Read Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) Online
Authors: ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Illustrated) (501 page)
O’ tautit sinners!
The wind may blaw, the heathen rage,
The deil may start on the rampage; —
The sick in bed, the thief in cage —
What’s a’ to me?
Cosh in my house, a sober sage,
I sit an’ see.
An’ whiles the bluid spangs to my bree,
To lie sae saft, to live sae free,
While better men maun do an’ die
In unco places.
“
Whaur’s God?
” I cry, an’ “
Whae is me
To hae sic graces?
”
I mind the fecht the sailors keep,
But fire or can’le, rest or sleep,
In darkness an’ the muckle deep;
An’ mind beside
The herd that on the hills o’ sheep
Has wandered wide.
I mind me on the hoastin’ weans —
The penny joes on causey-stanes —
The auld folk wi’ the crazy banes,
Baith auld an’ puir,
That aye maun thole the winds an’ rains
An’ labour sair.
An’ whiles I’m kind o’ pleased a blink,
An’ kind o’ fleyed forby, to think,
For a’ my rowth o’ meat an’ drink
An’ waste o’ crumb,
I’ll mebbe have to thole wi’ skink
In Kingdom Come.
For God whan jowes the Judgment bell
Wi’ His ain Hand, His Leevin’ Sel’,
Sall ryve the guid (as Prophets tell)
Frae them that had it;
And in the reamin’ pat o’ Hell,
The rich be scaddit.
O Lord, if this indeed be sae,
Let daw’ that sair an’ happy day!
Again the warl’, grawn auld an’ grey,
Up wi’ your aixe!
An’ let the puir enjoy their play —
I’ll thole my paiks.
XIV
MY CONSCIENCE!
Of a’ the ills that flesh can fear,
The loss o’ frien’s, the lack o’ gear,
A yowlin’ tyke, a glandered mear,
A lassie’s nonsense —
There’s just ae thing I canna bear,
An’ that’s my conscience.
Whan day (an’ a’ excüse) has gane,
An’ wark is düne, and duty’s plain,
An’ to my chalmer a’ my lane
I creep apairt,
My conscience! hoo the yammerin’ pain
Stends to my heart!
A’ day wi’ various ends in view,
The hairsts o’ time I had to pu’,
An’ made a hash wad staw a soo,
Let be a man! —
My conscience! whan my han’s were fu’,
Whaur were ye than?
An’ there were a’ the lures o’ life,
There pleesure skirlin’ on the fife,
There anger, wi’ the hotchin’ knife
Ground shairp in Hell —
My conscience! — you that’s like a wife! —
Whaur was yoursel’?
I ken it fine: just waitin’ here,
To gar the evil waur appear,
To clart the guid, confüse the clear,
Misca’ the great,
My conscience! an’ to raise a steer
Whan a’s ower late.
Sic-like, some tyke grawn auld and blind,
Whan thieves brok’ through the gear to p’ind,
Has lain his dozened length an’ grinned
At the disaster;
An’ the morn’s mornin’, wud’s the wind,
Yokes on his master.
XV
TO DOCTOR JOHN BROWN
Whan the dear doctor, dear to a’,
Was still among us here belaw,
I set my pipes his praise to blaw
Wi’ a’ my speerit;
But noo, dear doctor! he’s awa’
An’ ne’er can hear it.
By Lyne and Tyne, by Thames and Tees,
By a’ the various river Dee’s,
In Mars and Manors ‘yont the seas
Or here at hame,
Whaure’er there’s kindly folk to please,
They ken your name.
They ken your name, they ken your tyke,
They ken the honey from your byke;
But mebbe after a’ your fyke,
(The trüth to tell)
It’s just your honest Rab they like,
An’ no’ yoursel’.
As at the gowff, some canny play’r
Should tee a common ba’ wi’ care —
Should flourish and deleever fair
His souple shintie —
An’ the ba’ rise into the air,
A leevin’ lintie:
Sae in the game we writers play,
There comes to some a bonny day,
When a dear ferlie shall repay
Their years o’ strife,
An’ like your Rab, their things o’ clay
Spreid wings o’ life.
Ye scarce deserved it, I’m afraid —
You that had never learned the trade,
But just some idle mornin’ strayed
Into the schüle,
An’ picked the fiddle up an’ played
Like Neil himsel’.
Your e’e was gleg, your fingers dink;
Ye didna fash yoursel’ to think,
But wove, as fast as puss can link,
Your denty wab: —
Ye stapped your pen into the ink,
An’ there was Rab!
Sinsyne, whaure’er your fortune lay
By dowie den, by canty brae,
Simmer an’ winter, nicht an’ day,
Rab was aye wi’ ye;
An’ a’ the folk on a’ the way
Were blithe to see ye.
O sir, the gods are kind indeed,
An’ hauld ye for an honoured heid,
That for a wee bit clarkit screed
Sae weel reward ye,
An’ lend — puir Rabbie bein’ deid —
His ghaist to guard ye.
For though, whaure’er yoursel’ may be,
We’ve just to turn an’ glisk a wee,
An’ Rab at heel we’re shüre to see
Wi’ gladsome caper: —
The bogle of a bogle, he —
A ghaist o’ paper!
And as the auld-farrant hero sees
In Hell a bogle Hercules,
Pit there the lesser deid to please,
While he himsel’
Dwalls wi’ the muckle gods at ease
Far raised frae Hell:
Sae the true Rabbie far has gane
On kindlier business o’ his ain
Wi’ aulder frien’s; an’ his breist-bane
An’ stumpie tailie,
He birstles at a new hearth-stane
By James and Ailie.
XVI
It’s an owercome sooth for age an’ youth,
And it brooks wi’ nae denial,
That the dearest friends are the auldest friends,
And the young are just on trial.
There’s a rival bauld wi’ young an’ auld,
And it’s him that has bereft me;
For the sürest friends are the auldest friends,
And the maist o’ mine’s hae left me.
There are kind hearts still, for friends to fill
And fools to take and break them;
But the nearest friends are the auldest friends,
And the grave’s the place to seek them.
BALLADS
CONTENTS
THE SONG OF RAHÉRO: A LEGEND OF TAHITI
A LEGEND OF THE WEST HIGHLANDS
THE SONG OF RAHÉRO: A LEGEND OF TAHITI
TO
ORI A ORI
Ori, my brother in the island mode,
In every tongue and meaning much my friend,
This story of your country and your clan,
In your loved house, your too much honoured guest,
I made in English. Take it, being done;
And let me sign it with the name you gave.
TERIITERA.
I
THE SLAYING OF TÁMATÉA
It fell in the days of old, as the men of Taiárapu tell,
A youth went forth to the fishing, and fortune favoured him well.
Támatéa his name: gullible, simple, and kind.
Comely of countenance, nimble of body, empty of mind,
His mother ruled him and loved him beyond the wont of a wife,
Serving the lad for eyes and living herself in his life.
Alone from the sea and the fishing came Támatéa the fair,
Urging his boat to the beach, and the mother awaited him there.
— ”Long may you live!” said she. “Your fishing has sped to a wish.
And now let us choose for the king the fairest of all your fish.
For fear inhabits the palace and grudging grows in the land,
Marked is the sluggardly foot and marked the niggardly hand,
The hours and the miles are counted, the tributes numbered and weighed,
And woe to him that comes short, and woe to him that delayed!”
So spoke on the beach the mother, and counselled the wiser thing.
For Rahéro stirred in the country and secretly mined the king.
Nor were the signals wanting of how the leaven wrought,
In the cords of obedience loosed and the tributes grudgingly brought.
And when last to the temple of Oro the boat with the victim sped,
And the priest uncovered the basket and looked on the face of the dead,
Trembling fell upon all at sight of an ominous thing,
For there was the aito dead, and he of the house of the king.
So spake on the beach the mother, matter worthy of note,
And wattled a basket well, and chose a fish from the boat;
And Támatéa the pliable shouldered the basket and went,
And travelled, and sang as he travelled, a lad that was well content.
Still the way of his going was round by the roaring coast,
Where the ring of the reef is broke and the trades run riot the most.
On his left, with smoke as of battle, the billows battered the land;
Unscalable, turreted mountains rose on the inner hand.
And cape, and village, and river, and vale, and mountain above,
Each had a name in the land for men to remember and love;
And never the name of a place, but lo! a song in its praise:
Ancient and unforgotten, songs of the earlier days
That the elders taught to the young, and at night, in the full of the moon,
Garlanded boys and maidens sang together in tune.
Támatéa the placable went with a lingering foot;
He sang as loud as a bird, he whistled hoarse as a flute;
He broiled in the sun, he breathed in the grateful shadow of trees,
In the icy stream of the rivers he waded over the knees;
And still in his empty mind crowded, a thousand-fold,
The deeds of the strong and the songs of the cunning heroes of old.
And now was he come to a place Taiárapu honoured the most,
Where a silent valley of woods debouched on the noisy coast,
Spewing a level river. There was a haunt of Pai.
There, in his potent youth, when his parents drove him to die,
Honoura lived like a beast, lacking the lamp and the fire,
Washed by the rains of the trade and clotting his hair in the mire;
And there, so mighty his hands, he bent the tree to his foot —
So keen the spur of his hunger, he plucked it naked of fruit.
There, as she pondered the clouds for the shadow of coming ills,
Ahupu, the woman of song, walked on high on the hills.
Of these was Rahéro sprung, a man of a godly race;
And inherited cunning of spirit, and beauty of body and face.
Of yore in his youth, as an aito, Rahéro wandered the land,
Delighting maids with his tongue, smiting men with his hand.
Famous he was in his youth; but before the midst of his life
Paused, and fashioned a song of farewell to glory and strife.
House of mine
(it went),
house upon the sea,
Belov’d of all my fathers, more belov’d by me!
Vale of the strong Honoura, deep ravine of Pai,
Again in your woody summits I hear the trade-wind cry.
House of mine, in your walls, strong sounds the sea,
Of all sounds on earth, dearest sound to me.
I have heard the applause of men, I have heard it arise and die:
Sweeter now in my house I hear the trade-wind cry.
These were the words of his singing, other the thought of his heart;
For secret desire of glory vexed him, dwelling apart.
Lazy and crafty he was, and loved to lie in the sun,
And loved the cackle of talk and the true word uttered in fun;
Lazy he was, his roof was ragged, his table was lean,
