Little General Monk
            Sat upon a trunk,
    Eating a crust of bread;
            There fell a hot coal
            And burnt in his clothes a hole,
    Now General Monk is dead.
            Keep always from the fire:
            If it catch your attire,
    You too, like Monk, will be dead.

'Tis merry ov a zummer's day,
When vo'k be out a-haulèn hay,
Where boughs, a-spread upon the ground,
Do meäke the staddle big an' round;
An' grass do stand in pook, or lie
In long-backed weäles or parsels, dry.
There I do vind it stir my heart
To hear the frothèn hosses snort,
A-haulèn on, wi' sleek heäir'd hides,
The red-wheel'd waggon's deep-blue zides.
Aye; let me have woone cup o' drink,
An' hear the linky harness clink,
An' then my blood do run so warm,
An' put sich strangth 'ithin my eärm,
That I do long to toss a pick,
A-pitchèn or a-meäkèn rick.

The bwoy is at the hosse's head,
An' up upon the waggon bed
The lwoaders, strong o' eärm do stan',
At head, an' back at taïl, a man,
Wi' skill to build the lwoad upright
An' bind ...

Mother says, "Be in no hurry,
Marriage oft means care and worry."

Auntie says, with manner grave,
"Wife is synonym for slave."

Father asks, in tones commanding,
"How does Bradstreet rate his standing?"

Sister crooning to her twins,
Sighs, "With marriage care begins."

Grandma, near life's closing days,
Murmurs, "Sweet are girlhood's ways."

Maud, twice widowed ("sod and grass")
Looks at me and moans "Alas!"

They are six, and I am one,
Life for me has just begun.

They are older, calmer, wiser:
Age should aye be youth's adviser.

They must know - and yet, dear me,
When in Harry's eyes I see

All the world of love there burning -
On my six advisers turning,

I make answer, "Oh, but Harry

Pass thou on! for the vow is said
    That is never broken;
The hand of blessing hath, trembling, laid
On snowy forehead and simple braid,
    And the word is spoken
By lips that never their words betray'd.

Pass thou on! for thy human all
    Is richly given,
And the voice that claim'd its holy thrall
Must be sweeter for life than music's fall,
    And, this side Heaven,
Thy lip may never that trust recal.

Pass thou on! yet many an eye
    Will droop and glisten;
And the hushing heart in vain will try
To still its pulse as thy step goes by
    And we "vainly listen
For thy voice of witching melody."

Pass thou on! yet a sister's tone
    In its sweetness lingers,
Like some twin echo sent back alone,
Or the bird's soft ...

Fury of chrysalis, or crepuscular caterpillar's roosting nest,
Fidgeting cocoon dry in annoyance and the reptile caress
Of empty sound.
See it near the trestle,
Above broad November leaves,
Before winter's closing eye.

Comatose pupa, infringing
In dormancy well primed,
And charged with action
Its focus, brittle reality,
Distant life unaware around even itself.

Waiting, the syringe filled ecstasy is
Barest of autistic treasure
Satiate, 'til spilled and
Molten over toughened silken hide,
The outer dormitory
Hustles to rejoin
Compost spring
Controlling a tidy, energy world.

The immediate provocation to this fierce satire upon the Irish Parliament was the introduction of a Bill to put an end to the tithe on pasturage, called agistment, and thus to free the landlords from a legal payment, with severe loss to the Church.


As I stroll the city, oft I
See a building large and lofty,
Not a bow-shot from the college;
Half the globe from sense and knowledge
By the prudent architect,
Placed against the church direct,[1]
Making good my grandam's jest,
"Near the church" - you know the rest.[2]
    Tell us what the pile contains?
Many a head that has no brains.
These demoniacs let me dub
With the name of Legion[3] Club.
Such assemblies, you might swear,
Meet when butchers bait a bear:
Such a noise, and such haranguing,
When...

I call my years back, I, grown old,
Recall them day by day;
And some are dressed in cloth o' gold
And some in humble grey.

And those in gold glance scornfully
Or pass me unawares;
But those in grey come close to me
And take my hands in theirs.

    Hickup, hickup, go away!
    Come again another day;
    Hickup, hickup, when I bake,
    I'll give to you a butter-cake.

    Now were the Titans gathered round their king,
    In a waste region slipping tow'rd the verge
    Of drear extremities that clasp the world -
    A land half-moulded by the hasty gods,
    And left beneath the bright scorn of the stars,
    Grotesque, misfeatured, blackly gnarled with stone;
    Or worn and marred from conflict with the deep
    Conterminate, of Chaos. Here they stood,
    Old Saturn midmost, like a central peak
    Among the lesser hills that guard its base.
    Defeat, that gloamed within each countenance
    Like the first tinge of death, upon a sun
    Gathering like some dusk vapor, found them cold,
    Clumsy of limb, and halting as with weight
    Of threatened worlds and trembling firmaments.
    A wind cried round them like a trumpet-...

God of the Wine List, roseate lord,
And is it really then good-by?
Of Prohibitionists abhorred,
Must thou in sorry sooth then die,
(O fatal morning of July!)
Nor aught hold back the threatened hour
That shrinks thy purple clusters dry?
Say not good-by - but au revoir!

For the last time the wine is poured,
For the last toast the glass raised high,
And henceforth round the wintry board,
As dumb as fish, we'll sit and sigh,
And eat our Puritanic pie,
And dream of suppers gone before,
With flying wit and words that fly -
Say not good-by - but au revoir!

'Twas on thy wings the poet soared,
And Sorrow fled when thou wentst by,
And, when we said "Here's looking toward" . . .
It seemed a better world, say I,
With greener g...

O spirit of the Summer-time!
Bring back the roses to the dells;
The swallow from her distant clime,
The honey-bee from drowsy cells.

Bring back the friendship of the sun;
The gilded evenings calm and late,
When weary children homeward run,
And peeping stars bid lovers wait.

Bring back the singing; and the scent
Of meadow-lands at dewy prime;
Oh, bring again my heart's content,
Thou Spirit of the Summer-time!

    I have jest about decided
        It 'ud keep a town-boy hoppin'
        Fer to work all winter, choppin'
    Fer a' old fire-place, like I did!
    Lawz! them old times wuz contrairy! -
        Blame backbone o' winter, 'peared-like,
        Wouldn't break! - and I wuz skeerd-like
    Clean on into Febuary!
        Nothin' ever made we madder
    Than fer Pap to stomp in, layin'
    On a' extra fore-stick, sayin'
        "Groun'hog's out and seed his shadder!"

Whene'er I poke
Sarcastic joke
Replete with malice spiteful,
The people vile
Politely smile
And vote me quite delightful!
Now, when a wight
Sits up all night
Ill-natured jokes devising,
And all his wiles
Are met with smiles,
It's hard, there's no disguising!
Oh, don't the days seem lank and long
When all goes right and nothing goes wrong,
And isn't your life extremely flat
With nothing whatever to grumble at!

When German bands
From music stands
Play Wagner imperfectly
I bid them go
They don't say no,
But off they trot directly!
The organ boys
They stop their noise
With readiness surprising,
And grinning herds
Of hurdy-gurds
Retire apologizing!
Oh, don't the days seem lank and long
Wh...

Maiden most beautiful, mother most bountiful, lady of lands,
Queen and republican, crowned of the centuries whose years are thy sands,
See for thy sake what we bring to thee, Italy, here in our hands.

This is the banner thy gonfalon, fair in the front of thy fight,
Red from the hearts that were pierced for thee, white as thy mountains are white,
Green as the spring of thy soul everlasting, whose life-blood is light.

Take to thy bosom thy banner, a fair bird fit for the nest,
Feathered for flight into sunrise or sunset, for eastward or west,
Fledged for the flight everlasting, but held yet warm to thy breast.

Gather it close to thee, song-bird or storm-bearer, eagle or dove,
Lift it to sunward, a beacon beneath to the beacon above,
Green as our hope in it, white as ou...