Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

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