by John Buchan
To the home of the tern and the bee,
And deep in the heather lie
Of the Isles of the Sea.
But they say there are other lands
For him who has heart and will,
Whiter than Barra’s sands,
Greener than Icolmkill,
Where the cool sweet waters flow,
And the White Bird sings in the skies
Such songs as immortals know
In the fields of Paradise.
So I’ll launch my boat on the seas
And sail o’er the shadowy deep,
Past the Island of Apple Trees
And the little Island of Sheep,
And follow St Brandan’s way
Far into the golden West,
Till I harbour at the close of day
In the Isles of the Blest.
The Forerunners
1941
You may follow far in the blue-goose track
To the lands where spring is in mid-July;
You may cross to the unmapped mountains’ back,
To lakes unscanned by the trapper’s eye.
You may trace to its lair the soft Chinook,
And the North Wind trail to the Barren’s floor;
But you’ll always find, or I’m much mistook,
That some old Frenchman’s done it before.
You may spirit wealth from despisèd dust,
Gold from the refuse and gems from the spoil;
You may draw new power from the torrent’s thrust,
And bend to your use the ocean’s toil;
You may pierce to Nature’s innermost nook,
And pluck the heart of her secret lore;
But you’ll always find, or I’m much mistook
That some old Frenchman’s done it before.
You may hunt all day for the fitting word,
The aptest phrase and the rightful tune,
Beating the wood for the magic bird,
Dredging the pond to find the moon.
And when you escape (in the perfect book)
From the little less and the little more,
You’re sure to find, or I’m much mistook,
That some old Frenchman’s done it before.
The Old Love
1941
The little countries are shaped by men
And moulded by human hands. —
But you cannot trace on my ancient face
The scars of the little lands.
They come, they pass, like shadows on grass,
Or a child’s play on the sands.
Dawns and dusks and storms and suns
Have spun my tapestry,
From the lakes of the South to the snows of the North,
From the East to the Western sea,
Which lays its arts on my children’s hearts,
And brings them back to me.
Far they may travel and fine they may fare,
And new loves come with the years;
But a scent or a sound will call them back,
And my voice will speak in their ears,
And the old love, the deep love,
Will dim their eyes with tears.
To each will come a remembered scene,
Bright as in childhood’s day;
Dearer than all that lies between
Those blue hills far away.
They will remember the fragile Springs
Ere the horn of Summer blows,
And the rapturous Falls when the year burns out
In ashes of gold and rose,
And the Winters brimmed with essential light
From the crystal heart of the snows. —
The tides run in from the opal seas
Through the thousand isles of the West,
And the winds that ride the mountain side
Ruffle the tall trees’ crest —
Forests old when the world was young,
And dark as a raven’s breast.
Morning leaps o’er the Prairie deeps,
Girdled with gold and fire;
In the hot noon the cornland sleeps,
And the drowsy crickets choir; —
The dews fall, and the sun goes down
To a fierce mid-ocean pyre.
In the wild hay mead the dun deer feed
And the long hill-shadows lie;
The regiments of prick-eared firs
March to the saffron sky;
There is no sound but the lap of the lake,
And at even the loon’s cry.
The cold Atlantic gnaws by my feet
As a famished wolf at a bone,
The wind-blown terns old tales repeat
Of sailormen dead and gone,
And the apple-blossom and salt spray meet
On the skirts of Blomidon.
Mile-wide rivers roll to the sea,
And my lakes have an ocean’s moods,
But the little streams are the streams for me
That dance through the scented woods,
And by bar and shingle and crag and lea
Make song in the solitudes.
Far and wide my children roam,
And new loves come with the years,
But a scent or a sound will bring them home,
And my voice will speak in their ears,
And the old love, the deep love,
Will dim their eyes with tears.
Cadieux
1941
“Petit rocher de la haute montagne
Je viens ici finir cette campagne.”
Little rock of the mountainside,
Here I rest from all my pride.
Sweet echo, hear my cry;
I lay me down to die.
Say to my dear ones, nightingale,
My love for them can never fail.
My faith has known no stain,
But they see me not again.
Now the world has dimmed its face,
Saviour of men I seek Thy grace.
Sweet Virgin ever blest,
Gather me to thy breast.
Chansons
1941
What are the songs that Cadieux sings
Out in the woods when the axe-blade rings?
Whence the word and whence the tune
Which under the stars the boatmen croon?
Some are the games that children play
When they dance in rings on a noon in May,
And the maiden choir sings high and low
Under the blossomy orchard snow.
Some are the plaints of girls forlorn,
For lovers lost and pledges tom,
Told at eve to the evening star,
When the lit tourelle is a lamp afar.
Some are sung ‘neath the dreaming trees
In modish garden pleasances,
Where a silken Colin indites his ode
To a shepherdess hooped and furbelowed,
And fat carp swim in the fountain’s deep,
And the cares of the world have gone to sleep.
And some are the lays of the good green earth,
Of sunburnt toil and hobnailed mirth,
Where Time is loth to turn the page,
And lingers as in the Golden Age.
That is the tongue that Cadieux speaks
In his bottes sauvages and his leathern breeks —
Old sweet songs of the far-off lands,
Norman orchards and Breton sands,
Chicken-skin fans and high-heeled shoon, —
Squires and ladies under the moon, —
Which the night wind carries swift and keen
To the ears of the wolf and the wolverine,
And every beast in the forest’s law, —
And maybe a prowling Iroquois.
Horse or Gun?
1941
Which shall I choose of two excellent things,
Big Dog — or the Stick-that-sings?
On Big Dog’s back I can eat up the ground,
Fas
ter than an antelope, stealthy as hound.
Two-Suns think that I hunt remote,
When my knife is a yard from Two-Suns’ throat.
The buffalo dream that the plain is clear —
In an hour my bow will twang in their ear.
Who owns Big Dog is a mighty brave,
For the earth is his squaw, and the wind his slave.
With the Stick-that-sings all soft and still
I pick my lair and I make my kill.
Shield nor sentry can cramp the wings
Of the death that flies from the Stick-that-sings.
Man and beast I smite from afar,
And they know not their foe in that secret war.
Big dog is a marvel beyond dispraise,
But he dies at the breath of the Stick-that-slays.
Wherefore, though both are marvellous things,
My voice shall be for the Stick-that-sings.
Things to Remember
1941
Child, if you would live at ease
Learn these few philosophies.
If you fear a bully’s frown,
Smite him briskly on the crown.
If you’re frightened of the dark,
Go to bed without a spark
To light up the nursery stairs,
And be sure to say your prayers.
If your pony’s raw and new,
Show that you can stick like glue.
If the fence seems castle-high,
Throw your heart across and try.
Whatsoever risk portends,
Face it and you’ll soon be friends.
But though many perils you dare
Mingle fortitude with care.
Do not tempt the torrent’s brim
Till you’ve really learned to swim.
Do not climb the mountain snow
If inclined to vertigo.
Do not let yourself be seen
Mother bear and cubs between;
Or essay your marksman’s skill
On a grizzly couched uphill, —
Else this mortal stage you’ll leave
And your parents fond will grieve.
Qu’appelle?
1941
Qu’ appelle!
A whisper steals through the sunburnt grasses;
Faint as a twilight wind it passes,
Broken and slow,
Soft and low,
And the heart responds like a beaten bell;
For the voice comes out of the ancient deeps
Where the blind, primordial Terror sleeps,
And hark! It is followed by soft footfalls!
Who calls?
Qu’appelle!
What is it stirs the cedars high,
When there is no wind in all the sky,
And plays queer tunes
On the saskatoons,
Subtler airs than the ear can tell?
The evening breeze? But wise men warn
That the tune and the wind are elfin-born,
And lure the soul to uncanny things.
Who sings?
Qu’ appelle!
The world is empty of stir and sound,
Not a white fox barks in the void profound;
On the Elder Ice
Old Silence lies,
Older than Time and deep as Hell.
Yet a whisper creeps as a mist from a fen
Which is not the speech of articulate men,
And the hunter flees like a startled bird.
Whose word?
The Foot-Traveller
1941
At first we went on our own flat feet,
Moccasined, booted, or bare as at birth,
Brisk in frost and laggard in heat,
Bound for the uttermost ends of the earth.
Hill and prairie and deep muskegs
Were covered in turn by our aching legs.
We have sailed on the Ultimate Seas,
We have tramped o’er the Infinite Plain;
We have carried our pack to the icebergs and back,
And by — we will go there again!
We broke the trail on the winter crust,
Husky and malamute trotting behind;
Our pack-train coughed in the alkali dust,
And strained in the passes against the wind.
In the prairie loam, on the world’s high roof,
From dawn to dusk we padded the hoof.
Canoe and bateau speeded our way,
But half the time we were wading the creek,
And the longest portage fell on the day
When our bellies were void and our legs were weak.
Like docile mules we shouldered the pack
And carried a wonderful weight on our back.
Now behold has a miracle brought
Ease to our legs and speed to the way;
Outboards chug where canoemen wrought,
A month’s toil now is a morning’s play;
The mountain track is a metalled road
And motors carry the pack-train’s load.
Through the conquered air we speed to our goal;
Swamps and forests are dim beneath;
The virgin peak and the untrod Pole
Fade behind like a frosty breath.
Freed from the toil of our ancient wars,
We outpace the winds and outface the stars.
Yet — when we come to the end of our quest,
The last grim haul in the gully’s heart,
The uttermost ice of the mountain’s crest,
The furthest ridge where the waters part,
The lode deep hid in the cypress fen
A thousand miles from the eyes of men —
Then we return to our fathers’ ways,
For help there is none from earth or heaven;
Once again as in elder days
We are left with the bodies that God has given.
At the end the first and the last things meet
And we needs must go on our own flat feet.
We have sailed on the Ultimate Seas,
We have tramped o’er the Infinite Plain;
We have carried our pack to the icebergs and back,
And by — we will go there again!
LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORD ER
A New Year’s Hymn
The Piper
The Autumn of the World
An Old Flower Garden
An Evening by the Sea
The Happy Valley
Plato
Marcus Aurelius
Hereafter
On a Portrait of the Hon. Mrs Graham by Gainsborough
The Dead Scholar
The Orchard
Erinna
Spring and Death
Trioleto
In Glen Eaisdale
A Moorland Ballade
On a Certain Affected Obscurity of Style
Autumn
An Autumn Picture
The Snow Queen
The Norus
Death
Kyrielle
Giordano Bruno
The Song of all Seasons
The Ballad of Gideon Scott
The Strong Man Armed
Antiphilus of Byzantium
Princess of the Shining Eyes (1895/1899)
To Master Izaak Walton
A Journey of Little Profit
Gibraltar
John Burnet of Barns
To the Adventurous Spirit of the North
From the Pentlands Looking North and South
The Pilgrim Fathers
Ballad for Grey Weather
Lady Keith’s Lament
The Gipsy’s Song to the Lady Cassilis
The Soldier of Fortune
The Last Song of Oisin
The Semitic Spirit Speaks (1902/1903)
Midian’s Evil Day’
The Song of the Sea Captain
A Lodge in the Wilderness
Youth
The Spirit Of Art
Youth II
The Spirit of Art II
Babylon
Processional
The Herd of Farawa
To Lionel Phillips
Avignon, 1759
Wood Magic
Atta’s Song
An Echo of Meleager
Stocks and Stones
The Wise Years
Sir Walter Raleigh
The Shorter Catechism
Fratri Dilectissimo
In Peebles Churchyard
The Eternal Feminine
Plain Folk
Thyrsis de nos jours
To Sir Reginald Talbot
Ordeal by Marriage
Envoi.
The South Countrie
The Kirn
Gidden’s Song
Jock’s Song
The Fishers
Sweet Argos
On Leave
The Great Ones
Fisher Jamie
The ‘Lusitania’ Waits
Wireless
Alastair Buchan
The Kirk Bell
Home Thoughts From Abroad
Fragment of an Ode in Praise
The Return
To Vernon Watney
Sandy to Alasdair
Ferris Greenslet
Oxford Prologizes
The Magic Walking Stick
The Blessed Isles
The Forerunners
The Old Love
Cadieux
Chansons
Horse or Gun?
Things to Remember
Qu’appelle?
The Foot-Traveller
LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORD ER
A Journey of Little Profit
A Lodge in the Wilderness
A Moorland Ballade
A New Year’s Hymn
Alastair Buchan
An Autumn Picture
An Echo of Meleager
An Evening by the Sea
An Old Flower Garden
Antiphilus of Byzantium
Atta’s Song
Autumn
Avignon, 1759
Babylon
Ballad for Grey Weather
Cadieux
