English

McTavish gazed along the lake
As if a last farewell to take.
He watched the fair moon shed her light
Refulgent on Ben Lomond's height,
And how Loch Sporran's waters gleam
Beneath her chaste and silvery beam.
Around his foot the heather springs,
The bracken too and other things,
A river's murmur fills the air
(The usual stag is drinking there)
And never, stranger, hath it been
Thy lot to view so fair a scene!

The autumn moon risen mid-sky,
Near or far, has no favorites
It radiates one equal brilliant light
Upon all pining separated lovers.

Alas! England now mourns for her poet that's gone—
The late and the good Lord Tennyson.
I hope his soul has fled to heaven above,
Where there is everlasting joy and love.

He was a man that didn't care for company,
Because company interfered with his study,
And confused the bright ideas in his brain,
And for that reason from company he liked to abstain.

He has written some fine pieces of poetry in his time,
Especially the May Queen, which is really sublime;
Also the gallant charge of the Light Brigade—

LXXIII

Mine old dear en'my, my froward master,
Afore that Queen I caused to be accited
Which holdeth the divine part of nature,
That like as gold in fire he might be tried.
Charged with dolour, there I me presented
With horrible fear, as one that greatly dreadeth
A wrongful death and justice alway seeketh.

And thus I said: ‘Once my left foot, Madam,
When I was young I set within his reign;
Whereby other than fierily burning flame
I never felt, but many a grievous pain.
Torment I suffered, anger and disdain,

In Aprill the koocoo can sing her song by rote,
In June of tune she cannot sing a note.
At first koo-coo, koo-coo, sing shrill can she do,
At last, kooke, kooke, kooke; six kookes to one koo.

Must my songs be sung for ever
In this high and earnest strain?
Must the field of grace and beauty
Hence for aye untilled remain?

When the axe has cleared the forest,
When the swamps are drained away,
Then the eye with tranquil pleasure
Views the sun's unclouded ray.

Since I have felt the sense of death,
Since I have borne its dread, its fear—
Oh, how my life has grown more dear
Since I have felt the sense of death!
Sorrows are good, and cares are small,
Since I have known the loss of all.

Since I have felt the sense of death,
And death forever at my side—
Oh, how the world has opened wide
Since I have felt the sense of death!
My hours are jewels that I spend,
For I have seen the hours end.

Since I have felt the sense of death,
Since I have looked on that black night—

Joy-throats dilate in the woods;
The meadows are blithe with their cheer,
But in all the bliss of the singing birds,
One voice I hear.

I listen among the trees;
It sings while the breeze rushes on,
And ever it tells in the moaning seas
Of days that are gone.

It was at Tunis, in the shop
I told you of, where women stop,
And falls the perfume, drop by drop,
That first he came,
Who in my own flesh clotheth him,
And drugs my soul with memories dim,
And fills my body to the brim,
A perfumed flame.

I know new meanings in the rose,
Old chennels in my sense unclose,
Along my nerves the music goes
Of ancient time;
And I am changed to what has been,—
Silk-robed, and turbaned with the green,
I try the thin edge damascene
Of secret crime.

Why'n't you bring me
a good letter? One with
lots of money in it.
I could make use of that.
Atta boy! Atta boy!