Purely recuperative! Ah! precisely. Leave me alone, and I shall manage nicely. How the bees boom amidst the purple heather! Better than BOWLES and BARTLEY! (_Yawn._) Wonder whether _They_'re "booming" still about Sir WILLIAM'S head; Buz-wuz! Buz-wuz! And raspy Russell, red With Orange rage, shakes he a towzled crest? Creaks he continual challenge, spear in rest? Wags he a menacing fore-finger still At me through stout Sir WILLIAM? Poor Sir WILL! How he'd like _this_! How little he likes _that_! Purely recuperative! Here I've sat Since luncheon--ruminating, reading, napping, Thank heaven I cannot hear Lord KELVIN clapping CASTLETOWN'S callow clap-trap. All is still. There's nothing near I wish to stalk or kill. Like Melancholy _Jaques_, I can note The branchy antlers and the dappled coat Of "poor sequestered stag," and yet not yearn To--make him venison. Yon brabbling burn Makes mellower music in my Scottish ears. Then the MACALLUM'S slogan. How the cheers Of SALISBURY must have fired him as he smote; Hacked at my character, hewed at my throat Like "sullen spearsman" upon Flodden field. The claymore, like his sires, he loved to wield. They lost their heads he says, for England's weal, And he--well, has he not lost _his_?
I feel The mellow moorland air, gorse-scented, bland With heather odour, soothes me, like the hand Of gentle woman on an angry brow. Were the great-little Scotsman with me now, Like proud MCGREGOR on his native heath, Breathing pure-scented, honey-laden breath, How his cock-nose would drop, his flaming crest Droop and unruffle! He's a scold confest, A pedagogue incarnate; horn-book, tawse. Cramming and chastisement, not making laws, His talent and his temperament best befit. Yet--once he lent his eloquence and wit To aid the man he now maligns. Ah, me! "Tricky!"--"corrupt!" What arrant fiddle-de-dee It sounds--upon these moors, beneath the blue Of unpolluted skies!
HOMER, to you I turn. ACHILLES in his wrath could rage, But scarce would stoop the wordy war to wage With poisoned epithet and shrewish flout Like scorpion-tongued THERSITES.
Here, no doubt, By Black Craig Castle party wasps would turn To honey-hiving bees. Oh, tinkling burn, You set my soul to music. HONEST JOHN, Valiant Sir WILLIAM, you must still fight on A little longer. Would ye both were here. ARMITSTEAD'S guests, like me, like me with cheer "Purely recuperative" holiday To take--"Over the Hills and Far Away!"