1

Blyth Aberdeane, thow beriall of all tounis,
The lamp of bewtie, bountie and blythnes,
Vnto the heaven vpheyt thy renoun is,
Off vertew, wisdome and of worthines
He nottit is thy name of nobilnes.
Into the cuming of oure lustie quein,
The vall of velth, guid cheir and mirrines,
Be blyth and blisfull, burgh of Aberdein.

2

And first hir mett the burges of the toun,
Richelie arrayit, as become thame to be;
Of quhom they cheset four men of renoun,
In gounes of veluot, young, abill and lustie,

The blush is on the flower, and the bloom is on the tree,
And the bonnie, bonnie sweet birds are caroling their glee;
And the dews upon the grass are made diamonds by the sun,
All to deck a path of glory for my own Cáilin Donn!

Oh fair she is! Oh rare she is! Oh dearer still to me,
More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree!
More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee,
Is the coming of my true love—my own Cáilin Donn!

O sycamore! O sycamore! wave, wave your banners green!

Blue sky, green fields, and lazy yellow sun!
— Why should I hunger for the burning South,
Where beauty needs no travail to be won,
— Now I may kiss her pure impassioned mouth?

Winds rippling with the rich delight of spring!
— Why should I yearn for myriad-colored skies,
Lit by auroral suns, when I may sing
— The flame and rapture of her starry eyes?

Oh, song of birds, and flowers fair to see!
— Why should I thirst for far-off Eden-isles,
When I may hear her discourse melody,
— And bask, a dreamer, in her dreamy smiles?

Blue sky and bluer sea with its white teeth showing,
Gold dunes made sweet by yellow jasmine growing,
And over sand and sea a keen wind blowing.

Gray skies and grayer days and the years swift going,
Youth's golden dunes all white with winter's snowing . . .
And in my heart the bitter wind of memory blowing.

The blue laguna rocks and quivers,
Dull gurgling eddies twist and spin,
The climate does for people's livers,
It 's a nasty place to anchor in
Is Spanish port,
Fever port,
Port of Holy Peter.

The town begins on the sea-beaches,
And the town 's mad with the stinging flies,
The drinking water 's mostly leeches,
It 's a far remove from Paradise
Is Spanish port,
Fever port,
Port of Holy Peter.

There 's sand-bagging and throat-slitting,
And quiet graves in the sea slime,
Stabbing, of course, and rum-hitting,

Blue jumped a rabbit, run him one solid mile
Blue jumped a rabbit, run him one solid mile
This rabbit sat down, crying like a natural child

Well it seem like you hungry, honey come and lunch with me
Seem like you hungry, honey come and lunch with me
I wanna stop these married looking women from worrying me

I have Uneeda biscuits here and a half a pint of gin
I have Uneeda biscuits here and a half a pint of gin
The gin is mighty fine but them biscuits are a little too thin

Baby tell me something about those meatless and wheatless days

Blue-green bamboo, white sand, village on the river;
evening breeze among the flowers, water lapping the gate.
As I walk home, the moon is a delicate lady;
no words can describe the fragrance, the serenity
in my tea cup.

The blue, faded purple, horizon mount
Seemed to bellow the valleys in mists
Of enriching, ensuing, divine shadowings...
Where may this be? Perhaps unpopulated
Crags of stepping rocks, where thought
Slumbers, inhaled thought, unbearing
Real earth that refines e'en the insects' muse.
Royalty defies the haunt they chose,
Therein mingles wild, perspective charm,
As immortals' thorny, entangled growth
'Mongst the field of oaks, pressing steep
Twilight's veil, Milky Way's fence; the deep,
Lionized eagle hisses o'er this scene;

Grasses enclose the old palaces as waning sunlight shifts.
A lone wind-tossed cloud stops briefly: on what can it depend?
The view here, mountains and rivers, has never changed,
Yet the people within the city walls already are half gone.
The reed flowers that fill the land have grown old with me,
But into whose eaves have the swallows of my former home flown?
Now I depart on the road out of Chiang-nan;
Transformed into a weeping cuckoo, reeking of blood, I shall return.

River inn spring hangover — half a day's delay,
plus troubling the governor to send over wine so I could clear my head.
Masses and masses of willow flowers on the banks of the Chia-ling;
something special — at sky's end, today's case of the dumps!