Cospatrick has sent o'er the faem; Cospatrick brought his ladye hame; And fourscore ships have come her wi', The ladye by the green-wood tree. There were twal' and twal' wi' baken bread, And twal' and twal' wi' gowd sae red, And twal' and twal' wi' bouted flour, And twal' and twal' wi' the paramour. Sweet Willy was a widow's son, And at her stirrup he did run; And she was clad in the finest pall, But aye she loot the tears down fall. "O is your saddle set awrye? Or rides your steed for you owre high? Or are you mourning, in your tide, That you suld be Cospatrick's bride?" "I am not mourning, at this tide, That I suld he Cospatrick's bride; But I am sorrowing in my mood, That I suld leave my mother good." "But, gentle boy, come tell to me, What is the custom of thy countrie?" "The custom thereof, my dame," he says, "Will ill a gentle ladye please. "Seven king's daughters has our lord wedded, And seven king's daughters has our lord bedded; But he's cutted their breasts frae their breast-bane, And sent them mourning hame again. "Yet, gin you're sure that you're a maid, Ye may gae safely to his bed; But gif o' that ye be na sure, Then hire some damsel o' your bour." The ladye's called her bour-maiden, That waiting was unto her train. "Five thousand marks I'll gie to thee, To sleep this night with my lord for me." When bells were rung, and mass was sayne, And a' men unto bed were gane, Cospatrick and the bonny maid, Into ae chamber they were laid. "Now speak to me, blankets, and speak to me, bed, And speak, thou sheet, enchanted web; And speak, my sword, that winna lie, Is this a true maiden that lies by me?" "It is not a maid that you hae wedded, But it is a maid that you hae bedded; It is a leal maiden that lies by thee, But not the maiden that it should be." O wrathfully he left the bed, And wrathfully his claes on did; And he has ta'en him through the ha', And on his mother he did ca'. "I am the most unhappy man, That ever was in Christen land? I courted a maiden, meik and mild, And I hae gotten naething but a woman wi' child." "O stay, my son, into this ha', And sport ye wi' your merry men a'; And I will to the secret bour, To see how it fares wi' your paramour." The carline she was stark and stare, She aff the hinges dang the dure. "O is your bairn to laird or loun, Or is it to your father's groom?" "O hear me, mother, on my knee, Till my sad story I tell to thee: O we were sisters, sisters seven, We were the fairest under heaven. "It fell on a summer's afternoon, When a' our toilsome work was done, We coost the kevils us amang, To see which suld to the green-wood gang. "Ohon! alas, for I was youngest, And aye my weird it was the strongest! The kevil it on me did fa', Whilk was the cause of a' my woe. "For to the green-wood I maun gae, To pu' the red rose and the slae; To pu' the red rose and the thyme, To deck my mother's bour and mine. "I hadna pu'd a flower but ane, When by there came a gallant hinde, Wi' high colled hose and laigh colled shoon, And he seemed to be some king's son. "And be I maid, or be I nae, He kept me there till the close o' day; And be I maid, or be I nane, He kept me there till the day was done. "He gae me a lock o' his yellow hair, And bade me keep it ever mair; He gae me a carknet o' bonny beads, And bade me keep it against my needs. "He gae to me a gay gold ring, And bade me keep it abune a' thing." "What did ye wi' the tokens rare, That ye gat frae that gallant there?" "O bring that coffer unto me, And a' the tokens ye sall see." "Now stay, daughter, your bour within, While I gae parley wi' my son." O she has ta'en her thro' the ha', And on her son began to ca': "What did ye wi' the bonny beads, I bade ye keep against your needs? "What did you wi' the gay gold ring, I bade you keep abune a' thing?" "I gae them to a ladye gay, I met in green-wood on a day. "But I wad gie a' my halls and tours, I had that ladye within my bours, But I wad gie my very life, I had that ladye to my wife." "Now keep, my son, your ha's and tours; Ye have that bright burd in your bours; And keep, my son, your very life; Ye have that ladye to your wife." Now, or a month was come and gane, The ladye bore a bonny son; And 'twas written on his breast-bane, "Cospatrick is my father's name." (via poetrynook. Child Ballads have multiple variants, so this one is also "Gil Brenton")
Tag: Poetry Corner
Poetry Corner – The Gates of Damascus
FOUR great gates has the city of Damascus
And four Great Wardens, on their spears reclining,
All day long stand like tall stone men
And sleep on the towers when the moon is shining.
This is the song of the East Gate Warden
When he locks the great gate and smokes in his garden.
Postern of Fate, the Desert Gate, Disaster's Cavern, Fort of Fear,
The Portal of Bagdad am I, and Doorway of Diarbekir.
The Persian Dawn with new desires may net the flushing mountain spires:
But my gaunt buttress still rejects the suppliance of those mellow fires.
Pass not beneath, O Caravan, or pass not singing. Have you heard
That silence where the birds are dead yet something pipeth like a bird?
Pass not beneath! Men say there blows in stony deserts still a rose
But with no scarlet to her leaf--and from whose heart no perfume flows.
Wilt thou bloom red where she buds pale, thy sister rose? Wilt thou not fail
When noonday flashes like a flail? Leave nightingale the caravan!
Pass then, pass all! "Bagdad!" ye cry, and down the billows of blue sky
Ye beat the bell that beats to hell, and who shall thrust you back? Not I.
The Sun who flashes through the head and paints the shadows green and red,--
The Sun shall eat thy fleshless dead, O Caravan, O Caravan!
And one who licks his lips for thirst with fevered eyes shall face in fear
The palms that wave, the streams that burst, his last mirage, O Caravan!
And one--the bird-voiced Singing-man--shall fall behind thee, Caravan!
And God shall meet him in the night, and he shall sing as best he can.
And one the Bedouin shall slay, and one, sand-stricken on the way
Go dark and blind; and one shall say--"How lonely is the Caravan!"
Pass out beneath, O Caravan, Doom's Caravan, Death's Caravan!
I had not told ye, fools, so much, save that I heard your Singing-man.
This was sung by the West Gate's keeper
When heaven's hollow dome grew deeper.
I am the gate toward the sea: O sailor men, pass out from me!
I hear you high in Lebanon, singing the marvels of the sea.
The dragon-green, the luminous, the dark, the serpent-haunted sea,
The snow-besprinkled wine of earth, the white-and-blue-flower foaming sea.
Beyond the sea are towns with towers, carved with lions and lily flowers,
And not a soul in all those lonely streets to while away the hours.
Beyond the towns, an isle where, bound, a naked giant bites the ground:
The shadow of a monstrous wing looms on his back: and still no sound.
Beyond the isle a rock that screams like madmen shouting in their dreams,
From whose dark issues night and day blood crashes in a thousand streams.
Beyond the rock is Restful Bay, where no wind breathes or ripple stirs,
And there on Roman ships, they say, stand rows of metal mariners.
Beyond the bay in utmost West old Solomon the Jewish King
Sits with his beard upon his breast, and grips and guards his magic ring:
And when that ring is stolen, he will rise in outraged majesty,
And take the World upon his back, and fling the World beyond the sea.
This is the song of the North Gate's master,
Who singeth fast, but drinketh faster.
I am the gay Aleppo Gate: a dawn, a dawn and thou art there:
Eat not thy heart with fear and care, O brother of the beast we hate!
Thou hast not many miles to tread, nor other foes than fleas to dread;
Homs shall behold thy morning meal and Hama see thee safe in bed.
Take to Aleppo filigrane, and take them paste of apricots,
And coffee tables botched with pearl, and little beaten brassware pots:
And thou shalt sell thy wares for thrice the Damascene retailers' price,
And buy a fat Armenian slave who smelleth odorous and nice.
Some men of noble stock were made: some glory in the murder-blade;
Some praise a Science or an Art, but I like honorable Trade!
Sell them the rotten, buy the ripe! Their heads are weak; their pockets burn.
Aleppo men are mighty fools. Salaam Aleikum! Safe return!
This is the song of the South Gate Holder,
A silver man, but his song is older.
I am the Gate that fears no fall: the Mihrab of Damascus wall,
The bridge of booming Sinai: the Arch of Allah all in all.
O spiritual pilgrim rise: the night has grown her single horn:
The voices of the souls unborn are half adream with Paradise.
To Meccah thou hast turned in prayer with aching heart and eyes that burn:
Ah Hajji, wither wilt thou turn when thou art there, when thou art there?
God be thy guide from camp to camp: God be thy shade from well to well;
God grant beneath the desert stars thou hear the Prophet's camel bell.
And God shall make thy body pure, and give thee knowlede to endure
This ghost-life's piercing phantom-pain, and bring thee out to Life again.
And God shall make thy soul a Glass where eighteen thousand Æons pass.
And thou shalt see the gleaming Worlds as men see dew upon the grass.
And sons of Islam, it may be that thou shalt learn at journey's end
Who walks thy garden eve on eve, and bows his head, and calls thee Friend.
- James Elroy Flecker
Poetry Corner – ‘scutcheon
Ha! my purse may be lean, but my 'scutcheon is clean, And I'm backed by a dozen true men; I've a sword to my name, and a wrist for the same; Can a king frown fear into me, then? - Talbot Mundy, chapter heading to Rung Ho!
A close family member has her citizenship interview today. Send prayers and/or patriotic thoughts.
Poetry Corner – A Ballad of Hell
'A LETTER from my love to-day! Oh, unexpected, dear appeal!' She struck a happy tear away, And broke the crimson seal. 'My love, there is no help on earth, 5 No help in heaven; the dead-man's bell Must toll our wedding; our first hearth Must be the well-paved floor of hell.' The colour died from out her face, Her eyes like ghostly candles shone; 10 She cast dread looks about the place, Then clenched her teeth and read right on. 'I may not pass the prison door; Here must I rot from day to day, Unless I wed whom I abhor, 15 My cousin, Blanche of Valencay. 'At midnight with my dagger keen, I'll take my life; it must be so. Meet me in hell to-night, my queen, For weal and woe.' 20 She laughed although her face was wan, She girded on her golden belt, She took her jewelled ivory fan, And at her glowing missal knelt. Then rose, 'And am I mad?' she said: 25 She broke her fan, her belt untied; With leather girt herself instead, And stuck a dagger at her side. She waited, shuddering in her room, Till sleep had fallen on all the house. 30 She never flinched; she faced her doom: They two must sin to keep their vows. Then out into the night she went, And, stooping, crept by hedge and tree; Her rose-bush flung a snare of scent, 35 And caught a happy memory. She fell, and lay a minute's space; She tore the sward in her distress; The dewy grass refreshed her face; She rose and ran with lifted dress. 40 She started like a morn-caught ghost Once when the moon came out and stood To watch; the naked road she crossed, And dived into the murmuring wood. The branches snatched her streaming cloak; 45 A live thing shrieked; she made no stay! She hurried to the trysting-oak— Right well she knew the way. Without a pause she bared her breast, And drove her dagger home and fell, 50 And lay like one that takes her rest, And died and wakened up in hell. She bathed her spirit in the flame, And near the centre took her post; From all sides to her ears there came 55 The dreary anguish of the lost. The devil started at her side, Comely, and tall, and black as jet. 'I am young Malespina's bride; Has he come hither yet?' 60 'My poppet, welcome to your bed.' 'Is Malespina here?' 'Not he! To-morrow he must wed His cousin Blanche, my dear!' 'You lie, he died with me to-night.' 65 'Not he! it was a plot' ... 'You lie.' 'My dear, I never lie outright.' 'We died at midnight, he and I.' The devil went. Without a groan She, gathered up in one fierce prayer, 70 Took root in hell's midst all alone, And waited for him there. She dared to make herself at home Amidst the wail, the uneasy stir. The blood-stained flame that filled the dome, 75 Scentless and silent, shrouded her. How long she stayed I cannot tell; But when she felt his perfidy, She marched across the floor of hell; And all the damned stood up to see. 80 The devil stopped her at the brink: She shook him off; she cried, 'Away!' 'My dear, you have gone mad, I think.' 'I was betrayed: I will not stay.' Across the weltering deep she ran; 85 A stranger thing was never seen: The damned stood silent to a man; They saw the great gulf set between. To her it seemed a meadow fair; And flowers sprang up about her feet 90 She entered heaven; she climbed the stair And knelt down at the mercy-seat. Seraphs and saints with one great voice Welcomed that soul that knew not fear. Amazed to find it could rejoice, 95 Hell raised a hoarse, half-human cheer. - John Davidson
Poetry Corner – The Smuggler’s Song
If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse's feet, Don't go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street. Them that ask no questions isn't told a lie. Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by! Five and twenty ponies, Trotting through the dark -- Brandy for the Parson, 'Baccy for the Clerk; Laces for a lady, letters for a spy, And watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by! Running round the woodlump if you chance to find Little barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandy-wine, Don't you shout to come and look, nor use 'em for your play. Put the brishwood back again -- and they'll be gone next day! If you see the stable-door setting open wide; If you see a tired horse lying down inside; If your mother mends a coat cut about and tore; If the lining's wet and warm -- don't you ask no more! If you meet King George's men, dressed in blue and red, You be careful what you say, and mindful what is said. If they call you "pretty maid," and chuck you 'neath the chin, Don't you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one's been! Knocks and footsteps round the house -- whistles after dark -- You've no call for running out till the house-dogs bark. Trusty's here, and Pincher's here, and see how dumb they lie -- They don't fret to follow when the Gentlemen go by! If you do as you've been told, 'likely there's a chance, You'll be given a dainty doll, all the way from France, With a cap of Valenciennes, and a velvet hood -- A present from the Gentlemen, along o' being good! Five and twenty ponies, Trotting through the dark -- Brandy for the Parson, 'Baccy for the Clerk; Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie -- Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by! - Rudyard Kipling
Poetry Corner: Nikolaus Mardruz to his Master
My Lord recalls Ferrara? How walls
rise out of water yet appear to recede identically
into it, as if built in both directions: soaring and sinking...
Such mirroring was my first dismay--
my next, having crossed the moat, was making
out that, for all its grandeur, the great
pile, observed close to, is close to a ruin!
(Even My Lord's most unstinting dowry
may not restore this wasted precincts to what
their deteriorating state demands.)
Queasy it made me, first down there
at swans in the moat apparently
feeding on their own doubled image, then up
at the citadel, high--or so deep,
and everywhere those carved effigies of
men and women, monsters among them
crowding the ramparts and seeming at home
in the dingy water that somehow
held them up as if for our surveillance--ours?
anyone's who looked! All that pretension
of marble display, the whole improbable
menagerie with but one purpose: having to be seen.
Such was the matter of Ferrara, and such the manner,
when at last we met, of the Duke in greeting
My Lordship's Envoy: in fallen stone!
Several hours were to elapse, in the keeping
of his lackeys, before the Envoy of My Lord the Count
of Tyrol might see or even be seen to by His Grace
the Duke of Ferrara, though from such neglect
no deliberate slight need be inferred:
now that I have had an opportunity
--have had, indeed, the obligation--
to fix on His Grace that perlustration
or power of scrutiny for which
(I believe) My Lord holds his Envoy's service
in some favor still, I see that the Duke,
by his own lights or perhaps, more properly
said, by his own tenebrosity,
could offer some excuse for such cunctation...
Appraising a set of cameos
just brought from Cairo by a Jew in his trust,
His Grace had been rapt in connoisseurship,
that study which alone can distract him
from his wonted courtesy; he was
affability itself, once his mind
could be deflected from mere objects.
At last I presented (with those documents
which in some detail describe and define
the duties of both signators) the portrait
of your daughter the Countess, observing the while
his countenance. No fault was found with our contract, of which
each article had been so correctly framed
(if I may say so) to ascertain
a pre-nuptial alliance which must persuade
and please the most punctilious (and impecunious)
of future husbands. Principally, or (if I may be
allowed the amendment) perhaps Ducally,
His Grace acknowledged himself beguiled by
Cranach's portrait of our young Countess, praising
the design, the hues, the glaze--the frame
and appeared averse, a while, even
to letting the panel leave his hands!
Examining those same hands, I was convinced
that no matter what the result of our
(at this point, promising) negotiations,
your daughter's likeness must now remain
"for good," as we say, Ferrara's
treasures, already one more trophy in His Grace's multifarious holdings,
like those marble busts lining the drawbridge,
like those weed-stained statues grinning up at us
from the still moat, and--inside as well
as out--those grotesque figures and faces
fastened to the walls. So be it!
Real bother (after all, one painting, for Cranach
--and My Lord--need be no great forfeiture)
commenced only when the Duke himself led me
out of the audience-chamber and laboriously
(he is no longer a young man) to a secret penthouse
high on the battlements where he can indulge
those despotic tastes he denominates,
half smiling over the heartless words,
"the relative consolations of semblance."
"Sir, suppose you draw that curtain," smiling
in earnest now, and so I sought--
but what appeared a piece of drapery proved
a painted deceit! My embarrassment
afforded a cue for audible laughter, only then His Grace, visibly
relishing his trick, the thing around,
whereupon appeared, on the reverse,
the late Duchess of Ferrara to the life!
Instanter the Duke praised the portrait
so readily provided by one Pandolf--
a monk by some profane article
attached to the court, hence answerable for taking likenesses as required
in but a day's diligence, so it was claimed...
Myself I find it but a mountebank's
proficiency--another chicane, like that illusive curtain, a waxwork sort
of nature called forth: cold legerdemain!
Though extranea such as the hares
(copulating!), the doves, and a full-blown rose
were showily limned, could not discern
aught to be loved in that countenance itself,
likely to rival, much less to excel the life illumined
in Cranach's image of our Countess, which His Grace had set
beside the dead woman's presentment... And took,
so evident was the supremacy,
no further pains to assert Fra Pandolf's skill.
One last hard look, whereupon the Duke resumed his discourse
in an altered tone, now some unintelligible rant
of stooping--His Grace chooses "never to stoop"
when he makes reproof... Lord will take this
as but a figure: not only is the Duke no longer young, his body is so
queerly misshapen that even to speak of "not stooping" seems absurdity:
the creature is stooped, whether by cruel or impartial cause--say
Time or the Tempter-- I shall not venture to hypothecate. Cause
or no cause, it would appear he marked
some motive for his "reproof," a mortal chastisement in fact inflicted on
his poor Duchess, put away (I take it so) for smiling--at whom?
Brother Pandolf? or some visitor to court during the sitting?
--too generally, if I construe the Duke's clue rightly, survive the terms
of his... severe protocol. My Lord, at the time it was delivered to me thus,
the admonition if indeed it was any such thing, seemed no more of a menace
than the rest of his rodomontade; , he pointed, as we toiled downstairs,
to that bronze Neptune by our old Claus
(there must be at least six of them cluttering
the Summer Palace at Innsbruck), claiming
it was "cast in bronze for me." Nonsense, of course.
But upon reflection, I suppose we had better take
the old reprobate at his unspeakable word... Why, even
assuming his boasts should be as plausible
as his avarice, no "cause" for dismay:
once ensconced here as the Duchess, your daughter
need no more apprehend the Duke's murderous temper
than his matchless taste.
For I have devised a means whereby
the dowry so flagrantly pursued by our insolvent Duke ("no
just pretense of mine be disallowed" indeed!), instead of being
paid as he pleads in one globose sum, drip into his coffers by degrees--
say, one fifth each year--then after five
such years, the dowry itself to be doubled,
always assuming that Her Grace enjoys
her usual smiling health. The years are her
ally in such an arbitrament, with confidence My Lord can assure
the new Duchess (assuming her Duke abides by these stipulations and his own
propensity for accumulating "semblances") the long devotion (so long as
he lasts ) of her last Duke... Or more likely, if I guess aright
your daughter's intent, of that young lordling I might make so
bold as to designate her next Duke, as well...
Ever determined in My Lordship's service, remain his Envoy
to Ferrara as to the world.
Nikolaus Mardruz.
- Richard Howard
Poetry Corner – My Last Dutchess
THAT'S my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will 't please you to sit and look at her? I said ``Fra Pandolf'' by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to my self they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps Fra Pandolf chanced to say, ``Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrist too much,'' or ``Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat:'' such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart--how shall I say?--too soon made glad, Too easily impressed: she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, 't was all one! My favor at her breast, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace--all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men,--good! but thanked Somehow,--I know not how--as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech--(which I have not)--to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, ``Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark''--and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, --E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will 't please you rise? We'll meet The company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretence Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me! - Robert Browning
Poetry Corner – Song of Shadows
SWEEP thy faint strings, Musician, With thy long, lean hand; Downward the starry tapers burn, Sinks soft the waning sand; The old hound whimpers couched in sleep, The embers smoulder low; Across the wall the shadows Come, and go. Sweep softly thy strings, Musician, The minutes mount to hours; Frost on the windless casement weaves A labyrinth of flowers; Ghosts linger in the darkenng air, hearken at the opening door; Music hath called them, dreaming, Home once more. - Walter de la Mare
Poetry Corner – Ishmael
AND Ishmael crouched beside a crackling briar Blinded with sand, and maddened by his thirst, A derelict, though he know not why accursed. And lo! One saw, and strung the dissonant lyre, Made firm his bow unto the arrow's spire, And gave him dates and wine. Then at the first Flushings of dawn Ishmael arose, and burst To triumphing freedom, ran, and eased desire. His domain was the desert. None tamed him. None bought or sold his spirit, though his hand Dripped red against the dawn and sunset stain. Thrones melted, kingdoms passed to the world's rim. But Ishmael scourged the lion in Paran land, And kept his faith with God. And he will reign. - Herbert Edward Palmer
Poetry Corner – Where are–
STILL the white stars burn overhead,
The green earth swings upon her way:
Where are the voices of the dead,
The hearts of Yesterday?
Drawn by what strange, mysterious power,
From what dream world and magic sky
Came they to laugh on earth an hour,
To weep, to toil, to die?
And whither gone? On what wild flight
By planet pale and sceptred star?
What realms of sorrow or delight
Now wander they afar?
Pale Wayfarers, whose noiseless tread
Is near me as I seem to see
The mighty generations dead,
And all that yet shall be!
Are Past and Future, then, a breath
That one vast Present makes its own?
The Angel, Birth, the Shadow, Death,
Each guards a world unknown.
Wayfarers all, we know not whence
We came, nor whitherwards we go.
Deep in our hearts a haunting sense
That somewhere we shall know.
Still the white stars burn overhead,
The green earth swings upon her way:
Where are the voices of the dead,
The hearts of yesterday?
- Yeats, probably.
Riders of Skaith 
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