Robert Fuller Murray

The lady stood at the station bar, (Three currants in a bun) And oh she was proud, as ladies are.

It is the Police Commissioners, All on a winter's day; And they to prove the town water

No gift I bring but worship, and the love Which all must bear to lovely souls and pure, Those lights, that, when all else is dark, endure;

TO --- You like the trifling triolet: Well, here are three or four.

Early on Christmas Day, Love, as awake I lay, And heard the Christmas bells ring sweet and clearly,

Every critic in the town Runs the minor poet down; Every critic--don't you know it?

I When one is young and eager, A bejant and a boy,

How often have the critics, trained To look upon the sky Through telescopes securely chained,

Blue, blue is the sea to-day, Warmly the light Sleeps on St. Andrews Bay--

Blue, blue is the sea to-day, Warmly the light Sleeps on St. Andrews Bay--

My lamp is out, my task is done, And up the stair with lingering feet I climb.    The staircase clock strikes one.

One dark, dark night--it was long ago, The air was heavy and still and warm-- It fell to me and a man I know,

When people tell me they have loved But once in youth, I wonder, are they always moved

The sun shines fair on Tweedside, the river flowing bright, Your heart is full of pleasure, your eyes are full of light, Your cheeks are like the morning, your pearls are like the dew,

If a pleasant lawn there grow By the showers caressed, Where in all the seasons blow

It seems a little word to say-- _Farewell_--but may it not, when said, Be like the kiss we give the dead,

Thrice happy are those Who ne'er heard of Greek Prose-- Or Greek Poetry either, as far as that goes;

Till the tread of marching feet Through the quiet grass-grown street Of the little town shall come,

Here, where the thoroughfares meet at an angle Of ninety degrees (this angle is right), You may hear the loafers that jest and wrangle

Never was sun so bright before, No matin of the lark so sweet, No grass so green beneath my feet,

Short space shall be hereafter Ere April brings the hour Of weeping and of laughter,

As I was walking down the street A week ago, Near Henderson's I chanced to meet

The mist hangs round the College tower, The ghostly street Is silent at this midnight hour,

On the field of Waterloo we made Napoleon rue That ever out of Elba he decided for to come, For we finished him that day, and he had to run away,

You found my life, a poor lame bird That had no heart to sing, You would not speak the magic word

My soul is like a prisoned lark, That sings and dreams of liberty, The nights are long, the days are dark,

I met him down upon the pier; His eyes were wild and sad, And something in them made me fear

Dear Ritchie, I am waiting for the signal word to fly, And tell me that the visit which has suffered such belating Is to be a thing of now, and no more of by-and-by.

How many the troubles that wait On mortals!--especially those Who endeavour in eloquent prose

It was many and many a year ago, In a city by the sea, That a man there lived whom I happened to know

Long since I came into the school of Art, A child in works, but not a child in heart. Slowly I learn, by her instruction mild,

Not the proudest damsel here Looks so well as doth my dear. All the borrowed light of dress

Where she sleeps, no moonlight shines No pale beam unbidden creeps. Darkest shade the place enshrines

As I, with hopeless love o'erthrown, With love o'erthrown, with love o'erthrown, And this is truth I tell,

Through many lands and over many seas I come, my Brother, to thine obsequies, To pay thee the last honours that remain,

Come back to St. Andrews!    Before you went away You said you would be wretched where you could not see the Bay, The East sands and the West sands and the castle in the sea

I had a plant which would not thrive, Although I watered it with care, I could not save the blossoms fair,

I hear a twittering of birds, And now they burst in song. How sweet, although it wants the words!

This morning, while we sat in talk Of spring and apple-bloom, Lo!    Death stood in the garden walk,

As those who hear a sweet bird sing, And love each song it sings the best, Grieve when they see it taking wing

Fickle Summer's fled away, Shall we see her face again? Hearken to the weeping rain,

Oh, will the footsteps never be done? The insolent feet Thronging the street,

Crimson and cream and white-- My room is a garden of roses! Centre and left and right,

Beyond the Cheviots and the Tweed, Beyond the Firth of Forth, My memory returns at speed

Golden dream of summer morn, By a well-remembered stream In the land where I was born,

I love the inoffensive frog, 'A little child, a limber elf,' With health and spirits all agog,

Ever to be the best.    To lead In whatsoever things are true; Not stand among the halting crew,

When the weary night is fled, And the morning sky is red, Then my heart doth rise and say,

What the end the gods have destined unto thee and unto me, Ask not: 'tis forbidden knowledge.    Be content, Leuconoe. Let alone the fortune-tellers.    How much better to endure

Artemis! thou fairest Of the maids that be In divine Olympus,

Gone is the glory from the hills, The autumn sunshine from the mere, Which mourns for the declining year

He brought a team from Inversnaid To play our Third Fifteen, A man whom none of us had played

'In the shadow of Thy wings, O Lord of Hosts, whom I extol, I will put my trust for ever,' so the kingly David sings. 'Thou shalt help me, Thou shalt save me, only

Lost Youth, come back again! Laugh at weariness and pain. Come not in dreams, but come in truth,

Despair is in the suns that shine, And in the rains that fall, This sad forsaken soul of mine

Fain would I shake thee off, but weak am I Thy strong solicitations to withstand. Plenty of work lies ready to my hand,

Lost at sea, with all on board! No one saw their sinking sail, No one heard their dying wail,

Of our own will we are not free, When freedom lies within our power. We wait for some decisive hour,

There was a time when in your face There dwelt such power, and in your smile I know not what of magic grace;

Whene'er I try to read a book, Across the page your face will look, And then I neither know nor care

O Love, thine empire is not dead, Nor will we let thy worship go, Although thine early flush be fled,

St. Andrews! not for ever thine shall be Merely the shadow of a mighty name, The remnant only of an ancient fame

When I was young and well and glad, I used to play at being sad; Now youth and health are fled away,

The air is dark and fragrant With memories of a shower, And sanctified with stillness

O swallow-tailed purveyor of college sprees, O skilled to please the student fraternity, Most honoured publican of Scotland,

Love, we have heard together The North Sea sing his tune, And felt the wind's wild feather

Ye who will help me in my dying pain, Speak not a word: let all your voices cease. Let me but hear some soft harmonious strain,

My Lady of all ladies!    Queen by right Of tender beauty; full of gentle moods; With eyes that look divine beatitudes,

Let me sleep.    The day is past, And the folded shadows keep Weary mortals safe and fast.

Brown was my friend, and faithful--but so fat! He came to see me in the twilight dim; I rose politely and invited him

In youth with diligence he toiled A Roman nose to gain, But though a decent pug was spoiled,

Last night, when at parting Awhile we did stand, Suddenly starting,

Love, when the present is become the past, And dust has covered all that now is new, When many a fame has faded out of view,

There was a time when it was counted high To be a patriot--whether by the zeal Of peaceful labour for the country's weal,

A day of gladness yet will dawn, Though when I cannot say; Perhaps it may be Thursday week,

Children of earth are we, Lovers of land and sea, Of hill, of brook, of tree,

In the hard familiar horse-box I am sitting once again; Creeping back to old St. Andrews comes the slow North British train, Bearing bejants with their luggage (boxes full of heavy books,

For thee the birds shall never sing again, Nor fresh green leaves come out upon the tree, The brook shall no more murmur the refrain

Sleep flies me like a lover Too eagerly pursued, Or like a bird to cover

As through the street at eve we went (It might be half-past ten), We fell out, my friend and I,

Song is not dead, although to-day Men tell us everything is said. There yet is something left to say,

I made a truce last night with Sorrow, The queen of tears, the foe of sleep, To keep her tents until the morrow,

I loved a little maiden In the golden years gone by; She lived in a mill, as they all do

Sweetheart, that thou art fair I know, More fair to me Than flowers that make the loveliest show

Mourn that which will not come again, The joy, the strength of early years. Bow down thy head, and let thy tears

In the oldest of our alleys, By good bejants tenanted, Once a man whose name was Wallace--

In vain you fervently extol, In vain you puff, your cutty clay. A twelvemonth smoked and black as coal,

Oh, who may this dead warrior be That to his grave they bring? 'Tis William, Duke of Normandy,

Alas for the bird who was born to sing! They have made him a cage; they have clipped his wing; They have shut him up in a dingy street,

Would you like to see a city given over, Soul and body, to a tyrannising game? If you would, there's little need to be a rover,

The Session's over.    We must say farewell To these east winds and to this eastern sea, For summer comes, with swallow and with bee,

Years grow and gather--each a gem Lustrous with laughter and with tears, And cunning Time a crown of years

The Red King's gone a-hunting, in the woods his father made For the tall red deer to wander through the thicket and the glade, The King and Walter Tyrrel, Prince Henry and the rest

It seems a hundred years or more Since I, with note-book, ink and pen, In cap and gown, first trod the floor

This is the time when larks are singing loud And higher still ascending and more high, This is the time when many a fleecy cloud

There's a fiddler in the street, And the children all are dancing: Two dozen lightsome feet

Last night for the first time, O Heart's Delight, I held your hand a moment in my own, The dearest moment which my soul has known,

I know the garden-close of sin, The cloying fruits, the noxious flowers, I long have roamed the walks and bowers,

I drove a golf-ball into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight

Life is a house where many chambers be, And all the doors will yield to him who tries, Save one, whereof men say, behind it lies

When we have laid aside our last endeavour, And said farewell to one or two that weep, And issued from the house of life for ever,

The life of earth, how full of pain, Which greets us on our day of birth, Nor leaves us while we yet retain

It was a phantom of delight When first it gleamed upon my sight, A scholarly distinction, sent

The sun is banished, The daylight vanished, No rosy traces

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, He passed through the doorway into the street, A strong wind lifted his hat from his head,

Hurrah for the Science Club! Join it, ye fourth year men; Join it, thou smooth-cheeked scrub,

I have been lonely all my days on earth, Living a life within my secret soul, With mine own springs of sorrow and of mirth,

I love to see the swallows come At my window twittering, Bringing from their southern home

Weak soul, by sense still led astray, Why wilt thou parley with the foe? He seeks to work thine overthrow,

The truest Liberal is he Who sees the man in each degree, Who merit in a churl can prize,

The voice that sings across the night Of long forgotten days and things, Is there an ear to hear aright

Another day let slip!    Its hours have run, Its golden hours, with prodigal excess, All run to waste.    A day of life the less;

Loud he sang the song Ta Phershon For his personal diversion, Sang the chorus U-pi-dee,

Loud he sang the song Ta Phershon For his personal diversion, Sang the chorus U-pi-dee,

I shall be spun.    There is a voice within Which tells me plainly I am all undone; For though I toil not, neither do I spin,

I shall be spun.    There is a voice within Which tells me plainly I am all undone; For though I toil not, neither do I spin,

Two old St. Andrews men, after a separation of nearly thirty years, meet by chance at a wayside inn.    They interchange experiences; and at length one of them, who is an admirer of Mr. Swinburne's Poems and Ballads, speaks as follows: If you were now a bejant, And I a first year man,

Thou art queen to every eye, When the fairest maids convene. Envy's self can not deny

Familiar with thy melody, We go debating of its power, As churls, who hear it hour by hour,

Oh for the nights when we used to sit In the firelight's glow or flicker, With the gas turned low and our pipes all lit,

Last Sunday night I read the saddening story Of the unanswered love of fair Elaine, The 'faith unfaithful' and the joyless glory

Beloved Peeler! friend and guide And guard of many a midnight reeler, None worthier, though the world is wide,

Ah yes, we know what you're saying, As your eye glances over these Notes: 'What asses are these that are braying

These verses have I pilfered like a bee Out of a letter from my C. C. C. In London, showing what befell him there,

After the melting of the snow Divines depart and April comes; Examinations nearer grow

Sorrow and sin have worked their will For years upon your sovereign face, And yet it keeps a faded trace

There is a village in a southern land, By rounded hills closed in on every hand. The streets slope steeply to the market-square,

Be ye happy, if ye may, In the years that pass away. Ye shall pass and be forgot,

In Algebra, if Algebra be ours, x and x^2 can ne'er be equal powers, Unless x=1, or none at all.

The fire burns bright And the hearth is clean swept, As she likes it kept,

Oh, where's the use of having gifts that can't be turned to money? And where's the use of singing, when there's no one wants to hear? It may be one or two will say your songs are sweet as honey,

The city once again doth wear Her wonted dress of winter's bride, Her mantle woven of misty air,

Beside the drowsy streams that creep Within this island of repose, Oh, let us rest from cares and woes,

When one who has wandered out of the way Which leads to the hills of joy, Whose heart has grown both cold and grey,