No.18

THE FOUR MARYS

Anon

Last night there were four Marys,
Tonight there'll be but three,
There was Mary Seaton and Mary Beaton
And Mary Carmichael and me.

Oh, often have I dressed my Queen
And put on her braw silk gown,
But all the thanks I've got tonight
Is to be hanged in Edinburgh Town.

Full often have I dressed my Queen
Put gold upon her hair,
But I have got for my reward
The gallows to be my share.

Oh, little did my mother know
The day she cradled me
The land I was to travel in,
The death I was to dee.

Oh, happy, happy is the maid
That's born of beauty free,
Oh, it was my rosy, dimpled cheeks
That's been the devil to me.

They'll tie a kerchief around my eyes
That I may not see to dee,
And they'll never tell my father or mother
But that I'm across the sea.

This information comes from www.marie-stuart.co.uk

"The four Marys were Mary, Queen of Scots' ladies-in-waiting, but these were Mary Seton, Mary Beaton, Mary Fleming and Mary Livingston. There was no Mary Carmichael but this popular song was believed to be relating to Mary, Queen of Scots until it was traced back to the court of the Tsar. The ballad dates between 1719 and 1764 and narrates the story of Mary Hamilton, a Scottish maid of Peter the Great's wife Catherine, who was executed for the murder of her illegitimate child, product of an affair with the Tsar Peter.
The two stories of Mary Hamilton and Mary, Queen of Scots were grafted onto each other."

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LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP
Emily Bronte 1818-48

Love is like the wild rose-briar,
Friendship like the holly-tree -
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most constantly?

The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring,
Its summer blossoms scent the air;
Yet wait till winter comes again
And who will call the wild-briar fair?

Then scorn the silly rose-wreath now
And deck thee with the holly’s sheen,
That when December blights thy brow
He still may leave thy garland green.

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LUCY
William Wordsworth 1770-1850

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh,
The difference to me!

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HOPE
Emily Dickinson 1830-86

    Hope is the thing with feathers
    That perches in the soul
    And sings the tune without the words
    And never stops at all.
 

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

 

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MORE POEMS NEXT MONDAY

No.17

BEGIN THE BEGUINE
Cole Porter 1891-64

When they begin the beguine
It brings back the sound of music so tender,
It brings back a night of tropical splendour,
It brings back a memory ever green.

I'm with you once more under the stars
And down by the shore an orchestra's playing,
And even the palms seem to be swaying
When they begin the beguine.

To live it again is past all endeavor
Except when that tune clutches my heart,
And there we are swearing to love forever
And promising never, never to part.

What moments divine, what rapture serene,
Till clouds came along to disperse the joys we had tasted,
And now when I hear people curse the chance that was wasted
I know but too well what they mean.

So don't let them begin the beguine,
Let the love that was once a fire remain an ember,
Let it sleep like the dead desire I only remember,
When they begin the beguine.

Oh yes, let them begin the beguine, make them play,
Till the stars that were there before return above you,
Till you whisper to me once more, darling I love you,
And we suddenly know what heaven we're in,
When they begin the beguine.

-o0o-

FROM A RAILWAY CARRIAGE
Robert Louis Stevenson 1850-94

Faster than fairies, faster than witches,   
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;   
And charging along like troops in a battle,   
All through the meadows the horses and cattle:   
All of the sights of the hill and the plain            
Fly as thick as driving rain;   
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,   
Painted stations whistle by.   
 
Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,   
All by himself and gathering brambles;     
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;   
And there is the green for stringing the daisies!   
Here is a cart run away in the road   
Lumping along with man and load;   
And here is a mill and there is a river:     
Each a glimpse and gone for ever!

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OH! EVER THUS
Thomas Moore 1779-1852

 Oh! ever thus, from childhood's hour,
   I've seen my fondest hopes decay;
 I never loved a tree or flower,
   But 'twas the first to fade away.
 I never nursed a dear gazelle,
   To glad me with its soft black eye,
 But when it came to know me well,
   And love me, it was sure to die!

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TWAS EVER THUS
Henry Sambrooke Leigh 1837-83

  

I never rear'd a young gazelle,
(Because, you see, I never tried);
But, had it known and loved me well,
No doubt the creature would have died.
My rich and aged uncle John
Has known me long and loves me well,
But still persists in living on -
I would he were a young gazelle.

I never loved a tree or flower;
But, if I had, I beg to say,
The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower,
Would soon have withered it away.
I've dearly loved my uncle John,
From childhood till the present hour,
And yet he will go living on, -
I would he were a tree or flower!

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MORE POEMS NEXT MONDAY

No.16

BEAUTIFUL DREAMER
Stephen Foster 1826-1864

Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,
Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee;
Sounds of the rude world, heard in the day,
Lulled by the moonlight have all passed away!

Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song,
List while I woo thee with soft melody;
Gone are the cares of life's busy throng,
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

Beautiful dreamer, out on the sea
Mermaids are chanting the wild lorelie;
Over the streamlet vapours are borne,
Waiting to fade at the bright coming morn.

Beautiful dreamer, beam on my heart,
E'en as the morn on the streamlet and sea;
Then will all clouds of sorrow depart,
Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

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ADLESTROP
Edward Thomas 1878-1917

Yes, I remember Adlestrop -
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop - only the name

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

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UPHILL
Christina Georgina Rossetti 1830–1894

Does the road wind uphill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you waiting at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

-o0o-

I’LL NEVER USE TOBACCO
Anon, from The Temperance Orator and Reciter 19th cent

“I’ll never use tobacco, no,
It is a filthy weed!
I’ll never put it in my mouth,”
Said little Robert Reid.

“Why, there was idle Jerry Jones,
As dirty as a pig,
Who smoked when only ten years old,
And thought it made him big.

“He’d puff along the open street,
As if he had no shame;
He’s sit beside the tavern-door,
And there he’d do the same.

“He spent his time and money too,
And made his mother sad,
She feared a worthless man would come
From such a worthless lad.

“Oh no, I’ll never smoke or chew,
‘Tis very wrong indeed,
It hurts the health, it makes bad breath,”
Said little Robert Reid.

-o0o-

MORE POEMS NEXT MONDAY

No.15

BALLADE OF AUTUMN
Andrew Lang 1844-1912

We built a castle in the air,
In summer weather, you and I,
The wind and sun were in your hair,
Gold hair against a sapphire sky:
When autumn came, with leaves that fly
Before the storm, across the plain,
You fled from me, with scarce a sigh,
My Love returns no more again!

The windy lights of autumn flare:
I watch the moonlit sails go by;
I marvel how men toil and fare,
The weary business that they ply!
Their voyaging is vanity,
And fairy gold is all their gain,
And all the winds of winter cry,
"My Love returns no more again!"

Here, in my Castle of Despair,
I sit alone with memory;
The wind-fed wolf has left his lair,
To keep the outcast company.
The brooding owl he hoots hard by,
The hare shall kindle on thy hearth-stane,
The Rhymer's soothest prophecy,
My Love returns no more again!

-o0o-

THE MOON
Anon

Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon:
This way, and that, she peers and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep;
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam
By silver reeds in a silver stream.

-o0o-

STELLA'S BIRTHDAY MARCH 13, 1719
Jonathan Swift 1667-1745

Stella this day is thirty-four,
(We shan't dispute a year or more:)
However, Stella, be not troubled,
Although thy size and years are doubled,
Since first I saw thee at sixteen,
The brightest virgin on the green;
So little is thy form declined;
Made up so largely in thy mind.

Oh, would it please the gods to split
Thy beauty, size, and years, and wit;
No age could furnish out a pair
Of nymphs so graceful, wise, and fair;
With half the lustre of your eyes,
With half your wit, your years, and size.
And then, before it grew too late,
How should I beg of gentle Fate,
(That either nymph might have her swain,)
To split my worship too in twain

 

-o0o-

DREAMS 

Langston Hughes 1902-67 

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

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More poetry next Monday

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