Edward, Edward -- Anonymous

Guest poem sent in by Ira Cooper

(Poem #656) Edward, Edward 'Why does your brand sae drop wi' blude, Edward, Edward? Why does your brand sae drop wi' blude, And why sae sad gang ye, O?' 'O I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude, Mither, mither; O I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude, And I had nae mair but he, O.' 'Your hawk's blude was never sae red, Edward, Edward; Your hawk's blude was never sae red, My dear son, I tell thee, O.' 'O I hae kill'd my red-roan steed, Mither, mither; O I hae kill'd my red-roan steed, That erst was sae fair and free, O.' 'Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair, Edward, Edward; Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair; Some other dule ye dree, O.' 'O I hae kill'd my father dear, Mither, mither; O I hae kill'd my father dear, Alas, and wae is me, O!' 'And whatten penance will ye dree for that, Edward, Edward? Whatten penance will ye dree for that? My dear son, now tell me, O.' 'I'll set my feet in yonder boat, Mither, mither; I'll set my feet in yonder boat, And I'll fare over the sea, O.' 'And what will ye do wi' your tow'rs and your ha', Edward, Edward? And what will ye do wi' your tow'rs and your ha', That were sae fair to see, O?' 'I'll let them stand till they doun fa', Mither, mither; I'll let them stand till they doun fa', For here never mair maun I be, O.' 'And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife, Edward, Edward? And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife, When ye gang owre the sea, O?' 'The warld's room: let them beg through life, Mither, mither; The warld's room: let them beg through life; For them never mair will I see, O.' 'And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear, Edward, Edward? And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear, My dear son, now tell me, O?' 'The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear, Mither, mither; The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear: Sic counsels ye gave to me, O!' -- Anonymous

Glossary:
  brand: blade [of a sword]
  erst: before, at first [cf erstwhile]
  gang: go
  dree: do, perform, suffer [penance etc.]
  dule ye dree: grief you suffer.
  bairns: children

In keeping with a misogynist theme, the above has always been a favorite of
mine.  It apparently is considered anonymous, from the seventeenth century.
I seem to remember reading  a commentary that this ballad was based on an
actual historical incident.  I cannot remember what.  Anyway, this ballad is
frequently listed in anthologies of British literature as a prime example of
its type.  Supposedly they were very popular amongst the good people of the
time.  These days, we have video games and movies for our blood and gore!

-Ira

Links:

Brahms' 'Edward Ballade' is a musical interpretation of the ballad
http://www.qedinteractive.com.au/html/jbc/brahint.htm

Andrew Lang's Collection of Ballads is online at
[broken link] http://www.ulib.org/webRoot/Books/CMU_Classics/Browse_By_Title/C/A_Collection_of_Ballads/index.html

Some other old, traditional ballads we've run:
 poem #303
 poem #437
 poem #548

The 'misogynist theme' was with reference to yesterday's poem: poem #655

No Second Troy -- William Butler Yeats

Guest poem:

(Poem #655) No Second Troy Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage equal to desire? What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this, Being high and solitary and most stern? Why, what could she have done, being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn? -- William Butler Yeats

We are studying Yeats' poetry in our class at the moment, and I dont think I
like his work very much; however, this poem made me pause while I was
skimming through his book of poems. There is something about this poem-
maybe it is the way in which beauty is synonymous to violence and misery, or
the inaccesibility of the woman, or her potential for causing so much
destruction...which makes the poem quite powerful.

Links:

Biography at poem #21

Commentary scattered throughout the several Yeats poems we've run - he's the
most frequently run poet on Minstrels, just ahead of Shakespeare and
Kipling.

Think, in this Batter'd Caravanserai -- Omar Khayyam

(Poem #654) Think, in this Batter'd Caravanserai Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day, How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp Abode his destined Hour, and went his way -- Omar Khayyam

Nothing particular to say about today's poem - I just liked the image of the
world as a caravanserai, with Night and Day (or Life and Death if you
prefer) as its doors.

The theme is a common one - it has played itself out in several variations
across most of the world's great works, including the Bible, Shakespeare,
and indeed in the Rubaiyat itself; however it has not suffered for that, and
has indeed produced a number of haunting analogies and images.

[Speaking of which, if anyone can provide me a fuller reference to the one
about life being like a bird passing brielfy through a lighted room before
returning to the outer darkness whence it came, I'd be grateful.]

Notes:

 Freely translated by Edward Fitzgerald; stanza 17 from the 5th edition

 Caravanserai: A kind of inn in Eastern countries where caravans put up,
 being a large quadrangular building with a spacious court in the middle.
        -- OED

Links:

poem #545 has a biography of
Fitzgerald and a number of other Rubaiyat links.

'Caravanserai' is another of those wonderfully evocative words that conjures
up entire realms and stories. For something in the same vein, check out the
Silk Road theme we ran a while back: Poem #504, Poem #506, Poem #509,
Poem #513, Poem #515, Poem #518 and Poem #526 - yes, it was a long theme
but a beautiful one.

And if anyone can find or scan in pictures of a caravanserai, do send in a
link.

Afterthought:

Having spent a happy half-hour or so rereading all four editions of the
Rubaiyat, I can recommend it - the second and fourth editions have a few
hidden gems that are lost if you concentrate on the outer two.

-martin

Ring Out, Wild Bells -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The old millennium changeth, yielding place to the new...

(Poem #653) Ring Out, Wild Bells Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light; The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more, Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out the want, the care the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkenss of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be. -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

One of Tennyson's most famous poems - partly due to its association with
New Year's Eve, which ensures it a sort of recurrent popularity - but mostly
because it's a good poem in its own right.

Like most of Tennyson's poetry - indeed, as some people would argue, like
*all* poetry - today's poem is meant to be read aloud. And not just read
aloud, but declaimed - there is a fine dramatic quality to the lines that is
diminished if read silently.

'Ring Out, Wild Bells' was another childhood favourite, though I must
confess to being slightly less impressed by it of late. The problem with
poems like this is that there not only is there a fine line between noble
and sententious, but the placement of that line is highly subjective, and
the poem has a slightly preachy feel to it today that it lacked when I was
younger. Nonetheless, I do like it for its poetic virtues, and yes, because
the world needs more New Year's poems :)

Links:

Tennyson biography: poem #15

Compare Tagore's 'Where the Mind is Without Fear': poem #177

and Wordsworth's 'London, 1802': poem #128

And finally, happy new year, century, millennium or what-have-you.

-martin

The Cataract of Lodore -- Robert Southey

Guest poem sent in by Raghavendra

(Poem #652) The Cataract of Lodore "How does the water Come down at Lodore?" My little boy asked me Thus, once on a time; And moreover he tasked me To tell him in rhyme. Anon, at the word, There first came one daughter, And then came another, To second and third The request of their brother, And to hear how the water Comes down at Lodore, With its rush and its roar, As many a time They had seen it before. So I told them in rhyme, For of rhymes I had store; And 'twas in my vocation For their recreation That so I should sing; Because I was Laureate To them and the King. From its sources which well In the tarn on the fell; From its fountains In the mountains, Its rills and its gills; Through moss and through brake, It runs and it creeps For a while, till it sleeps In its own little lake. And thence at departing, Awakening and starting, It runs through the reeds, And away it proceeds, Through meadow and glade, In sun and in shade, And through the wood-shelter, Among crags in its flurry, Helter-skelter, Hurry-skurry. Here it comes sparkling, And there it lies darkling; Now smoking and frothing Its tumult and wrath in, Till, in this rapid race On which it is bent, It reaches the place Of its steep descent. The cataract strong Then plunges along, Striking and raging As if a war raging Its caverns and rocks among; Rising and leaping, Sinking and creeping, Swelling and sweeping, Showering and springing, Flying and flinging, Writhing and ringing, Eddying and whisking, Spouting and frisking, Turning and twisting, Around and around With endless rebound: Smiting and fighting, A sight to delight in; Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound. Collecting, projecting, Receding and speeding, And shocking and rocking, And darting and parting, And threading and spreading, And whizzing and hissing, And dripping and skipping, And hitting and splitting, And shining and twining, And rattling and battling, And shaking and quaking, And pouring and roaring, And waving and raving, And tossing and crossing, And flowing and going, And running and stunning, And foaming and roaming, And dinning and spinning, And dropping and hopping, And working and jerking, And guggling and struggling, And heaving and cleaving, And moaning and groaning; And glittering and frittering, And gathering and feathering, And whitening and brightening, And quivering and shivering, And hurrying and skurrying, And thundering and floundering; Dividing and gliding and sliding, And falling and brawling and sprawling, And driving and riving and striving, And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, And sounding and bounding and rounding, And bubbling and troubling and doubling, And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, And clattering and battering and shattering; Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar, - And this way the water comes down at Lodore. -- Robert Southey

        [1774-1843]

I find waterfalls fascinating. The sprinkle formed by the water crashing to
the base symbolizes life and energy to me. Reading Southey's "The Cataract
of Lodore" gave me the experience as of watching a spectacular waterfall. I
managed to find a photograph of the waterfall which, however, disappointed
me. I guess it was taken during a dry spell. Southey's description of the
waterfall is a masterpiece. The poem creates a wonderful image of a lively
waterfall. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that he spirit of the
waterfall has been captured in words for eternity by Southey.

Check out
[broken link] http://www.btinternet.com/~lake.district/kes/lodore.htm
for a photograph of the waterfall at Lodore.

regards,
     Raghavendra

Links:

Biography of Southey: poem #203

Also check out Tennyson's somewhat reminiscent 'The Brook' poem #80