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Scottish Poetry
Stirling Thompson:
AT BELVOIR
BY JAMES THOMSON
Sunday, July 3, 1881.
A BALLAD, HISTORICAL AND PROPHETIC.
(“In maiden meditation, fancy free.”)
My thoughts go back to last July,
Sweet happy thoughts and tender;–
“The bridal of the earth and sky,”
A day of noble splendour;
A day to make the saddest heart
In joy a true believer;
When two good friends we roamed apart
The shady walks of Belvoir.
A maiden like a budding rose,
Unconscious of the golden
And fragrant bliss of love that glows
Deep in her heart infolden;
A Poet old in years and thought,
Yet not too old for pleasance,
Made young again and fancy-fraught
By such a sweet friend's presence.
The other two beyond our ken
Most shamefully deserted,
And far from all the ways of men
Their stealthy steps averted:
Of course our Jack would go astray,
Erotic and erratic;
But Mary!—well, I own the day
Was really too ecstatic.
We roamed with many a merry jest
And many a ringing laughter;
The slow calm hours too rich in zest
To heed before and after:
Yet lingering down the lovely walks
Soft strains anon came stealing,
A finer music through our talks
Of sweeter, deeper feeling:
Yes, now and then a quiet word
Of seriousness dissembling
In smiles would touch some hidden chord
And set it all a-trembling:
I trembled too, and felt it strange;–
Could I be in possession
Of music richer in its range
Than yet had found expression?
The cattle standing in the mere,
The swans upon it gliding,
The sunlight on the waters clear,
The radiant clouds dividing;
The solemn sapphire sky above,
The foliage lightly waving,
The soft air's Sabbath peace and love
To satisfy all craving.
We mapped the whole fair region out
As Country of the Tender,
From first pursuit in fear and doubt
To final glad surrender:
Each knoll and arbour got its name,
Each vista, covert, dingle;–
No young pair now may track the same
And long continue single!
And in the spot most thrilling-sweet
Of all this Love-Realm rosy
Our truant pair had found retreat,
Unblushing, calm and cosy:
Where seats too wide for one are placed,
And yet for two but narrow,
It's “Let my arm steal round your waist,
And be my winsome marrow!”
Reclining on a pleasant lea
Such tender scenes rehearsing,
A freakish fit seized him and me
For wildly foolish versing:
We versed of this, we versed of that,
A pair of mocking sinners,
While our lost couple strayed or sat
Oblivious of their dinners.
But what was strange, our maddest rhymes
In all their divagations
Were charged and over-charged at times
With deep vaticinations:
I yearn with wonder at the power
Of Poetry prophetic
Which in my soul made that blithe hour
With this hour sympathetic.
For though we are in winter now,
My heart is full of summer:
Old Year, old Wish, have made their bow;
I welcome each new-comer.
“The King is dead, long live the King!
The throne is vacant never!”
Is true, I read, of everything,
So of my heart forever!
My thoughts go on to next July,
More happy thoughts, more tender;
“The bridal of the earth and sky,”
A day of perfect splendour;
A day to make the saddest heart
In bliss a firm believer;
When two True Loves may roam apart
The shadiest walks of Belvoir.
There may be less of merry jest
And less of ringing laughter,
Yet life be much more rich in zest
And richer still thereafter;
The love-scenes of that region fair
Have very real rehearsing,
And tremulous kisses thrill the air
Far sweetlier than sweet versing;
The bud full blown at length reveal
Its deepest golden burning;
The heart inspired with love unseal
Its inmost passionate yearning:
The music of the hidden chord
At length find full expression;
The Seraph of the Flaming Sword
Assume divine possession.
Notes:
Belvoir pronounced ‘beaver’
marrow: mate or companion
divagations: wanderings
vaticinations: prophecies
Stirling Thompson:
Favorite Place read by Scotland's National Poet Liz Lochead.
http://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/connect/audio/favourite-place-liz-lochhead
Stirling Thompson:
Because it fits...
The Scottish Borders (Our Ancestral Home)
revised edition
William Denholm
Edinburgh, Scotland
2001
I decided to take my children out for the day
And show them where they’re ancestors used to stay
So we got in the car and drove to the Scottish Borders
First stop Melrose Abbey, the place of holy ancient orders
This magnificent ruin still stands fast
A constant reminder of Scotland’s bloody past
Within its walls lies the Heart of Robert the Bruce
The gallant King who brought freedom's truce
We got back in the car
And passed by the Rymer’s stone
I knew at that point it wouldn’t be long till
We reached Denholm’s ancestral home
We took a wrong turn
And ended up in Ancrum instead
I can’t imagine our most ancient
Would have made this Tory heartland his bed
At that point I didn’t know what to do
When Lindsay said, “Dad, look at the sign post,
It might give us a clue.”
I looked at the signpost and it read
DENHOLM, five miles ahead
We arrived at the village
Where I took photographs of the children
At the DENHOLM village sign
To remind them of their visit in a future time
We then went down to the village green
Where a monument to Sir John Layden can be seen
Lindsay and Lauren played in the park for a while
The one thing that always guaranteed to make them smile
I looked around and not another soul could I see
Well it was Sunday afternoon
Maybe they were having their tea
We got back in the car
And crossed the Dean Burn
And we ended up in Hawick
Somewhere along the line
I had taken another wrong turn
We were passing through Selkirk
When we heard an almighty roar
The 'Rugby Sevens' were on
And someone kicked a conversion to score
By the time we got to Peebles
The Children were starving
And these Children I had to feed
So we stopped the car and bought our Suppers
And ate them by the Banks of the River Tweed
Lauren found another park
Where they both played a little longer
I can only hope after this visit
Their border roots will become stronger,
Love Dad
Stirling Thompson:
Glasgow published in 1857
Sing, Poet, ’tis a merry world;
That cottage smoke is rolled and curled
In sport, that every moss
Is happy, every inch of soil;—
Before me runs a road of toil
With my grave cut across.
Sing, trailing showers and breezy downs —
I know the tragic hearts of towns.
City! I am true son of thine;
Ne’er dwelt I where great mornings shine
Around the bleating pens;
Ne’er by the rivulets I strayed,
And ne’er upon my childhood weighed
The silence of the glens.
Instead of shores where ocean beats,
I hear the ebb and flow of streets. …
Afar, one summer, I was borne;
Through golden vapours of the morn,
I heard the hills of sheep:
I trod with a wild ecstasy
The bright fringe of the living sea:
And on a ruined keep
I sat, and watched an endless plain
Blacken beneath the gloom of rain.
O fair the lightly sprinkled waste,
O’er which a laughing shower has raced!
O fair the April shoots!
O fair the woods on summer days,
While a blue hyacinthine haze
Is dreaming round the roots!
In thee, O city! I discern
Another beauty, sad and stern.
Draw thy fierce streams of blinding ore,
Smite on a thousand anvils, roar
Down to the harbour-bars;
Smoulder in smoky sunsets, flare
On rainy nights, while street and square
Lie empty to the stars.
From terrace proud to alley base,
I know thee as my mother’s face.
When sunset bathes thee in his gold,
In wreaths of bronze thy sides are rolled,
Thy smoke is dusty fire;
And from the glory round thee poured,
A sunbeam like an angel’s sword
Shivers upon a spire.
Thus have I watched thee, Terror! Dream!
While the blue Night crept up the stream...
But all these sights and sounds are strange;
Then wherefore from thee should I range?
Thou hast my kith and kin;
My childhood, youth, and manhood brave;
Thou hast that unforgotten grave
Within thy central din.
A sacredness of love and death
Dwells in thy noise and smoky breath.
Alexander Smith
Stirling Thompson:
The Star o' Rabbie Burns
Words: James Thomson
Music: James Booth
There is a star whose beaming ray
Is shed on every clime.
It shines by night, it shines by day,
And ne'er grows dim wi' time.
It rose upon the banks o' Ayr,
It shone on Doon's clear stream.
A hundred years are gane and mair,
Yet brighter grows its beam.
Refrain:
Let kings and courtiers rise and fa'
This world has mony turns,
But brightly beams abune them aw'
The Star o' Rabbie Burns.
Though he was but a ploughman lad
And wore the hodden grey,
Auld Scotland's sweetest bard was bred
Aneath a roof o' strae.
To sweep the strings o' Scotia's lyre,
It needs nae classic lore;
It's mither wit an' native fire
That warms the bosom's core.
Refrain:
Let kings and courtiers rise and fa'
This world has mony turns,
But brightly beams abune them aw'
The Star o' Rabbie Burns.
On fame's emblazon'd page enshrin'd
His name is foremost now,
And many a costly wreath's been twin'd
To grace his honest brow.
And Scotland's heart expands wi' joy
Whene'er the day returns
That gave the world its peasant boy
Immortal Rabbie Burns.
Refrain:
Let kings and courtiers rise and fa'
This world has mony turns,
But brightly beams abune them aw'
The Star o' Rabbie Burns.
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