Loch Lomond -- Lady John Scott

Chiming in...

(Poem #719) Loch Lomond By yon bonnie banks, and by yon bonnie braes, Where the sun shines bright on Loch Lomond, Where me and my true love were ever wont to be, On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond. Oh, you'll take the high road, and I'll take the low road, And I'll be in Scotland afore ye But me and my true love will never meet again, On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond. I mind where we parted in yon shady glen, On the steep, steep side of Ben Lomond, Where in deep purple hue the Highland hills we view, And the moon coming out in the gloaming. Oh, you'll take the high road... etc. The wee birdies sing and the wild flowers spring, And in sunshine the waters are sleeping, But the broken heart will ken no second spring again, And the world does not know how we are greeting. Oh, you'll take the high road... etc. -- Lady John Scott

Mistakenly attributed by Lord Ickenham to the poet Burns.

Referred to in 'Uncle Fred In The Springtime' (1940):

  From some spot hidden from them by thick shrubberies there came the sound
of a pleasant tenor voice. It was rendering "Bonny, Bonny Banks of Loch
Lomond", and putting a good deal of feeling into it.
  "Gah! that whistling feller again!"
  "I beg your pardon?"
  "Chap who comes whistling and singing outside my window," said the Duke,
like the heroine of an old-fashioned novelette speaking of her lover.

        -- P. G. Wodehouse, 'Uncle Fred In the Springtime"

The Duke (Alaric, of Dunstable) dislikes the song with an especially
virulent dislike because, well, it doesn't _rhyme_. Oh well. One can't have
everything <grin>.

thomas.

[Moreover]

Leslie Nelson's _Contemplator_ folk website has a MIDI file of this song:
[broken link] http://www.contemplator.com/folk/lomond.mid
recorded by Barry Taylor.

Nelson goes on to say:

"Loch Lomond is an old Jacobite Air. It is based on an older folk tune
'Robin Cushie (Kind Robin Loves Me)', in McGibbons' Scots Tunes Book I,
dated 1742. The words are attributed to Lady John Scott (1810-1900) who
adapted a broadside by Sanderson of Edinburgh (1838). The version we are
familiar with today is said to have first appreared in print in Poets and
Poetry of Scotland (1876).

Folklore has it that the words were written by a captured Jacobite solider
in Carlisle Castle in 1745. Two soldiers were captured and one lived (took
the high road) and the other was executed. This is a nice addition to
Jacobite folklore, but otherwise is not true."

        -- Leslie Nelson, [broken link] http://www.contemplator.com/folk/lomond.html

(The above link has more on Loch Lomond, the Jacobite uprising, and Scottish
folk music - it's worth a visit).

[Credits]

Thanks to V. Ganesh, for sending in this link:
[broken link] http://people.netscape.com/thaths/wodehouse/
which is 'an attempt by the good folks at alt.fan.wodehouse to collect the
text of all the songs that P.G.,Wodehouse makes cursory references to in his
books'.

The Destruction of Sennacherib -- George Gordon, Lord Byron

Continuing the Bertie Wooster theme...

(Poem #718) The Destruction of Sennacherib The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail: And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! -- George Gordon, Lord Byron

           (Pub. 1815)

One of Byron's more memorable poems - it's little wonder Bertie liked
quoting it. From its stirring rhythms to its vivid imagery, with neither a
syllable out of place in the former nor a word in the latter, the poem cries
out to be recited, memorised and quoted at random passersby.

However, after its magnificent opening, the poem lacks a certain something -
excitement, perhaps, or dramatic tension; it has the feel of a painting
rather than a narrative. To see what I mean, compare passages from Horatius,
which has not just the rhythms and images, but the *atmosphere* of a battle.
This difference may well be deliberate, for after all the destruction of
Sennacherib was not via battle; rather

     The might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword
     Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord

Nonetheless, it robs the poem of a certain appeal, and may explain why the
beginning and ending are far better known than the poem itself.

Notes:

Sennacherib is pronounced senak'rib

Here's a summary of the Biblical account on which Byron's poem is based:

  His own account of this invasion, as given in the Assyrian annals, is in
  these words: "Because Hezekiah, king of Judah, would not submit to my
  yoke, I came up against him, and by force of arms and by the might of my
  power I took forty-six of his strong fenced cities; and of the smaller
  towns which were scattered about, I took and plundered a countless number.

  ...

  Hezekiah was not disposed to become an Assyrian feudatory. He accordingly
  at once sought help from Egypt. Sennacherib, hearing of this, marched a
  second time into Palestine. Sennacherib sent envoys to try to persuade
  Hezekiah to surrender, but in vain. He next sent a threatening letter,
  which Hezekiah carried into the temple and spread before the Lord. Isaiah
  again brought an encouraging message to the pious king. "In that night"
  the angel of the Lord went forth and smote the camp of the Assyrians. In
  the morning, "behold, they were all dead corpses." The Assyrian army was
  annihilated.

  This great disaster is not, as was to be expected, taken notice of in the
  Assyrian annals

        -- http://www.htmlbible.com/kjv30/easton/east3273.htm
          (somewhat elided - go read the whole thing)

The last line is noteworthy - the official Assyrian history indeed makes no
mention of the defeat...

  In 701 a rebellion, backed by Egypt, though probably instigated by
  Merodach-Baladan (2 Kings 20:12-18; Isaiah 39:1-7), broke out in
  Palestine. Sennacherib reacted firmly, supporting loyal vassals and taking
  the rebel cities, except for Jerusalem, which, though besieged, was spared
  on payment of a heavy indemnity (2 Kings 18:13-19:36; Isa. 36:1-37:37).
  The biblical narrative has been interpreted as implying two campaigns
  against Jerusalem, but this receives no support from Assyrian sources

        -- EB

Links:

  Sennacherib:
    http://www.htmlbible.com/kjv30/easton/east3273.htm
    http://www.britannica.com/bcom/eb/article/5/0,5716,,00.html

  Byron:
    Biography at poem #169
    Other poems:
      Poem #510 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods
      Poem #62  So We'll Go No More a-Roving
      Poem #547 The Isles of Greece

Theme:

  As before, if you find the relevant passages from Wodehouse where
  Sennacherib is quoted, do send them in.

-martin

The Wreck of the Hesperus -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Guest poem submitted by Suresh Ramasubramanian, as
part of this week's theme, poems oft-quoted by Bertie Wooster:

(Poem #717) The Wreck of the Hesperus It was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, That ope in the month of May. The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now West, now South. Then up and spake an old Sailor, Had sailed to the Spanish Main, "I pray thee, put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane. "Last night, the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see!" The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he. Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the Northeast, The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast. Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength; She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable's length. "Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, And do not tremble so; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow." He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat Against the stinging blast; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast. "O father! I hear the church-bells ring, Oh say, what may it be?" "'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" -- And he steered for the open sea. "O father! I hear the sound of guns, Oh say, what may it be?" "Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!" "O father! I see a gleaming light, Oh say, what may it be?" But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he. Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes. Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That savèd she might be; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave On the Lake of Galilee. And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe. And ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land; It was the sound of the trampling surf On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck. She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull. Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, Ho! ho! the breakers roared! At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast. The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow! Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe! -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

In 1839, Longfellow was inspired to write one of his best-known poems on
hearing of the wreck of the schooner Hesperus on the reef of Norman's Woe,
off Gloucester, Massachusetts some twenty years ago. One of the bodies
washed ashore was, in fact, lashed to a spar, as described in the poem.

He described the composition of the poem as follows:

"I wrote last evening a notice of Allston's poems. After which I sat till
twelve o'clock by my fire, smoking, when suddenly it came into my mind to
write the Ballad of the Schooner Hesperus; which accordingly I did. Then I
went to bed, but could not sleep. New thoughts were running in my mind, and
I got up to add them to the ballad. It was three by the clock. I then went
to bed and fell asleep. I feel pleased with the ballad. It hardly cost me an
effort. It did not come into my mind by lines but by stanzas."

"The Wreck ..." has been set to music by John Liptrot Hatton, a mostly
self-taught musician who was quite popular during the nineteenth century for
his ballads (and assorted other work including cathedral services, anthems,
operas ...).

As for the Bertie connection, well ... he has often compared his sozzled (or
unhappy, or whatever) friends to "the wreck of the Hesperus".

Oh, and try these two more recent musical takes on 'Hesperus':

George Harrison ([broken link] http://brouci.host.sk/text/george/wreckoft.htm)
Procol Harum (www.procolharum.com/wreck_of_the_hesperus_crd.htm)

Suresh.

Warning -- Jenny Joseph

(Poem #716) Warning When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me. And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter. I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings And make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain And pick the flowers in other people's gardens And learn to spit. You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And eat three pounds of sausages at a go Or only bread and pickle for a week And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes. But now we must have clothes that keep us dry And pay our rent and not swear in the street And set a good example for the children. We must have friends to dinner and read the papers. But maybe I ought to practice a little now? So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple. -- Jenny Joseph

A refreshingly unrepentant poem about growing old... it does offer a wee bit
of editorializing on the subject of society's attitude towards the aged (and
fixation with appearances), but it's basically just a charming piece of
whimsy, and deserves to be appreciated for that and that alone.

thomas.

PS. I seem to remember "Warning" being voted the most popular post-war poem
in England, in some newspaper survey or the other... so that puts it right
up there with "Daffodils" and "If" and other perennial favourites.

[From the-sublime-to-the-ridiculous dept.]

Another, errm, 'poem' attributed to Jenny Joseph has been making the rounds
lately:

 "A Warning from an Old Lady"

 If I had to live life over
 I'd try to make more mistakes next time
 I would relax, I'd limber up
 I would be sillier than I have been on this trip
 I know of very few things I would take seriously
 I would be crazier, I would be less hygienic
 I would take more chances
 I would take more trips
 I would climb more mountains
 Swim more rivers
 And watch more sunsets.
 I would eat more ice cream and less beans
 I'd pick more daisies

        -- NOT Jenny Joseph
        [actually, it's based on an essay by a certain Dan Herold, whoever
he is]

The above effusion is a typical example of the annoyingly sentimental guff
that seems to proliferate on the Internet; needless to say, I consider it
almost completely bereft of poetic merit. Nonetheless I find it interesting
because of the way Joseph's name has come to be associated with it -
interesting because it does echo at least a few of the ideas underlying
Joseph's original poem [1]. A fascinating example of symbiotic memes...

[1] while completely missing the point of the latter, of course. And being
desperately unfunny to boot.

[Links]

Pete Davis' "For Jenny Joseph and Anne Davis" offers the point of view of an
innocent bystander watching an "An old woman in a beauty parlor / standing
on her head, up to her ears / in shampoo, singing Joy To The World "... the
final couplet is especially funny:
http://www.lavondyss.com/writings/poems/purple.html
I don't know who Anne Davis is, though.

There are lots of poems about aging on the Minstrels, none of which I can
remember right now. You can browse the entire list at
http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/

[A Very Brief Biography]

 b 1932.
 Poet and prose writer.

Joseph has been writing since 1961 (her first publication was The
Unlooked-for Season, a volume of poetry). In 1974 she won the Cholmondely
award for Rose in the Afternoon. Other volumes include: The Thinking Heart
(1978) and Beyond Descartes (1983). She also writes for children.

        -- Bloomsbury Dictionary of English Literature

The Blessed Damozel -- Dante Gabriel Rossetti

This week's theme - some of Bertie Wooster's oft-quoted poems.

(Poem #715) The Blessed Damozel The blessed damozel lean'd out From the gold bar of Heaven; Her eyes were deeper than the depth Of waters still'd at even; She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven. Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, No wrought flowers did adorn, But a white rose of Mary's gift, For service meetly worn; Her hair that lay along her back Was yellow like ripe corn. Her seem'd she scarce had been a day One of God's choristers; The wonder was not yet quite gone From that still look of hers; Albeit, to them she left, her day Had counted as ten years. (To one, it is ten years of years. ... Yet now, and in this place, Surely she lean'd o'er me--her hair Fell all about my face .... Nothing: the autumn-fall of leaves. The whole year sets apace.) It was the rampart of God's house That she was standing on; By God built over the sheer depth The which is Space begun; So high, that looking downward thence She scarce could see the sun. It lies in Heaven, across the flood Of ether, as a bridge. Beneath, the tides of day and night With flame and darkness ridge The void, as low as where this earth Spins like a fretful midge. Around her, lovers, newly met 'Mid deathless love's acclaims, Spoke evermore among themselves Their heart-remember'd names; And the souls mounting up to God Went by her like thin flames. And still she bow'd herself and stoop'd Out of the circling charm; Until her bosom must have made The bar she lean'd on warm, And the lilies lay as if asleep Along her bended arm. From the fix'd place of Heaven she saw Time like a pulse shake fierce Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove Within the gulf to pierce Its path; and now she spoke as when The stars sang in their spheres. The sun was gone now; the curl'd moon Was like a little feather Fluttering far down the gulf; and now She spoke through the still weather. Her voice was like the voice the stars Had when they sang together. (Ah sweet! Even now, in that bird's song, Strove not her accents there, Fain to be hearken'd? When those bells Possess'd the mid-day air, Strove not her steps to reach my side Down all the echoing stair?) "I wish that he were come to me, For he will come," she said. "Have I not pray'd in Heaven? -- on earth, Lord, Lord, has he not pray'd? Are not two prayers a perfect strength? And shall I feel afraid? "When round his head the aureole clings, And he is cloth'd in white, I'll take his hand and go with him To the deep wells of light; As unto a stream we will step down, And bathe there in God's sight. "We two will stand beside that shrine, Occult, withheld, untrod, Whose lamps are stirr'd continually With prayer sent up to God; And see our old prayers, granted, melt Each like a little cloud. "We two will lie i' the shadow of That living mystic tree Within whose secret growth the Dove Is sometimes felt to be, While every leaf that His plumes touch Saith His Name audibly. "And I myself will teach to him, I myself, lying so, The songs I sing here; which his voice Shall pause in, hush'd and slow, And find some knowledge at each pause, Or some new thing to know." (Alas! We two, we two, thou say'st! Yea, one wast thou with me That once of old. But shall God lift To endless unity The soul whose likeness with thy soul was but its love for thee?) "We two," she said, "will seek the groves Where the lady Mary is, With her five handmaidens, whose names Are five sweet symphonies, Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, Margaret and Rosalys. "Circlewise sit they, with bound locks And foreheads garlanded; Into the fine cloth white like flame Weaving the golden thread, To fashion the birth-robes for them Who are just born, being dead. "He shall fear, haply, and be dumb: Then will I lay my cheek To his, and tell about our love, Not once abash'd or weak: And the dear Mother will approve My pride, and let me speak. "Herself shall bring us, hand in hand, To Him round whom all souls Kneel, the clear-rang'd unnumber'd heads Bow'd with their aureoles: And angels meeting us shall sing To their citherns and citoles. "There will I ask of Christ the Lord Thus much for him and me: -- Only to live as once on earth With Love, -- only to be, As then awhile, for ever now Together, I and he." She gaz'd and listen'd and then said, Less sad of speech than mild, -- "All this is when he comes." She ceas'd. The light thrill'd towards her, fill'd With angels in strong level flight. Her eyes pray'd, and she smil'd. (I saw her smile.) But soon their path Was vague in distant spheres: And then she cast her arms along The golden barriers, And laid her face between her hands, And wept. (I heard her tears.) -- Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Note:

  The poem was revised for publication in The Oxford and Cambridge Magazine
  in 1856, and again before its appearance in Poems, 1870. Thirty years
  after its first appearance Rossetti told Hall Caine that he had written
  "The Blessed Damozel" as a sequel to Poe's "The Raven" (published in
  1845): ''I saw that Poe had done the utmost it was possible to do with the
  grief of the lover on earth, and so determined to reverse the conditions,
  and give utterance to the yearning of the loved one in heaven." Rossetti's
  early study of Dante, especially the Paradiso, has influenced the general
  conception and many of the details of the poem.

        http://www.library.utoronto.ca/utel/rp/poems/rossettg2.html

I must admit that, before reading the above, I did not think very much of
today's poem. As the tale of a dead woman yearning for her earth-bound
lover, it leaves me rather cold; again, I am not familiar enough with Dante
to appreciate his influence on 'The Blessed Damozel'. However, the idea of a
sequel to Poe's Raven is intriguing - despite the number of times I've read
the latter, it never occurred to me to flesh out the dead Lenore, or to see
her as anything more than the object of the poet's futile line of questions.
I *still* don't like the poem much, but I do appreciate it more than I used
to <g>.

On the Theme:

  One of Bertie Wooster's more amusing characteristics, as any fan of
  Wodehouse's marvellous series will doubtless agree, is his frequent
  quoting (and misquoting) of fragments of famous poems. I've got a few in
  mind, but feel free to suggest your personal favourites <g>. Also, as
  always, guest poems are welcome. And a further request - if people could
  send in Wodehouse quotes containing lines from the poems (as and when you
  come across them), so that we can append them to the page, I'd be
  eternally grateful.

Links:

  Look up the annotations at
    http://www.library.utoronto.ca/utel/rp/poems/rossettg2.html

  There's an extensive discussion of the poem at
    http://www.bartleby.com/223/0502.html

  Rossetti's painting in illustration of the poem:
    http://www.hearts-ease.org/gallery/pre-raph/rossetti/1.html

  A bit on the history of "DGR's most important (evolving) textual
  interpretation of his Dantescan inheritance":
    http://jefferson.village.virginia.edu/rossetti/poems/1-1847head2.html

  A biography of DGR:
    http://www.thecore.nus.edu.sg/landow/victorian/dgr/dgrseti13.html

  For more on the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood:
    http://www.speel.demon.co.uk/other/prb.htm

  Poe's Raven: poem #85

  And some Wodehouse sites:
    [broken link] http://www.smart.net/~tak/wodehouse.html
    http://www.tiac.net/users/dejesus/jeeves/index.htm

Afterthought:

  Parts of this poem are so reminiscent of Dorothy Parker's 'A Well Worn
  Story'

       Together we trod the secret lane
       And walked the muttering town
       I wore my heart like a wet, red stain
       On the breast of a velvet gown

  that I have to wonder if she was consciously or unconsciously parodying
  it. Either way, here, following the popular Minstrels tradition of letting
  Parker have the last word, is her "D. G. Rossetti":

       Dante Gabriel Rossetti
       Buried all of his libretti,
       Thought the matter over - then
       Went and dug them up again.

m.