DILIP KUMAR ROY - poems and biography

Dilip Kumar Roy (1897 – 1980) was an Indian musician, musicologist, novelist, poet and essayist. He was the son of Dwijendralal Ray. In 1965, the Sangeet Natak Akademi, India's National Academy for Music, Dance and Drama, awarded him its highest honour for lifetime achievement, the Sangeet Natak Akademi Fellowship.

Son of Dwijendralal Ray (1863–1913), the Bengali poet, playwright, and composer, Roy and his younger sister Maya lost their mother Surabala Devi in 1903. Dilip Ray his father’s side, the family descended from one of the apostles of the medieval Bengali saint Shri Chaitanya. His mother Surabala Devi was the daughter of distinguished homeopath physician Pratap Chandra Majumdar.

Since his childhood, Roy had a fascination for Sanskrit, English, chemistry and mathematics. His passion for music stopped him from securing the highest marks in the Matriculation examination: he stood the twenty-first and, with a scholarship, joined the Presidency College of Kolkata. Here he came close to Subhas Chandra Bose. With a first class honours in mathematics, he went to Cambridge in 1919 for a tripos. Shortly before this three-year trip to Europe, in his teens he had come under the personal spell of the musicologist Bhatkhande. Ray had taken advantage of his family background and learnt scores of popular and classical compositions. This forged his determination to embrace music as a vocation. Therefore, in 1920, in addition to the first part of his tripos, he passed also, the examination in Western music. Along with his lessons in piano, he grew fluent in French, German and Italian, before leaving for Germany and Italy to pursue his studies in music. Inviting Roy through the International Peace and Freedom Society, Romain Rolland arranged for him a seminar on Indian classical music in Lugano, and had his lectures translated and published in French. At this juncture, Roy met personalities like Bertrand Russell, Hermann Hesse, and Georges Duhamel. From Vienna, invited by president Masaryk, Roy visited Prague, on his way to Budapest, Rome, Florence and Naples, to discover the heart of the tradition of European music. The ancient modes like Ionian, Lydian, Mixolydian, Dorian, Aeolian, and Phrygian, reminded him, respectively, of the Indian that or melakarta ("parent scales") like Bilâval, Iman, Khamâj, Kâfi, Asâvari, and Bhaïravi. 

Romain Rolland and Dilip Kumar Roy

In his diary, Inde, Romain Rolland speaks of Roy frequently. He records Roy's first visit on 23 August 1920: "...His is no ordinary intelligence... A young man, tall and well-built, (...) in his complexion the orange-brown of a Créole features, except for the lips..." Talking about his songs, Rolland mentions, "Especially a religious song by Tansen... I find there some affinity with Gregorian melodies and, furthermore, with the Greek hymns that had been at the very source (...)" And Rolland goes on: "By listening to the popular melodies one is better able to grasp the pure and natural genius of the Hindu race. Dilipkumar Roy sings some of them, so charmingly, delicately, cheerfully, poetically, exhibiting such a mastery of rhythm - that they could just as well be popular songs of our own (...) One realizes - how popular art admits far fewer boundaries than sophisticated art." And about Dilip's voice: "He sings with nasal intonations and his voice reaches quite high, with a singular suppleness in the ceaseless blossoming of vocal improvisations and ornaments..." On 24 October 1927, Romain Rolland describes another visit from Roy: "He belongs to a type which is the best of aristocratic India." On listening to an old hymn to the goddess Kali sung by Roy, Rolland mentions: "It is simply captivating, an overflow of passion that implores, laments, reaches fever pitch, subsides, from soprano to bass notes (...) and begins again, with doubled and exacting ecstasy..." 

While in Europe, Roy realised "the greatness and the deficiency" of Indian classical music as practised by his contemporaries. Instead of mediocre word - supports to elaborate melodic and rhythmic compositions, Roy was convinced that the modern Indian languages, the daughters of Sanskrit, could provide more adequate lyrics for the classical models (as demonstrated by composers like his own father or Tagore, among others). Back in India, he joined Bhatkhande and, following the latter's methodology, he set to travelling widely, collecting and publishing serial notes on raga-variants from regional masters, with notations of specific compositions. He took lessons from musicians like Abdul Karim, Faiyaz Khan, Chandan Chaube, Gaurishankar Mishra, Surendranath Majumdar, and Hafiz Ali Khan. In his works, bhramyaman ('Globe-trotting'), sangitiki ('About Music'), gitashri ('Song as an Art') etc., he recorded in detail his experiences, illustrated by notations. Like Bhatkhande and his pupil Ratanjankar, Roy wrote and demonstrated how Indian classical music could be taught on a purely academic basis, with a syllabus, somewhat demystifying the shrouded master-to-disciple secrecy. As an outspoken music critic, he attained considerable fame, especially in his analysis of the sacrosanct Gurus. His first-hand experience, enhanced by his deep investigation and reflections, opened a new horizon in the domain of thinking, practising and teaching music. 

Embracing the Cosmic Soul

Whereas the very ancient Indian tradition of lieder-like lyrics, passing through the 9th century carya-pada songs, admitted and encouraged the tana (improvised musical phrases), Tagore, who had composed more than 2000 lyrics, wanted to individualise his compositions in the European way and protect their execution according to an authorised notation. An expert of the tana and phrase-variations, Roy had argued and obtained Tagore's permission to interpret the latter's songs as he wished. Composing songs in Sanskrit, Bengali, Hindi and English, keeping intact some popular or classical melodies even from Russian, German, Italian or French music, he had the rare facility of passing from one language to another, while interpreting them.

Among the paramount contributions of Roy, is an Indian type of opera, based on the traditional model of the kirtana: this involves an emotional catharsis through a succession of modal and rhythmic patterns, compatible with the classical schools of Indian dance. After a long discussion with Tagore on the subtleties of Bengali prosody, Roy saw the aged poet dedicating him the former’s study on the subject, chhanda. Requested by the University of Calcutta, Roy himself also wrote a treatise on the subject, chhandasiki. In one of his letters to Roy, the poet admitted : "I have a sincere affection for you. My heart is attracted by your unmixed truthfulness and frankness." Roy was admired by listeners like Sri Aurobindo and Tagore. In the 1940s, a hit film in Hindi flooded the country with the songs of Mirabai, the princess-saint of medieval India. Though they were sung by Bharat Ratna M.S. Subbulakshmi, they had all been collected or composed by Roy. In homage to her teacher, Subbulakshmi has written that when Dilip "sings (...), it is an outpouring of the individual soul, yearning to be embraced by the cosmic soul." . In the late 1930s Subbulakshmi and Roy sang two songs together, Vande Mataram and Dhano Dhanya Pushpe Bora.

Roy created his own style of fiction, involved in a constant psychological analysis. Most of his characters are mystic or spiritual in their essence, situated at a meeting point between the East and the West. As a poet, instead of following the melodic lyrical style developed by Tagore, Roy followed the harmonic structure created by Michael Madhusudan Dutta and brought up to-date by his father Dwijendralal Ray

After a second visit to Europe, in 1928 Roy settled at the Ashram of Sri Aurobindo in Pondicherry. His imposing correspondence with Sri Aurobindo reveals a hitherto unknown aspect of the Master who declared cherishing him "like a friend and a son". In the early 50s, two patriotic songs composed by Roy ("Ham bharatke" and "Nishan uncha, kadam badha") appealed to the General Cariappa, who wanted to include them in the official list of marching songs for the Indian Army.

In 1953, on returning from a world tour, accompanied by his disciple Indira Devi, he founded the Hari Krishna Mandir in 1959 at Pune. Roy co-authored an autobiographical book titled Pilgrims of the Stars with Indira Devi. Pilgrims of the Stars offers the reader a glimpse into the daily struggles and victories of two great souls. East West Journal stated that the book was, "...as remarkable as it is rewarding for the reader." The book has been translated into Gujarati (translator Ramaṇalāl Sonī; Amadāvāda: Vorā, 1977; and Rājakoṭa: Pravīna Pustaka Bhanḍāra, 1991).

Honoured by the Sanskrit Academy of Kolkata as the 'Source of the Nectar of Melody' (sura-sudhâkara), Roy was elected member of the Indian State Academy of Fine Arts. He was the author of more than 50 records (several of them still reprinted by the HMV-India); 8 volumes of songs with notation; 21 volumes in English and 46 in Bengali containing novels, poems, plays, epistles, reminiscences and essays.

Roy died in Hari Krishna Mandir, Pune on 6 January 1980. 

Rare Photographs of Dilip Kumar Roy 

 Overman Foundation

HIS  FLUTE  OF  DELIGHT

Song by Krishna

Translated by Dilip Kumar Roy

Hark, hark to His Flute of delight!

On the bank of Life’s lone shadowy river

He plays to quell our Night!

Wreathed in sweet smiles, a vision of Gleam,

He is crowned with His aerial Love!

He dances, a beacon to derelict souls,

On earth star’s kinship to prove!

THE  ANGEL  FLAME

From the Hindu Song of the Poet Abul Hafiz Jalandhari

Translated by:  Dilip Kumar Roy  - Among the Great 1950

House in thy soul the flickerless lamp of love;

O way- lost dupe, relume the angel flame

In the wistful temple of dream: nurse in faith’s grove

The memorial rose of peace no thorn may shame.

Delivered from thy passions’ lurid gleams

And shadowing greeds, foes in the guise of friends,

Know: in the deep of hush the soul redeems:

She is the vanguard morn to darkness sends.

Her children in gloom, thy Motherland mourns and sighs,

Play Beauty’s flute like Krishna: thou art He.

If thou wilt wake- the world, a-quiver, shall rise

And mitred priests of love sing on with thee.

Hate never pays, though sorrows purify;

Be poised in thy Self of love – incarnate, free.

If love resign who shall reveal the sky?

Soul’s night is doom: her dawn – sure victory.

Be pledged to noble ways of the ancient Sun;

If lose thou must, let it be life – not love.

Shall clouds besiege thy star – dominion?

‘Up! Time is fleeting!’ – the bugle calls above!

THE  BLOSSOM  NEVER  KNOWS

by  Dilip Kumar Roy

From: Among the Great 1950

The blossom never knows the fragrance sweet

That in its blossom’s mystery lies,

The deeps that mirror forth the Infinite

Question its secrets with their sighs.

For whom throng still the murmuring bees,

Restless amid the perfumed trees?

Whose memory thrills the impassioned breeze

And paints the magic skies?

Whose one lamps through the way-lost night

Glimmer in moon and starry light?

Whose glory in the dawn breaks bright?

For whom yearns all and cries?

For whose greatness down the ages long

Are the wide heavens a sapphire song?

For whom runs the stream with bablling tongue,

Repeats whose harmonies?

Whose breath perfumes trees, flower and grass,

Inspires the atoms’s dance in space?

Whose trailing robes in twilight pass,

A shadow in longing eyes?

Oh, if thou never wilt appear,

Why are thy masks of Beauty here?

Why sound thy anklets everywhere,

The spell that never dies?

My heart forgets that in my heart

Thy throne for ever lies.

SRI  KRISHNAPREM

 From “Yogi Sri Krishnaprem ”  by Dilip Kumar Roy

Sons of an intellectual age, we scan

And weigh the heart’s findings with our mental measures,

Surmising never once that no mind can

Win even a clue to the soul’s resplendent treasures.

The more we probe the more must thought mislead

Till even the meaning of our spirit’s birth

Is buried in the din of words that plead

For the reign of trifling truths of temporal worth.

You diagnosed this fatal malady

With an insight born of loyalty to love

And so disowned our reasoned revelry

Whose dire discord your heart could never approve.

O Reason’s elect, withal, a citizen

Of stellar climes no mind has ever trod:

Who saw your radiant Face could never again

Doubt faith’s deep power of leading us back to God.

M.S. Subbulakshmi with Dilip Kumar Roy in 1948. Photo: Hindustan Times

“TE DEUM LAUDAMUS.” - from '' HYMNS OF PRAISE AND WORSHIP'' (1906) - by Theron Brown and Hezekiah Butterworth

This famous church confession in song was composed A.D. 387 by Ambrose, Bishop of Milan, probably both words and music.

Te Deum laudamus, Te Dominum confitemur

Te aeternum Patrem omnis terra veneratur

Tibi omnes angeli, tibi coeli et universae potestates,

Tibi cherubim et seraphim inaccessibili voce proclamant

Sanctus, sanctus Dominus Deus Sabaoth.

In the whole hymn there are thirty lines. The saying that the early Roman hymns were echoes of Christian Greece, as the Greek hymns were echoes of Jerusalem, is probably true, but they were only echoes. In A.D. 252, St. Cyprian, writing his consolatory epistle* during the plague in Carthage, when hundreds were dying every day, says, “Ah, perfect and perpetual bliss! [in heaven.] There is the glorious company of the apostles; there is the fellowship of the prophets rejoicing; there is the innumerable multitude of martyrs crowned.” Which would suggest that lines or fragments of what afterwards crystalized into the formula of the “Te Deum” were already familiar in the Christian church. But it is generally believed that the tongue of Ambrose gave the anthem its final form.

Ambrose was born in Gaul about the middle of the fourth century and raised to his bishopric in A.D. 374. Very early he saw and appreciated the popular effect of musical sounds, and what an evangelical instrument a chorus of chanting voices could be in preaching the Christian faith; and he introduced the responsive singing of psalms and sacred cantos in the worship of the church. “A grand thing is that singing, and nothing can stand before it,” he said, when the critics of his time complained that his innovation was sensational. That such a charge could be made against the Ambrosian mode of music, with its slow movement and unmetrical lines, seems strange to us, but it was new and conservatism is the same in all ages.

The great bishop carried all before him. His school of song worship prevailed in Christian Europe more than two hundred years. Most of his hymns are lost, (the Benedictine writers credit him with twelve), but, judging by their effect on the powerful mind of Augustine, their influence among the common people must have been profound, and far more lasting than the author's life. “Their voices sank into mine ears, and their truths distilled into my heart,” wrote Augustine, long afterwards, of these hymns; “tears ran down, and I rejoiced in them.”

Poetic tradition has dramatized the story of the birth of the “Te Deum,” dating it on an Easter Sunday, and dividing the honor of its composition between Ambrose and his most eminent convert. It was the day when the bishop baptized Augustine, in the presence of a vast throng that crowded the Basilica of Milan. As if foreseeing with a prophet's eye that his brilliant candidate would become one of the ruling stars of Christendom, Ambrose lifted his hands to heaven and chanted in a holy rapture, - 

We praise Thee, O God! We acknowledge Thee to be the Lord;

All the Earth doth worship Thee, the Father Everlasting.

He paused, and from the lips of the baptized disciple came the response,

To Thee all the angels cry aloud: the heavens and all the powers therein.

To Thee cherubim and seraphim continually do cry,

“Holy, holy, holy Lord God of Sabaoth;

Heaven and Earth are full of the majesty of Thy glory!”

and so, stave by stave, in alternating strains, sprang that day from the inspired lips of Ambrose and Augustine the “Te Deum Laudamus,” which has ever since been the standard anthem of Christian praise.

Whatever the foundation of the story, we may at least suppose the first public singing of the great chant to have been associated with that eventful baptism.

The various anthems, sentences and motets in all Christian languages bearing the titles “Trisagion” or “Tersanctus,” and “Te Deum” are taken from portions of this royal hymn. The sublime and beautiful “Holy, Holy, Holy” of Bishop Heber was suggested by it.

THE TUNE

No echo remains, so far as is known, of the responsive chant actually sung by Ambrose, but one of the best modern choral renderings of the “Te Deum” is the one by Henry Smart in his Morning and Evening Service. In an ordinary church hymnal it occupies seven pages. The staff-directions with the music indicate the part or cue of the antiphonal singers by the words Decani (Dec.) and Cantor (Can.), meaning first the division of the choir on the Dean's side, and second the division on the Cantor's or Precentor's side.

Henry T. Smart (1813–1879)

Henry Smart was one of the five great English composers that followed our American Mason. He was born in London, Oct. 25, 1812, and chose music for a profession in preference to an offered commission in the East Indian army. His talent as a composer, especially of sacred music, was marvellous, and, though he became blind, his loss of sight was no more hindrance to his genius than loss of hearing to Beethoven.

No composer of his time equalled Henry Smart as a writer of music for female voices. His cantatas have been greatly admired, and his hymn tunes are unsurpassed for their purity and sweetness, while his anthems, his oratorio of “Jacob,” and indeed all that he wrote, show the hand and the inventive gift of a great musical artist.

He died July 10, 1879, universally mourned for his inspired work, and his amiable character.

Hezekiah Butterworth

1839–1905

Theron Brown

1832–1914

''When we are speaking about truth and life and redemption, we are speaking about Christ''

THE COWBOY'S LIFE - traditional, from Songs of the Cowboys, 1921

THE COWBOY'S  LIFE     traditional, from Songs of the Cowboys, 1921     The bawl of a steer     To a cowboy's ear     Is music of sweetest strain;     And the yelping notes     Of the gray coyotes     To him are a glad refrain.     And his jolly songs     Speed him along     As he thinks of the little gal     With golden hair     Who is waiting there     At the bars of the home corral.     For a kingly crown     In the noisy town     His saddle he would n't change;     No life so free     As the life we see     'Way out on the Yaso range.     His eyes are bright     And his heart as light     As the smoke of his cigarette;     There's never a care     For his soul to bear,     No trouble to make him fret.     The rapid beat     Of his bronco's feet     On the sod as he speeds along,     Keeps living time     To the ringing rhyme     Of his rollicking cowboy's song.     Hike it, cowboys,     For the range away     On the back of a bronc of steel,     With a careless flirt     Of the raw-hide quirt     And the dig of a roweled heel.     The winds may blow     And the thunder growl     Or the breeze may safely moan;     A cowboy's life     Is a royal life,     His saddle his kingly throne.     Saddle up, boys,     For the work is play     When love's in the cowboy's eyes,     When his heart is light     As the clouds of white     That swim in the summer skies.

IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER - by Christina Rossetti

IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER     by Christina Rossetti In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter, long ago. Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain; Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to reign. In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ. Enough for Him, whom cherubim, worship night and day, Breastful of milk, and a mangerful of hay; Enough for Him, whom angels fall before, The ox and ass and camel which adore. Angels and archangels may have gathered there, Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air; But His mother only, in her maiden bliss, Worshipped the beloved with a kiss. What can I give Him, poor as I am? If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb; If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part; Yet what I can I give Him: give my heart.

INDIAN WEDDING SUITS - Bride and groom

BRAHMS LULLABY - music and lyrics

BRAHMS  LULLABY   (Lullaby and Goodnight ) Lullaby and good night, with roses bedight With lilies o'er spread is baby's wee bed Lay thee down now and rest, may thy slumber be blessed Lay thee down now and rest, may thy slumber be blessed Lullaby and good night, thy mother's delight Bright angels beside my darling abide They will guard thee at rest, thou shalt wake on my breast They will guard thee at rest, thou shalt wake on my breast   PVL

OLD SCOTTISH POEMS AND SONGS - ( from Celtic Magazine - The Scottish Highlander 1875 - 1876)

MARY LAGHACH

From the Gaelic, by Professor Blackie.

H o! my bonnie Mary,

My dainty love, my queen,

The fairest, rarest Mary

On earth was ever seen !

Ho! my queenly Mary,

Who made me king of men,

To call thee mine own Mary,

Born in the bonnie glen.

Young was I and Mary,

In the windings of Glensmoil,

When came that imp of Venus

And caught us with his wile;

And pierced us with his arrows,

That we thrilled in every pore,

And loved as mortals never loved

On this green earth before.

Ho ! my bonnie Mary, &c.

Oft times myself and Mary

Strayed up the bonnie glen,

Our hearts as pure and innocent

As little children then;

Boy Cupid finely taught us

To dally and to toy,

When the shade fell from the green tree,

And the sun was in the sky.

Ho ! my bonnie Mary, &c.

If all the wealth of Albyn

Were mine, and treasures rare,

What boots all gold and silver

If sweet love be not there ?

More dear to me than rubies

In deepest veins that shine,

Is one kiss from the lovely lips

That rightly I call mine.

Ho ! my bonnie Mary, &c.

Thy bosom's heaving whiteness

With beauty overbrims,

Like swan upon the waters

When gentliest it swims;

Like cotton on the moorland

Thy skin is soft and fine,

Thy neck is like the sea-gul

When dipping in the brine.

Ho ! my bonnie Mary, &c.

The locks about thy dainty ears

Do richly curl and twine;

Dame Nature rarely grew a wealth

Of ringlets like to thine:

There needs no hand of hireling

To twist and plait thy hair,

But where it grew it winds and falls

In wavy beauty there.

Ho ! my bonnie Mary, &c.

Like snow upon the mountains

Thy teeth are pure and white;

Thy breath is like the cinnamon,

Thy mouth buds with delight.

Thy cheeks are like the cherries,

Thine eyelids soft and fair,

And smooth thy brow, untaught to frown,

Beneath thy golden hair.

Ho! my bonnie Mary, &c.

The pomp of mighty kaisers

Our state doth far surpass,

When 'neath the leafy coppice

We lie upon the grass;

The purple flowers around us

Outspread their rich array,

Where the lusty mountain streamlet

Is leaping from the brae.

Ho! my bonnie Mary, &c.

Nor harp, nor pipe, nor organ,

From touch of cunning men,

Made music half so eloquent

As our hearts thrilled with then.

When the blythe lark lightly soaring,

And the mavis on the spray,

And the cuckoo in the greenwood,

Sang hymns to greet the May.

Ho! my bonnie Mary, &c.

THE OLD CLAYMORE

This is the claymore that my ancestors wielded,

This is the old blade that oft smote the proud foe;

Beneath its bright gleam all of home hath been shielded,

And oft were our title-deeds signed with its blow.

Its hilt hath been circled by valorous fingers;

Oft, oft hath it flashed like a mountaineer's ire,

Around it a halo of beauty still lingers

That lights up the tale which can ever inspire.

The Highland Claymore ! The old Highland Claymore,

Gleams still like the fire of a warrior's eye,

Tho' hands of the dauntless will grasp it no more

Disturb it not now, let it peacefully lie.

It twinkled its love for the bold chieftain leading,

It shone like a star on the moon-lighted heath;

As lightning in anger triumphantly speeding

Its keen edge hath swept on the pinions of death:

Wild-breathing revenge o'er the corse of a kinsman,

Dark-vowing their ancient renown to maintain;

Its sheen hath been dimmed by the lips of brave clansmen,

Unwiped till the foe was exultingly slain.

The Highland Claymore! The old Highland Claymore, &c.

It baffled the Norseman and vanquished the Roman,

'Twas drawn for the Bruce and the old Scottish throne,

It victory bore over tyrannous foemen,

For Freedom had long made the weapon her own.

It swung for the braw Chevalier and Prince Charlie,

'Twas stained at Drummossie with Sassenach gore:

It sleeps now in peace, a dark history's ferlie,

Oh! ne'er may be wakened the Highland Claymore.

The Highland Claymore! The old Highland Claymore, &c.

WM. ALLAN.

Sunderland.

ON VISITING DRUIM-A LIATH, 

THE BIRTH-PLACE OF 

DUNCAN BAN MACINTYRE

The homes long are gone, but enchantment still lingers,

These green knolls around, where thy young life began,

Sweetest and last of the old Celtic singers,

Bard of the Monadh-dhu', blithe Donach Bàn!

Never mid scenes of earth, fairer and grander,

Poet first lifted his eyelids on light;

Free mid these glens, o'er these mountains to wander,

And make them his own by the true minstrel right.

Thy home at the meeting and green interlacing

Of clear-flowing waters and far-winding glens,

Lovely inlaid in the mighty embracing

Of sombre pine forests and storm-riven Bens.

Behind thee these crowding Peaks, region of mystery,

Fed thy young spirit with broodings sublime;

Each cairn and green knoll lingered round by some history,

Of the weird under-world, or the wild battle-time.

Thine were Ben-Starrav, Stop-gyre, Meal-na-ruadh,

Mantled in storm-gloom, or bathed in sunshine;

Streams from Corr-oran, Glash-gower, and Glen-fuadh

Made music for thee, where their waters combine.

But over all others thy darling Bendorain

Held thee entranced with his beautiful form,

With looks ever-changing thy young fancy storing,

Gladness of sunshine and terror of storm

Opened to thee his heart's deepest recesses,

Taught thee the lore of the red-deer and roe,

Showed thee them feed on the green mountain cresses,

Drink the cold wells above lone Doire-chro.

How did'st thou watch them go up the high passes

At sunrise rejoicing, a proud jaunty throng ?

Learn the herbs that they love, the small flow'rs, and hill grasses,

And made them for ever bloom green in thy song.

Yet, bard of the wilderness, nursling of nature,

Would the hills e'er have taught thee true minstrel art,

Had not a visage more lovely of feature

The fountain unsealed of thy tenderer heart ?

The maiden that dwelt by the side of Maam-haarie,

Seen from thy home-door, a vision of joy,

Morning and even the young fair-haired Mary

Moving about at her household employ.

High on Bendoa and stately Ben-challader,

Leaving the dun deer in safety to bide,

Fondly thy doating eye dwelt on her, followed her,

Tenderly wooed her, and won her thy bride.

O! well for the maiden that found such a lover,

And well for the poet, to whom Mary gave

Her fulness of love until, life's journey over,

She lay down beside him to rest in the grave.

From the bards of to-day, and their sad songs that dark'n

The day-spring with doubt, wring the bosom with pain,

How gladly we fly to the shealings and harken

The clear mountain gladness that sounds in thy strain.

On the hill-side with thee is no doubt or misgiving,

But there joy and freedom, Atlantic winds blow,

And kind thoughts are there, and the pure simple living

Of the warm-hearted folk in the glens long ago.

The muse of old Maro hath pathos and splendour,

The long lines of Homer majestic'lly roll;

But to me Donach Bàn breathes a language more tender,

More kin to the child-heart that sleeps in my soul.

J. C. SHAIRP.

TO PROFESSOR JOHN STUART BLACKIE.

A LOCHABER LILT.

A health to thee, Stuart Blackie !

(I drink it in mountain dew)

With all the kindliest greetings

Of a heart that is leal and true.

Let happen what happen may

With others, by land or sea;

For me, I vow if I drink at all,

I'll drink a health to thee.

A health to thee, Stuart Blackie !

A man of men art thou,

With thy lightsome step and form erect,

And thy broad and open brow;

With thy eagle eye and ringing voice

(Which yet can be soft and kind),

As wrapped in thy plaid thou passest by

With thy white locks in the wind!

I greet thee as poet and scholar;

I greet thee as wise and good;

I greet thee ever lord of thyself

No heritage mean, by the rood!

I greet thee and hold thee in honour,

That thou bendest to no man's nod

Amidst the din of a world of sin,

Still lifting thine eye to God!

Go, search me the world and find me;

Go, find me if you can,

From the distant Farœs with their mists and snows,

To the green-clad Isle of Man;

From John O' Groats to Maidenkirk,

From far Poolewe to Prague

Go, find me a better or wiser man

Than the Laird of Altnacraig.

Now, here's to the honest and leal and true,

And here's to the learned and wise,

And to all who love our Highland glens

And our Bens that kiss the skies;

And here's to the native Celtic race,

And to each bright-eyed Celtic fair;

And here's to the Chief of Altnacraig

And hurrah! for the Celtic Chair!

Nether-Lochaber.

CAN THIS BE THE LAND ?

"How are the mighty fallen !"

Can this be the land where of old heroes flourished ?

Can this be the land of the sons of the blast ?

Gloom-wrapt as a monarch whose greatness hath perished,

Its beauty of loneliness speaks of the past:

Tell me ye green valleys, dark glens, and blue mountains,

Where now are the mighty that round ye did dwell ?

Ye wild-sweeping torrents, and woe-sounding fountains,

Say, is it their spirits that wail in your swell ?

Oft, oft have ye leaped when your children of battle,

With war-bearing footsteps rushed down your dark crests;

Oft, oft have ye thundered with far-rolling rattle,

The echoes of slogans that burst from their breasts:

Wild music of cataracts peals in their gladness,

Hoarse tempests still shriek to the clouds lightning-fired,

Dark shadows of glory departed, in sadness

Still linger o'er ruins where dwelt the inspired.

The voice of the silence for ever is breaking

Around the lone heaths of the glory-sung braves;

Dim ghosts haunt in sorrow, a land all forsaken,

And pour their mist tears o'er the heather-swept graves:

Can this be the land of the thunder-toned numbers

That snowy bards sung in the fire of their bloom ?

Deserted and blasted, in death's silent slumbers,

It glooms o'er my soul like the wreck of a tomb.

WM. ALLAN.

SONG OF THE SUMMER BREEZE.

Dedicated by permission to the Rev. George Gilfillan.

When balmy spring

Has ceased to wring

The youthful bud from the old oak tree,

And the sweet primrose

No longer glows

On the glad hill-side by the sunfilled sea;

When the Cuckoo's wail

Has ceased to go

O'er hill and dale

In a pensive flow,

And the deepest shade

In the woods is made,

And the brightest bloom on the fields is laid;

When the lord of light

With a lover's pride

Pours a beauty bright

O'er his blushing bride,

That lies below

His glowing gaze,

In a woodland glow, and a flowery blaze;

When winter's gloom

Of wind and rain

Is lost in the bloom

Of the flower-lit plain,

And his ruins grey

Have died away

In the love-sent breath of the smiling day;

When the beauteous hours

Of the twilight still

With dewy tears in their joy-swelled eyes

See the peaceful flowers

On the cloudless hill

Send scented gifts to the grateful skies;

And the wave-like grain

O'er the sea-like plain

In peaceful splendour essays to rise;

From my silent birth in the flowery land

Of the sunny south

At time's command.

As still as the breath of a rosy mouth,

Or rippling wave on the sighing sand,

Or surging grass by the stony strand,

I come with odour of shrub and flower

Stolen from field and sunny bower

From lowly cot and lordly tower.

Borne on my wings the soul-like cloud

That snowy, mountain-shading shroud

That loves to sleep

On the sweet hill's crest,

As still as the deep

With its voice at rest,

Is wafted in dreams to its peaceful nest;

At my command

The glowing land

Scorched by the beams of the burning sun,

Listing the sounds of the drowsy bees,

Thirsting for rain, and the dews that come

When light has died on the surging seas,

Awakes to life, and health, and joy;

I pour a life on the sickening trees,

And wake the birds to their sweet employ,

Amidst the flowers of the lowly leas;

From the sweet woodbine

That loves to twine

Its arms of love round the homes of men,

Or laugh in the sight

Of the sun's sweet light

'Midst the flower gemmed scenes of the song-filled glen,

And the full-blown rose that loves to blush

'Midst the garden bowers

Where the pensive hours

Awaiting the bliss of the summer showers

List to the songs of the warbling thrush,

I steal the sweets of their fragrant breath;

From the lily pale

That seems to wail

With snow-like face

And pensive grace

O'er the bed that bends o'er the deeds of death,

I brush the tears

That she loves to shed

For the early biers

Of the lovely dead.

When still twilight with dew-dimmed eye

Sees the lord of light from the snow-white sky,

Descend at the sight

Of the coming night,

'Midst the waves of the deathful sea to die !

When glowing day

Has passed away

In peace on the tops of the dim-seen hills,

That pour from their hearts the tinkling rills

That dance and leap

In youthful pride,

To the brimming river, deep and wide,

That bears them in rest to their distant sleep;

And the gladsome ocean

That ever presses

The bridal earth in fond caresses,

Rages no more in a wild commotion;

When the distant hills appear to grow

At the touch of evening bright,

And the sunless rivers seem to go

With a deeper music in their flow,

Like dreams thro' the peaceful night,

I fade away

With the dying day,

Like the lingering gleam of the sun's sweet ray !

DAVID R. WILLIAMSON.

FLORA, STAR OF ARMADALE.

Grey Blavin in grandeur gold-crested appears,

As swift sinks the sun in the west,

Whose gleams of departure, as love-guarding spears,

Skim over the blue ocean's breast:

The lav'rock pours sweetly his ev'ning joy song,

Lone cushats croon soft in each vale,

Pale gloaming's low melodies linger among

The beauties of loved Armadale:

It is the hour when raptures reign,

It is the hour when joys prevail,

I'll hie away to meet again

My Flora, Star of Armadale;

Armadale! Armadale!

Flora, Star of Armadale:

The dim robe of night over Knoydart's brown hills,

Comes weirdly with dark-shading lour,

Slow-stealing it shrouds the repose it full fills

With calm's hallowed, heart-clinging, pow'r:

It tells of a maiden whose heart I have got,

It whispers the love-longing tale,

It bids me away to yon heather-thatched cot,

Snug nestling by sweet Armadale:

It is the hour of Nature's peace,

It is the hour when smiles unveil

The beauty which bids love increase

For Flora, Star of Armadale;

Armadale! Armadale!

Flora, Star of Armadale:

Her eyes are as dark as the gloom of Loch Hourn,

Yet soft as the gaze of a fawn,

Still darker the tresses that crown to adorn

A brow like a light-mellowed dawn.

Her voice is a fountain of summer's dream-song,

Her smiles can the budding rose pale,

O! rare are the graces which humbly belong

To Flora of dear Armadale:

It is the hour of love's alarms,

It is the hour when throbs assail

This heart which glows beneath the charms

Of Flora, Star of Armadale;

Armadale! Armadale!

Flora, Star of Armadale.

WM. ALLAN.

TO GOATFELL, ARRAN:

ON FIRST SEEING IT FROM THE SHORE.

[AT BRODICK.]

Born of earthquakes, lonely giant,

Sphinx and eagle couched on high;

Dumb, defiant, self-reliant,

Breast on earth and beak in sky:

Built in chaos, burnt out beacon,

Long extinguished, dark, and bare,

Ere life's friendly ray could break on

Shelvy shore or islet fair:

Dwarf to atlas, child to Etna,

Stepping-stone to huge Mont Blanc;

Cairn to cloudy Chimborazo,

Higher glories round thee hang!

Baal-tein hearth, for friend and foeman;

Warden of the mazy Clyde;

In thy shadow, Celt and Roman,

Proudly galley'd, swept the tide !

Scottish Sinai, God's out-rider,

When he wields his lightning wand;

From thy flanks, a king and spider

Taught, and saved, and ruled the land !

Smoking void and planet rending,

Island rise and ocean fall,

Frith unfolding, field extending

Thou hast seen and felt them all.

Armies routed, navies flouted,

Tyrants fallen, people free;

Cities built and empires clouted,

Like the world, are known to thee.

Science shining, love enshrining,

Truth and patience conquering hell;

Miracles beyond divining,

Could'st thou speak, thy tongue would tell.

Rest awhile, the nations gather,

Sick of folly, lies, and sin,

To kneel to the eternal Father

Then the kingdom shall begin !

Rest awhile, some late convulsion,

Time enough shall shake thy bed:

Rest awhile, at Death's expulsion,

Living green shall clothe thy head !

THE HARP BRINGETH JOY UNTO ME.

O autumn ! to me thou art dearest,

Thou bringest deep thoughts to me now,

For the leaves in the forest are searest,

And the foliage falls from each bough.

And then as the day was declining,

While nature was wont to repose,

A sage on his harp was reclining

Who sang of Lochaber's bravoes.

He played and he sang of their glory,

Their deeds which the ages admire;

Then softly, then wildly, their story

He told on the strings of his lyre.

While praise on the heroes he lavished,

And lauded their triumphs again,

A maid came a-list'ning, enravished

Enrapt by his charming refrain.

O! bright were the beams of her smiling,

I sigh for the peace on her brow,

Not a trace on her features of guiling

,My heart singeth songs to her now.

Inspired by the rapturous measure,

This fair one skipt over the lea:

One morning I sought the young treasure,

Now dear as my soul she's to me.

DONALD MACGREGOR.

Member of the Gaelic Society of London.

THE LAST OF THE CLAN.

"After many years he returned to die."

The last of the clansmen, grey-bearded and hoary,

Sat lone by the old castle's ruin-wrapt shade,

Where proudly his chief in the bloom of his glory

Oft mustered his heroes for battle arrayed:

He wept as he gazed on its beauties departed,

He sighed in despair for its gloom of decay,

Cold-shrouded his soul, and he sung broken-hearted,

With grief-shaking voice a wild woe-sounding lay.

"Weary, weary, sad returning,

Exiled long in other climes,

Hope's last flame, slow, feebly burning

Seeks the home of olden times:

In my joy why am I weeping ?

Where my kindred ? Where my clan ?

Whispers from the mountains creeping,

Tell me 'I'm the only man.'

"Yon tempest-starred mountains still loom in their grandeur,

The loud rushing torrents still sweep thro' the glen,

Thro' low-moaning forests dim spirits still wander,

But where are the songs and the voices of men ?

Tell me, storied ruins! where, where are their slumbers ?

Where now are the mighty no foe could withstand ?

The voice of the silence in echoing numbers,

Breathes sadly the tale of fate's merciless hand.

"Ah me! thro' the black clouds, one star shines in heaven,

And flings o'er the darkness its fast waning light,

'Tis to me an omen so tenderly given,

Foretelling that soon I will sink in my night:

The coronach slowly again is far pealing !

The grey ghosts of kinsmen I fondly can trace !

Around me they gather! and silent are kneeling,

To gaze in deep sorrow on all of their race !

Slowly, slowly, sadly viewing

With their weird mysterious scan,

Desolation's gloomy ruin !

All of kindred ! all of clan !

Ah ! my heart, my heart is fainting,

Strangely shaking are my limbs,

Heav'nward see ! their fingers pointing,

And my vision trembling swims.

Slowly, slowly, all-pervading,

O'er me steals their chilly breath,

See! the single star is fading,

Ling'ring in the joy of death,

Darkness swiftly o'er me gathers,

Softly fade these visions wan,

Welcome give, ye spirit fathers,

I'm the Last of all the Clan !"

WM. ALLAN.

Sunderland.