章节正文
And lo! the face was his own.
"This is my weird," he said,
"And now I ken the worst;
For many shall fall the morn,
But I shall fall with the first.
O, you of the outland tongue,
You of the painted face,
This is the place of my death;
Can you tell me the name of the place?"
"Since the Frenchmen have been here
They have called it Sault-Marie;
But that is a name for priests,
And not for you and me.
It went by another word,"
Quoth he of the shaven head:
"It was called Ticonderoga
In the days of the great dead."
And it fell on the morrow's morning,
In the fiercest of the fight,
That the Cameron bit the dust
As he foretold at night;
And far from the hills of heather
Far from the isles of the sea,
He sleeps in the place of the name
As it was doomed to be.
NOTES TO TICONDEROGA
INTRODUCTION. - I first heard this legend of my own country
from that friend of men of letters, Mr. Alfred Nutt, "there
in roaring London's central stream," and since the ballad
first saw the light of day in SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE, Mr. Nutt
and Lord Archibald Campbell have been in public controversy
on the facts. Two clans, the Camerons and the Campbells, lay
claim to this bracing story; and they do well: the man who
preferred his plighted troth to the commands and menaces of
the dead is an ancestor worth disputing. But the Campbells
must rest content: they have the broad lands and the broad
page of history; this appanage must be denied them; for
between the name of CAMERON and that of CAMPBELL, the muse
will never hesitate.
Note 1, Mr. Nutt reminds me it was "by my sword and Ben
Cruachan" the Cameron swore.
Note 2, "A PERIWIG'D LORD OF LONDON." The first Pitt.
Note 3, "CATHAY." There must be some omission in General
Stewart's charming HISTORY OF THE HIGHLAND REGIMENTS, a book
that might well be republished and continued; or it scarce
appears how our friend could have got to China.
HEATHER ALE
A GALLOWAY LEGEND
FROM the bonny bells of heather
They brewed a drink long-syne,
Was sweeter far than honey,
Was stronger far than wine.
They brewed it and they drank it,
And lay in a blessed swound
For days and days together
In their dwellings underground.
There rose a king in Scotland,
A fell man to his foes,
He smote the Picts in battle,
He hunted them like roes.
Over miles of the red mountain
He hunted as they fled,
And strewed the dwarfish bodies
Of the dying and the dead.
Summer came in the country,
Red was the heather bell;
But the manner of the brewing
Was none alive to tell.
In graves that were like children's
On many a mountain head,
The Brewsters of the Heather
Lay numbered with the dead.
The king in the red moorland
Rode on a summer's day;
And the bees hummed, and the curlews
Cried beside the way.
The king rode, and was angry,
Black was his brow and pale,
To rule in a land of heather
And lack the Heather Ale.
It fortuned that his vassals,
Riding free on the heath,
Came on a stone that was fallen
And vermin hid beneath.
Rudely plucked from their hiding,
Never a word they spoke:
A son and his aged father -
Last of the dwarfish folk.
The king sat high on his charger,
He looked on the little men;
And the dwarfish and swarthy couple
Looked at the king again.
Down by the shore he had them;
And there on the giddy brink -
"I will give you life, ye vermin,
For the secret of the drink."
There stood the son and father
And they looked high and low;
The heather was red around them,
The sea rumbled below.
And up and spoke the father,
Shrill was his voice to hear:
"I have a word in private,
A word for the royal ear.
"Life is dear to the aged,
And honour a little thing;
I would gladly sell the secret,"
Quoth the Pict to the King.
His voice was small as a sparrow's,
And shrill and wonderful clear:
"I would gladly sell my secret,
Only my son I fear.
"For life is a little matter,
And death is nought to the young;
And I dare not sell my honour
Under the eye of my son.
Take HIM, O king, and bind him,
And cast him far in the deep;
And it's I will tell the secret
That I have sworn to keep."
They took the son and bound him,
Neck and heels in a thong,
And a lad took him and swung him,
And flung him far and strong,
And the sea swallowed his body,
Like that of a child of ten; -
And there on the cliff stood the father,
Last of the dwarfish men.
"True was the word I told you:
Only my son I feared;
For I doubt the sapling courage
That goes without the beard.
But now in vain is the torture,
Fire shall never avail:
Here dies in my bosom
The secret of Heather Ale."
NOTE TO HEATHER ALE
AMONG the curiosities of human nature, this legend claims a
high place. It is needless to remind the reader that the
Picts were never exterminated, and form to this day a large
proportion of the folk of Scotland: occupying the eastern and
the central parts, from the Firth of Forth, or perhaps the
Lammermoors, upon the south, to the Ord of Caithness on the
north. That the blundering guess of a dull chronicler should
have inspired men with imaginary loathing for their own
ancestors is already strange: that it should have begotten
this wild legend seems incredible. Is it possible the
chronicler's error was merely nominal? that what he told, and
what the people proved themselves so ready to receive, about
the Picts, was true or partly true of some anterior and
perhaps Lappish savages, small of stature, black of hue,
dwelling underground - possibly also the distillers of some
forgotten spirit? See Mr. Campbell's TALES OF THE WEST
HIGHLANDS.
CHRISTMAS AT SEA
THE sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand;
The decks were like a slide, where a seamanscarce could stand;
The wind was a nor'wester, blowing squally off the sea;
And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.
They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day;
But 'twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay.
We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout,
And we gave her the maintops'l, and stood by to go about.
All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North;
All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth;
All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread,
For very life and nature we tacked from head to head.
We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared;
But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard:
So's we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high,
And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.
The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam;
The good red fires were burning bright in every 'longshore home;
The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out;
And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.
The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer;
For it's just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year)
This day of our adversity was blessed Christmas morn,
And the house above the coastguard's was the house where I was born.
O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there,
My mother's silver spectacles, my father's silver hair;
And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves,
Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves.
And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me,
Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea;
And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way,
To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessed Christmas Day.
They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall.
"All hands to loose topgallant sails," I heard the captain call.
"By the Lord, she'll never stand it," our first mate, Jackson, cried.
. . . "It's the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson," he replied.
She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good,
And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood.
As the winter's day was ending, in the entry of the night,
We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light.
And they heaved a mightybreath, every soul on board but me,
As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea;
But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold,
Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.
End
"This is my weird," he said,
"And now I ken the worst;
For many shall fall the morn,
But I shall fall with the first.
O, you of the outland tongue,
You of the painted face,
This is the place of my death;
Can you tell me the name of the place?"
"Since the Frenchmen have been here
They have called it Sault-Marie;
But that is a name for priests,
And not for you and me.
It went by another word,"
Quoth he of the shaven head:
"It was called Ticonderoga
In the days of the great dead."
And it fell on the morrow's morning,
In the fiercest of the fight,
That the Cameron bit the dust
As he foretold at night;
And far from the hills of heather
Far from the isles of the sea,
He sleeps in the place of the name
As it was doomed to be.
NOTES TO TICONDEROGA
INTRODUCTION. - I first heard this legend of my own country
from that friend of men of letters, Mr. Alfred Nutt, "there
in roaring London's central stream," and since the ballad
first saw the light of day in SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE, Mr. Nutt
and Lord Archibald Campbell have been in public controversy
on the facts. Two clans, the Camerons and the Campbells, lay
claim to this bracing story; and they do well: the man who
preferred his plighted troth to the commands and menaces of
the dead is an ancestor worth disputing. But the Campbells
must rest content: they have the broad lands and the broad
page of history; this appanage must be denied them; for
between the name of CAMERON and that of CAMPBELL, the muse
will never hesitate.
Note 1, Mr. Nutt reminds me it was "by my sword and Ben
Cruachan" the Cameron swore.
Note 2, "A PERIWIG'D LORD OF LONDON." The first Pitt.
Note 3, "CATHAY." There must be some omission in General
Stewart's charming HISTORY OF THE HIGHLAND REGIMENTS, a book
that might well be republished and continued; or it scarce
appears how our friend could have got to China.
HEATHER ALE
A GALLOWAY LEGEND
FROM the bonny bells of heather
They brewed a drink long-syne,
Was sweeter far than honey,
Was stronger far than wine.
They brewed it and they drank it,
And lay in a blessed swound
For days and days together
In their dwellings underground.
There rose a king in Scotland,
A fell man to his foes,
He smote the Picts in battle,
He hunted them like roes.
Over miles of the red mountain
He hunted as they fled,
And strewed the dwarfish bodies
Of the dying and the dead.
Summer came in the country,
Red was the heather bell;
But the manner of the brewing
Was none alive to tell.
In graves that were like children's
On many a mountain head,
The Brewsters of the Heather
Lay numbered with the dead.
The king in the red moorland
Rode on a summer's day;
And the bees hummed, and the curlews
Cried beside the way.
The king rode, and was angry,
Black was his brow and pale,
To rule in a land of heather
And lack the Heather Ale.
It fortuned that his vassals,
Riding free on the heath,
Came on a stone that was fallen
And vermin hid beneath.
Rudely plucked from their hiding,
Never a word they spoke:
A son and his aged father -
Last of the dwarfish folk.
The king sat high on his charger,
He looked on the little men;
And the dwarfish and swarthy couple
Looked at the king again.
Down by the shore he had them;
And there on the giddy brink -
"I will give you life, ye vermin,
For the secret of the drink."
There stood the son and father
And they looked high and low;
The heather was red around them,
The sea rumbled below.
And up and spoke the father,
Shrill was his voice to hear:
"I have a word in private,
A word for the royal ear.
"Life is dear to the aged,
And honour a little thing;
I would gladly sell the secret,"
Quoth the Pict to the King.
His voice was small as a sparrow's,
And shrill and wonderful clear:
"I would gladly sell my secret,
Only my son I fear.
"For life is a little matter,
And death is nought to the young;
And I dare not sell my honour
Under the eye of my son.
Take HIM, O king, and bind him,
And cast him far in the deep;
And it's I will tell the secret
That I have sworn to keep."
They took the son and bound him,
Neck and heels in a thong,
And a lad took him and swung him,
And flung him far and strong,
And the sea swallowed his body,
Like that of a child of ten; -
And there on the cliff stood the father,
Last of the dwarfish men.
"True was the word I told you:
Only my son I feared;
For I doubt the sapling courage
That goes without the beard.
But now in vain is the torture,
Fire shall never avail:
Here dies in my bosom
The secret of Heather Ale."
NOTE TO HEATHER ALE
AMONG the curiosities of human nature, this legend claims a
high place. It is needless to remind the reader that the
Picts were never exterminated, and form to this day a large
proportion of the folk of Scotland: occupying the eastern and
the central parts, from the Firth of Forth, or perhaps the
Lammermoors, upon the south, to the Ord of Caithness on the
north. That the blundering guess of a dull chronicler should
have inspired men with imaginary loathing for their own
ancestors is already strange: that it should have begotten
this wild legend seems incredible. Is it possible the
chronicler's error was merely nominal? that what he told, and
what the people proved themselves so ready to receive, about
the Picts, was true or partly true of some anterior and
perhaps Lappish savages, small of stature, black of hue,
dwelling underground - possibly also the distillers of some
forgotten spirit? See Mr. Campbell's TALES OF THE WEST
HIGHLANDS.
CHRISTMAS AT SEA
THE sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand;
The decks were like a slide, where a seamanscarce could stand;
The wind was a nor'wester, blowing squally off the sea;
And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.
They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day;
But 'twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay.
We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout,
And we gave her the maintops'l, and stood by to go about.
All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North;
All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth;
All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread,
For very life and nature we tacked from head to head.
We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared;
But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard:
So's we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high,
And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.
The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam;
The good red fires were burning bright in every 'longshore home;
The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out;
And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.
The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer;
For it's just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year)
This day of our adversity was blessed Christmas morn,
And the house above the coastguard's was the house where I was born.
O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there,
My mother's silver spectacles, my father's silver hair;
And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves,
Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves.
And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me,
Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea;
And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way,
To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessed Christmas Day.
They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall.
"All hands to loose topgallant sails," I heard the captain call.
"By the Lord, she'll never stand it," our first mate, Jackson, cried.
. . . "It's the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson," he replied.
She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good,
And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood.
As the winter's day was ending, in the entry of the night,
We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light.
And they heaved a mightybreath, every soul on board but me,
As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea;
But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold,
Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.
End
- ancestor [´ænsəstə]
n.祖宗，祖先 (初中英语单词) - charming [´tʃɑ:miŋ] a.可爱的；极好的 (初中英语单词)
- remind [ri´maind] vt.提醒；使记(想)起 (初中英语单词)
- partly [´pɑ:tli] ad.部分地；不完全地 (初中英语单词)
- frozen [´frəuzn] freeze 的过去分词 (初中英语单词)
- scarce [skeəs, skers] a.缺乏的；稀有的 (初中英语单词)
- running [´rʌniŋ] a.奔跑的；流动的 (初中英语单词)
- vessel [´vesəl] n.容器；船；脉管 (初中英语单词)
- flight [flait] n.逃走；飞行；班机 (初中英语单词)
- wicked [´wikid] a.邪恶的；不道德的 (初中英语单词)
- breath [breθ] n.呼吸；气息 (初中英语单词)
- highland [´hailənd] n.山地，高地 (高中英语单词)
- gladly [´glædli] ad.愉快地，高兴地 (高中英语单词)
- shrill [ʃril] a.(声音)尖锐的 (高中英语单词)
- needless [´ni:dləs] a.不必要的；无用的 (高中英语单词)
- imaginary [i´mædʒinəri] a.想象的；虚构的 (高中英语单词)
- incredible [in´kredəbəl] a.不能相信的；惊人的 (高中英语单词)
- underground [,ʌndə´graund] ad.&a.地下(的) (高中英语单词)
- charity [´tʃæriti] n.施舍；慈悲；博爱 (高中英语单词)
- mighty [´maiti] a.强有力的 ad.很 (高中英语单词)
- homely [´həumli] a.朴素的；不漂亮的 (高中英语单词)
- ending [´endiŋ] n.结尾，结局 (高中英语单词)
- blessed [´blesid] a.享福的；神圣的 (英语四级单词)
- nought [nɔ:t] n.=naught (英语四级单词)
- stature [´stætʃə] n.身高；身材 (英语四级单词)
- adversity [əd´və:siti] n.灾难；逆境 (英语四级单词)
- foretold [fɔ:´təuld] foretell过去式(分词) (英语六级单词)
- omission [əu´miʃən] n.省略；遗漏；失职 (英语六级单词)
- heather [´heðə] n.石南属植物 (英语六级单词)
- swarthy [´swɔ:ði] a.黑皮肤的，黝黑的 (英语六级单词)
- sapling [´sæpliŋ] n.树苗，幼树 (英语六级单词)
- seaman [´si:mən] n.海员，水手 (英语六级单词)
- headland [´hedlənd] n.岬 (英语六级单词)
文章标签:名著
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