The Project Gutenberg eBook of Fables, by Sir Ronald Ross

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Title: Fables

Author: Sir Ronald Ross

Release Date: February 4, 2015 [EBook #48153]

Language: English

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FABLES

BY

RONALD ROSS

OF WHICH COPIES TO THE NUMBER OF TWO HUNDRED AND

FIFTY ARE NOW PRIVATELY PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY

PRESS OF LIVERPOOL, ANNO DOMINI MCMVII, AND ARE

TO BE HAD OF THE AUTHOR AT THE UNIVERSITY AND

OF HENRY YOUNG AND SONS OF SOUTH CASTLE STREET,

LIVERPOOL, FOR TWO SHILLINGS AND SIX PENCE.

Entered at Stationers’ Hall

For my Children

.   .   .   .   .   .   .   .

These Fables were written in India

between the years 1880 and 1890

CONTENTS

AN EXPOSTULATION WITH TRUTH

ARIEL AND THE HIPPOPOTAMUS

THE FROG, THE FAIRY, AND THE MOON

THE TROLL AND THE MOUNTAIN

THE TOAD AND THE FAYS

THE PARSON AND THE ANGEL

PUCK AND THE CROCODILE

THE VIRTUOUS GOAT

THE TRUTH OF TRUTH

THE MAN, THE LION, AND THE FLY

ORPHEUS AND THE BUSY ONES

THE POET AND THE PENMAN

THE PITEOUS EWE

THE CONTEST OF BIRDS

ALASTOR

OCEAN AND THE ROCK

DEATH AND LOVE

CALYPSO TO ULYSSES

THE STAR AND THE SUN

THE POET’S RETIREMENT

An Expostulation with Truth

Uttered by the Well Meaning Poet

Altho’ you live aloft so far,

Transcendent Goddess, in your star,

Pray, try to see us as we are.

Consider—and be more forgiving—

Life is not reasoning but believing,

And we must work to get our living.

Expound with logic most exact

And rightly marshal every fact—

D’you think we thank you for your act?

D’you think we’ve nothing else to do

But to distinguish false from true?—

We’re lawyers, doctors, parsons too.

But for our little fond delusions

We’d never come to our conclusions,

And then—just think of the confusions!

You pain us when you contradict.

Your presence would the less afflict

If you were not so very strict.

Dear Lady, take this sober view,

It matters little what is true—

The world is not the place for you.

I rede you therefore, go away;

Or, if you really mean to stay,

Let’s hear your views another day.

Ariel and the Hippopotamus

Dedicated to Rural Magnates

Fine Ariel, serf to Prospero,

Sped on the Great Meridian

For jetty pearls from Andaman

To make a chaplet to declare

The beauty of Miranda’s hair,

When at the desert African,

Out of his master’s ken, and slow,

Lag’d on his errand, loth to go:

For sweltering Sol with leaden beam

Made stagnant all the windy stream

And suck’d from earth a stifling steam.

There idling still, the lazy Sprite

Beheld below, beneath his flight,

The Lord of Rivers, blackly bright,

Who, planted in a marshy bed,

On mighty rushes munching fed

And sigh’d for more the more he sped.

‘Good day, my lord; I hope you’re well,’

Quoth then the jocund Ariel.

‘Why, thank’ee, Sir, sound as a bell;

Save I’d complain, did I but choose,

My appetite’s so poor I lose

Half this fine fodder. What’s the news?’

‘Great Sir, the news I brought away

Is not so good, I’m sad to say—

Jove has the gout again to-day.’

‘Why,’ said the Hippopotamus,

‘That ain’t no call to make a fuss;

I’ve had the same and am no wuss.’

‘’Tis said that Cytherea, queen

Of beauty, weds to-day at e’en

The sooty Vulcan hump’d and mean.’

‘There,’ said the Hippopotamus,

‘That party I will not discuss.

She might have me and do no wuss.’

‘Apollo, lord of lay and lyre,

Hath seated now his Heavenly Choir

Upon Parnassus’ starry spire.’

‘Foh!’ said the Hippopotamus,

‘For that I do not care a cuss,

And they may sing until they bus’!’

‘Jove, sad for Io, hath aver’d

No sound of laughter shall be heard

One year in Heav’n, nor witty word.’

‘Ah!’ said the Hippopotamus,

‘That there don’t suit the likes of us.

I vow I won’t be muzzled thus.’

‘Farewell, Sir,’ quoth the lissom Sprite;

‘Behoves me tear me from your sight.

I must about the world ere night.’

‘Farewell, young friend,’ responded he;

‘The work I have to do you see.

But if you hear the Thund’rer sigh

For counsel, Mars for an ally,

Dian for love, I think that I—

I pray you say a word for me.’

The Frog, the Fairy, and the Moon

Dedicated to Lovers

The Frog that loved the Changing Star

Was worship’d by a Fairy,

Who made for him a waistcoat trim

Of silk and satin, soft and airy,

Button’d with eyes of fireflies

In manner military.

And more to move his languid love

A crimson cap she made him,

According to many, plumed with antennae

Of moths that rob the flowers’ honey;

And with her kisses, lovers’ money,

For that she gave she paid him.

She fed him too, till he was blue,

With endearing terms on caddis worms;

And caught for him the wriggling germs

Of midges; and with tender pats

She wiled and woo’d him while he chew’d ’em:

Till he said, ‘Bother! I love another.

I love the Star I see afar,

That changeth oft her fires so soft

From blue to red and red to blue;

And that is why I love not you.

Therefore I pray you take away

Your tedious arm, which does me harm

Because it makes me feel too warm.

But give to me my new guitar

That I may sing to yonder Star.’

With that he gaped and guggled so

The Fairy into fits did go;

And he bounded near and bounded far,

Strumming the strings of his guitar,

And tried to reach the Changing Star.

And all the while with his splay feet

Kept time unto the music meet.

With hat and waistcoat on he sprang,

And as he bounded still he sang.

And this the Saga says is why

The Frog he always jumps so high;

For, though the Star is very far,

To reach it he must ever try,

Until it’s time for him to die.

As for the foolish Fay, ’tis wist,

She wept herself into a mist,

Which wanders where the Clouds are strewn

About the deathbed of the Moon,

When with wan lips, in sudden swoon

(Because her unkind lord, the Sun,

Will ever from her loveless run),

She cries amid her Starry Maids:

‘Ah me, alas, my beauty fades!’—

And so sinks down into the Shades.

The Troll and the Mountain

Dedicated to the Great

Said the Troll to the Mountain, ‘Old fellow, how goes it?’

The Mountain responded, ‘My answer—suppose it.’

Said the Troll, ‘Dear old friend, you are grumpy to-day.’

Said the Mountain, ‘I think you had best run away.’

The Troll said, ‘You suffer, old boss, from the blues.’

The Mountain retorted, ‘I may if I choose.’

‘Ah, that,’ cried the Troll, ‘is effect of the liver.’

‘Take care,’ quoth the Hill, ‘or I’ll give you the shiver.’

‘By my cap and its feather,’ the Spirit replies,

‘You’ll be getting too portly without exercise.’

‘You pert little fly,’ said the Rock in a rage,

‘I will teach you to chaff at a hill of my age.’

So he jump’d up to punish the impudent Fay,

Who wisely retorted by running away;

Until the old Mountain broke right down the middle,

When back he came nimbly and played on the fiddle.

My Advice to all Mountains that make such a stir, it’s

‘Don’t get in a passion with pert little spirits.’

The Toad and the Fays

Dedicated to Philosophers

There sat a Toad upon a lawn

Lost in a dream of fancy;

His right foot in a Rose was set,

His left upon a Violet,

His paunch upon a Pansy.

Some merry Elfins passing by

At sight of him were sore affrighted,

And would have fled; until he said,

‘My little dears, if you knew why

I look to heaven thus and sigh,

I think that you would be delighted.

The Stars rise up and fall, the Stars

Do shine in pools and stilly places,

The Lilies blink on sandy bars,

The Midges move in flickering mazes;

But I profoundly pore upon,

And reason, think, and cogitate,

And marvel, muse, and meditate,

Why had the ancient Mastodon

So few sad hairs upon his pate?’

The Parson and the Angel

Thus spake the Preacher. All aver’d

A saintlier man was never heard.

But no one knew that o’er his head

An Angel wrote the things he said,

And these not only, but as well

The things he thought but did not tell;

And thus the double discourse fell.

‘Beloved Brethren, never do

What makes your (neighbour) censure you;

That is, conceive yourself as good

(And so impress the neighbourhood).

Make you yourself a law to self

And so you will (enjoy yourself).

For the best way to ’scape the devil

Is to (protest you are not evil).

For virtue lies in this, I take it,

To drink the physic (but not shake it);

To gulp it dutifully down

(But leave the bitter dregs alone).

Desire not aught of any man

(But take your due); so that you can

(Quite safely unto others do

As you wish they should unto you);

And thus’—so summed the portly Priest—

‘Be chosen for the Wedding Feast

(As City Councillor at least).’

Puck and the Crocodile

Dedicated to the Godly

Puck, wandering on the banks of Nile,

Beheld one day a Crocodile,

That with heart-wringing sighs and sobs,

With groans and cries and throes and throbs,

Made moan, until his rushing tears

Ran down the wrinkles of the sand.

‘What ails thee, Monster?’ made demand

The Sprite, ‘and why these million tears?’

‘I weep, I shriek,’ the other cries,

‘To see the World’s iniquities.’

‘And I with you,’ the Elf replies.

‘The World,’ resumed the Crocodile,

‘Is full of Cruelty and Guile.’

‘Except for you,’ Puck said, ‘it’s vile.’

‘Honour and Chivalry are dead;

The Soul of Pity vanished.’

‘Save in yourself, Sir,’ Robin said.

‘How are the Righteous much abhor’d,

And silent still the Godly Word!’

‘Not while you live,’ the Sprite aver’d.

‘My friend, I thank you,’ said the Beast;

‘I think you sympathise at least.

The world is evil—pray beware—

How fat you are, I do declare!

God grant us all some day remission—

I vow you’re in a fine condition.

I think that all—I must say that

For a fairy you are very fat.

What unctuous food—excuse me, friend—

You fays must find in fairy land.

As I was saying, all is not—

Fie, what a toothache I have got!

See here, this molar. Pray look nearer,

And you shall see the bad place clearer.

Nay if you could but just creep in

And say which tooth the mischief’s in—’

‘No thank you, friend,’ our Puck replied;

‘I’ll keep upon the outer side.

With many large soul’d folk I’ve met

I’ve found the stomach’s larger yet;

And when the Righteous talk of Sin

Look to your pockets or your skin.’

The Virtuous Goat

Dedicated to Teachers

Upon a mountain lived of old

(So says the Saga that is wise)

An ancient Goat of portly size,

Well known for virtues manifold,

Who once to take the evening air

Reposed upon a meadow there,

With Wife and Children in a row;

And thus endeavour’d to bestow

On them (and all of us) advice

To make our conduct more precise

And lead at last to paradise.

‘My dears be Good. All else forgot

Yours shall be still a happy lot.

Enough the Rule. Do not enquire

The How and Why of things—or higher.

Be Virtuous, and neglect the Schools;

For Wisdom was but made for fools.

Scorn still the shallow Mind that pries

In science, art, philosophies;

Essays the future to forecast,

Forsooth, by study of the past;

Maintains the laws should be (what treason!)

Compounded by the use of reason;

And will advise e’en men of note

To govern well by thinking o’t;

Avers when honest people chatter

That he knows best who knows the matter;

And even go so far as state

Goats can by thinking mend their fate.

So hold this saw before your eyes,

Be Good and let who will be wise.’

Alas, with his own virtue blind,

He fail’d to mark the Wolf behind;

Who, as he seized and bore him off,

Distress’d him with this bitter scoff—

‘With your high views I sympathise;

But better also to be Wise.’

The truth of Truth

Within a vast and gloomy Fane

There hung a Curtain to the floor,

Which fill’d with terror those who came

To wonder there or to adore;

For, as the Priest had often said,

Within the chamber dwelt in sooth

A breathing Horror, half divine,

Half demon, and whose name was Truth.

And none there were so doughty bold

As durst to lift the tapestry;

For it was death, he said, to peer

Upon the awful Mystery;

Until one day—oh dreadful hour—

Up jump’d a foolish hardy Youth,

Who cried, ‘I care not if I die,

But I will have the truth of Truth.’

There came a Crowd to see the deed—

To hear him shriek within and fall;

But they were much astonish’d when

He found—why Nothing there at all;

Except indeed upon the floor

(Ill fortune take the prying sinner!)

A Pasty and a Pot of Beer

Which the poor Priest had got for dinner.

The Man, the Lion, and the Fly

Dedicated to Reformers

There was a Man to wisdom dead

Who took a mad thought in his head—

‘A second Hercles I,’ he said.

‘Behold,’ he cried, ‘I will go forth

From east to west, from south to north,

And with this knotted bludgeon bash

The Things that Sting, and those that Gnash

Blood-dripping teeth, and Giants glum

So mighty that with finger and thumb

They pick and eat chance passengers.

And I will slay each thing that stirs

To grief of man and dole of beast,

Until the world from wrong released

Pronounce me Emperor at least.’

But as he spoke, upon the way

A casual Lion chanced to stray,

Just as on any other day;

And he, to measure of his thought

In ready deed inferior nought,

Sprang at him furious, and they fought.

Three hours they fought, until the sun

Ymounted in the vault begun

To make them wish that they had done.

‘Friend,’ quoth the Lion, ‘or why foe

Upon my word I do not know—

If we fight more we melt, I trow.’

‘A little grace,’ the Man replied,

Wiping his brow, ‘is not denied;

You’ll have but little when you’ve died.’

So each beneath a tree disposed

Took ease. The languid Lion dozed.

The Man, who should have done likewise

(So says the Saga that is wise),

Was waked each time he sued repose

By a great Fly upon his nose.

First in the one ear then in t’other

The winged monster buzz’d with bother;

The twitching tender nostrils tried,

The corners of the lips beside;

From lip to eyelid leapt with fuss,

Like old dame in an omnibus;

Delighted vastly to have met

So great a store of unctuous sweat.

At last to desperation driven

The Man accursed the Fly to Heaven,

And with his bludgeon great assay’d

To stay the small annoying raid.

Wielding to right and left he smote;

But still the nimble Fly, remote,

Laughed at his anger and enjoy’d

Fresh perspiration.

Thus annoy’d,

His bludgeon broken on the tree,

A helpless, weary wight was he.

The Lion rose, refresh’d, with glee;

‘I’m ready now,’ he said, ‘my man,

To end the work the Fly began.’

And this (the Chronicler explains)

Is why the Lion still remains.

Orpheus and the Busy Ones

Dedicated to the Public

Orpheus, the Stygian current cross’d,

When Hell stood still to hear him sing,

Torn from Eurydice twice lost

(Almost by music saved e’er lost)

Over the world went wandering.

One day, sate on a mountain slope,

Weary and sick for want of hope,

(Or rather, shall we term it, dead,

Since life is gone when hope is sped),

He twang’d his lyre; till song sublime

Out of the ashes of his prime

And fire of grief like Phoenix sprang;

And all the startled hillside rang.

Aroused, the dew-engrossed Flowers

Turn’d to him all their maiden eyes;

And from the sweet forgotten bowers

Flew forth a thousand Butterflies.

The Trees forgot their roots. Beneath,

The noisy Crickets of the heath

Rub’d each his forehead with amaze

To hear one sing such heavenly lays.

Under her stone the lumpy Toad

Peer’d forth; even the solid sod

Grew peopled with emerging Worms—

Such power hath Music on all forms.

Above, the pinched Pard amort

(She had three cublings in a den)

Forgot her hunger, and in short

Reposed herself to listen then,

Upon her furry paws her chin;

And from her vantage watch’d the Poet,

Delighted, but enraged to know it,

While all her spotted sleek of skin

Heaved with the pleasure she took in.

Not only this, but shall I say ’t,

The very Hills began debate

Whether, to hear the singing clearer,

They should not move a little nearer.

Only, the Bard, to these strange ways

Accustom’d, noted with amaze

A herd of Hogs that near him fed,

Which might for all he sang be dead.

He ceased his song and tried the scale

To find out where his voice might fail;

His lyre divine descanted soon

To see the strings were all in tune;

Till satisfied that these were right,

And at those Hogs astonish’d quite

That they not to his conquering lyre,

Which all things else did so admire,

Gave heed, but routed in the rye

As tho’ he had not been close by,

He ask’d of them the reason why.

‘Good friend,’ a Bacon old replied,

‘We have too much to do beside;

The roots are many, the field is wide.

Should we neglect this plenteousness

We should be wrong, you must confess—

The gods some day might give us less.

Our girth is great; the fodder free;

This field of food must finished be.

That time is short you’ll not deny.

We eat but little ere we die.’

The Poet and the Penman

All night had browsed the Pinion’d Steed

Upon that lush and level mead

That swathes Parnassos’ feet;

Till, when the pranksome Morning Star

To van of Day’s slow-driven car

Came piping past the eastern bar,

A Poet him did greet.

‘Your back, my Pegasos,’ he cried,

‘Shall win me to the tiers espied

Of yonder shelfed hill,

Where all the Great are, I opine,

And on the last proud peak divine

Apollo and the Earnest Nine

At songs symphonic still.’

Tomes had the Poet, rolls and wraps,

Pens at his ears, and scribbled scraps,

And so essay’d the mounting—

‘Stand still, O Steed, and I will climb,

Tho’ weighted here with pounds of rhyme,

If you will only give me time,

Who’d been on stirrups counting.’

The Steed stood still; the thing was done;

He slided, slip’d and shuffled on,

And stay’d to pen his deeds:

When now the Monster’s patience wears;

He lowers his head, his haunches rears;

And flying past the Stallion’s ears

The Poet measures weeds.

Three times attempting, three times foil’d,

The Bard beheld his breeches soil’d;

And on his knees the mashed green

Gave an arch proof of what had been;

And winds like gamboling babes unseen

Made all his errant sheets revolve.

For now the Morning ’gan to solve

The long-strewn sands of heav’nly cloud;

And that fair Mountain noble brow’d,

In snowy silv’ry laces dight

Shone like a bride, against the night

Unveil’d, with many-pointed light.

And lo half seen thro’ level mist

A Critic rode with saucy wrist,

Plump, smug and smooth and portly, dress’d

In corduroys and velvet vest;

Who clip’d at ease an ambling cob

With dappled nose and ears alob;

While all around a barking brood

Of puppies nuzzled in the rood.

‘He who to climb has climbing blood

Must fear no fall in marish mud;

And he who phantoms fain would ride

May sometimes sit the ground,’ he cried.

At this his thighs the Poet slam’d

And papers in his pocket ram’d;

‘Be off,’ he said, ‘or else be damn’d.’

‘You lose your time,’ resumed the Man,

Whose oozing eyes with mirth o’erran;

‘You waste your time about that Brute

Whom, if ’twere mine, egad I’d shoot,

So gaunt and gall’d a hack is he.

But take example now from me,

Who riding in this airy plight

For breakfast get an appetite;

And sitting here (I am so sly)

With this my pocket-sextant I

Take altitude of those on high.’

‘Pedant avaunt!’ the Poet cries,

And mounting shoots towards the skies

An angry palm—‘Come not anear!

I, as toward the marineer

The welcome star from beacon’d brows

Of headland, when the Northern blows

His scurrilous spitting spray in air

And lobbing billows blotch the Bear,

Appears, so shall appear and shine

Thro’ streaming rain and hissing brine

To cheer the coming better blood;

And shall be fire when thou art mud!’

‘Blind is the goose that play’d the geier

And tried to see the white sun nigher!—

He flapping lies; so shall you lie

And grovel as you think to fly!’

The other cries; whose Nag amazed,

Viewing the winged Stallion, gazed,

Shook out her tail and with a snort,

Approaching in plebeian sort,

Paw’d archly at him. He with scorn

And having too long mildly borne,

Rear’d, spread his wings, and buck’d and neigh’d.

She with the monstrous tone affray’d

Shot forth her rider like a ball;

Who in the mid-air, ere his fall,

The like-projected Poet met.

As when two Suns in furious set

Together dash with whirl and wind,

Their shrieking planets drawn behind;

Or two great Blacks with blinding rage,

Each dragging his black wife, engage,

And clash their pates upon the green

(The fleas being heard to crack between),

The Critic so and Bard pell mell

Fighting concuss’d and fighting fell;

And puppies tug’d their tatters.

Bruises for breakfast got the one;

Black eyes the other, and of Fame none.

They fought it out, and when they’d done

Went home as rough as ratters.

The Piteous Ewe

Dedicated to Kings

King Lion yawning at his gates

On deep-empiled mosses, when

The sunset gilt the underwood,

Awaking claw’d in idle mood

The frighten’d dead leaves of his den,

Content; when lo (the Rune relates)

A tiny piercing note was heard.

It was the Mouse (the Rune aver’d)

Who saved the Sov’reign’s honour when

The hunters mesh’d him in the glen.

For that admitted now to cheep

Before the Audience half asleep,

She introduced a weeping Sheep.

‘Sire,’ said the Mouse, ‘with much ado

Thro’ wicked guards I bring to you

This much wrong’d creature to implore

Justice against the evil doer.’

At this, no rhetorician,

The shiv’ring Mutton then began

Of how three lovely Lambkins lost

The Wolf had taken to his den,

Deep-delved in a dreadful glen—

And ah! to her the bitter cost!

One from her side when day was dead

The monster stole. Another took

At gambol in the glassing brook.

The third, the Mother’s last delight,

When now the many-lamped Night

No more, with mystic moon aloft,

Gave shudd’ring shadows to the flowers

And stars of wan irradiance soft

To every dewdrop; but the hours

Of Dawn and Daybreak, Sister Hours,

Twin Lovelinesses, lit the world,

And the confident buds unfurl’d,

He seized with mangling tushes, till

The innocent flower-eyes of the wood,

That wont with early dew to fill,

Grew piteous-wet with tears of blood;

The mother helpless. So he rush’d

With shaggy flanks, and snarling gnash’d

The gripping teeth that gleam’d between

His cruel red lips scarcely seen,

While springing branches clash’d behind,

And left her weeping to the wind.

‘Ho!’ roar’d the Monarch, ‘call the Court!

With this black ruffian I’ll be short.

How often have I giv’n command

The young shall not be taken’—and

His thunder rang across the land,

Until the forest flowers for fear

Shut up their petals not to hear.

Then his gay Herald, the Macaw,

Screams out the hest from hill to haugh,

And from a thousand delled dens

Run forth his frighten’d denizens,

To share the Council, or to know

What makes the Monarch bellow so.

And, as they gather, to and fro

He paces, and his red eyes flash

Enough to turn them all to ash.

Arranged before him in a row

They take their places, high and low.

The Wicked Wolf between his guards,

Two grave and stalwart Leopards,

Stands tip-toe, snarling, and repeating

It was not he who did the eating;

And, with his tail between his legs,

For justice, justice only, begs.

‘You or another,’ roar’d the King,

‘I’ll find the one who did the thing—

But first, Sir Premier, please reply

(A Constitutional Monarch I)

Why do you let my people die?’

At this, with deference, said the Bear,

’Twas not his fault—he was not there.

Still lab’ring in affairs of state

To make the kingdom good and great

(Altho’ the wicked Opposition

Did ever thwart him in his mission),

A sleepless eye he always cast

Upon the future and the past

To frustrate—hard for anyone—

What the Last Government had done.

At present he’d in contemplation

Some mighty measures for the nation—

To bring the Butterflies to terms

By giving franchise to the Worms;

To teach the Gnats to carry logs;

To give self-government to Hogs

Because they had resolved to shirk,

With noble Scorn, ignoble Work;

To succour Wildcats, and to keep

The Wolves secure against the Sheep.

And here he thought he smelt a plot:

This trivial matter, was it not

A little juggle to discredit

This last great measure?—There, he’d said it.

But still his heart bled at the woe

Occasion’d by his Party’s foe.

At this the Tiger shriek’d with rage

(The while his Secret’ry the Fox,

Took papers from his office box),

‘Unhappy land! accursed age!’

He cried, ‘You seek to murder me

With weight of brute Majority;

And me not only, but the cause

Of Pity, Justice, and the Laws!

Take back the charges you impute;

It is not me but you who do’t.

When we controll’d the Sov’reign’s land

The sun was bright, the breeze was bland.

The roving Heifer, free from care,

Scarce needed sniff th’ untainted air

For danger, and the young Gazelle

Drank heedless at the hidden well;

And even I with happy smile

Would lay me down to slumber, while

The careless Lambkins gambol’d round,

And Peace and Plenty blest the ground!

With this fine eloquence inflamed

The rival factions loudly named

Each other Brute, and (it is said)

Would soon have killed each other dead:

But now the Boar with growl and grunt

And bristling juba leapt to front.

‘Accursed both!’ he cried. ‘What, what!

Think you, ye fools, we know you not?

Each canting, lying partisan,

Who prates of Mercy and the Law

With merciless and murd’rous maw,

Will always eat us when he can—

Us, who with boon and bloodless toil

Seek but the acorns for our spoil—

Were not our eyes and tushes bright

To quell such bandits of the night.

Why, e’en the Monarch—’

Here a roar

From all the Council check’d the Boar;

And soon the King with pensive mien

Said, ‘This is not the way, I ween

To reach the truth—more difficult

Than we supposed. Let us consult

Our learned Judge, Lord Elephant.’

So he advances, complaisant

With rocky brow, and at his ear

A pen as long as any spear;

Small eyes that saw behind the Truth

Convenience; and, as if to soothe

Dissention, with a swaying motion

From side to side. ‘Sire, I’ve a notion,’

He said, ‘there is no case at all.

The plaintiff can no witness call,

And hers the only evidence,

Which, rightly sifted, has no sense.

For in the night she says he took

Her first, her second in the brook.

How could she see him in the dark?

And for the second, pray you mark,

Perhaps it was more likely drown’d.

As for the third, when she look’d round,

He’d gone: how did she know him then?

This is of fancy, not of ken.

Moreover, in th’ alternative,

Sir Wolf can plead he could not live

Because the din the lambkins made

About him slumb’ring in the shade.

As for the much-bereaved Dame,

With whom I deeply sympathise—

Such sorrow wets my foolish eyes—

I fear she may be thought to blame

Because she troubled Majesty

Before she had instructed me

(Of course I ridicule the fee);

And I should be prepared, in short,

To hear it argued in the Court

Whether she did not bring the charge

In order merely to discharge

An ancient grudge against her foe—’

‘Enough! and let the prisoner go!’

The Sov’reign said. ‘And as for you,

Dishonest and malignant Ewe,

We do not order you to death

(Whate’er your conduct meriteth)

Only because it pleaseth us

To show we are magnanimous.’

(He was indeed much praised for that,

And more because the Sheep was fat).

‘Break up the Court. Enough of worry,

It’s time to dine, so let’s be merry.’

With that they shifted in a hurry;

But in the scramble no one knew

(So says the Saga that is true)

What happen’d to the Piteous Ewe.

The Contest of Birds

Dedicated to all the Excellent

The Eagle which at Jove’s right hand

Was wont to take imperial stand,

Proud of his perch, and with fond beak

The Thund’rer’s fondling finger tweak,

Or blinking in sage thought t’ assume

Half sov’reignty and weigh the doom,

Was sick; for the World he sigh’d,

His Mountains and his Forests wide;

So true it is, not Jove’s right hand

Is worth to us our Native Land,

And that the Little we have not

Can make the Much we have forgot.

Therefore to earth with arching vans,

Released a while, the sky he spans

In flight; sinks thro’ the tempest; takes

The feather-fretting aid of wind;

And now, new born with pleasure, breaks

Upon a beauteous Vale confined.

Now it is said that on that day

All Birds that are had ceased their play,

And question’d, each with heat and brawl,

Which was the noblest of them all:

Who when they saw the Eagle stand

Amidst them (now unused to stand

Upon the dull, flat, level earth)

Burst into loud contemptuous mirth.

‘It seems,’ exclaimed a civil Crow,

‘You come here, friend, quite apropos.

For we discuss’d the noblest here,

And you are truly the most queer.

Your wings and tail, excuse me friend,

Seem too long for your other end.

Pray change your—if I may suggest—

Your tailor and be better dress’d.

Look at myself how neat I go,

And in the latest fashion too.’

‘Or were your plumes, my friend, more bright

We could excuse your homely plight,’

The Peacock said: ‘pray just admire

My plumes of azure, gold and fire.

My dames about me ever move

In wonder, and confess their love.

Whene’er I show myself,’ said he,

‘The Gods look down from Heaven to see.’

‘Base virtues of the body!’ cried

The Parrot. ‘Is the soul denied?

Know friend that beauteous words are worth

More than these qualities of earth.

How wise I am admire, and know

It is by study I am so.

Still lost in contemplation I

Quite understand the earth and sky;

Can talk of wonders without end,

More e’en than I can comprehend;

Or say the wisest words, I ween,

Although I don’t know what they mean.’

‘Pshaw!’ said the Vulture, ‘fair or wise,

You shall some day become my prize.

Your merits shall be mine, ’od shake ’em,

Whenever I may choose to take ’em;

And when I have digested you

Your virtues shall become mine too.

As for our friend the new arrival,

If he contend to be my rival,

Let’s fight it out in heaven’s name!’

‘What base arbitrement! for shame!’

Exclaimed the mincing Nightingale.

‘If he aspire let him prevail

Against me in the test of song

Where he who triumphs is most strong.’

‘Beware of pride,’ the Dodo said;

‘I see that all of you are led

Astray by arrogance. For me,

I glory in humility.

I am so humble I confess

My utter wicked worthlessness.

I say with tears’—and here he blows

The part that should have been his nose—

‘I say with tears I dote upon

Being beaten, bruised and trampled on.

I love to be reminded still

Of all my faults and treated ill.

So ’tis, I think, confess’d by all

My virtue’s not equivocal.’

‘To me,’ the lofty Stork aver’d,

‘This seems a most plebeian bird.

With nails so long and legs so short,

He cannot be of noble sort;

Tho’ in his nose, I must confess,

I see some sign of gentleness.

I cannot really stoop so far

(Whom all the Frogs and Mice in war

Already have confess’d their king)

As rival this uncrowned thing.

My subjects would at once repine

Nor let me eat ’em, I opine,

As all contented subjects should,

Did I disgrace my royal blood.’

Which heard, the fiery Eagle’s eyes

With noble anger and surprise

Flash’d out. ‘Still dear what is most cheap

Ye little woodland creatures keep,’

He cried; and flung aloft his head,

Gazed up to heaven, his pinions spread

(The wind of which made timorous stir

Among the things that round him were)

And leaping on the air begun

Ascent, and vanish’d in the sun.

Alastor

’Tis said that a noble Youth of old

Was to his native village lost

And to his home and aged sire;

For he had wander’d (it is told)

Where, pinnacled in eternal Frost,

Apollo leads his awful Choir.

Awful, for nought of human warms

The agony of Their Song sublime,

Which like the breath of Ice is given,

Ascending in vapour from all forms,

Where Gods in clear alternate chime

Reveal Their mystery-thoughts to Heaven.

Nor in those regions of windless Cold

Is fiery the Sun tho’ fierce in light;

But frozen-pale the numbed Moon

Wanders along the ridges that fold

Enormous Peaks, what time the Night

Rivals with all her stars the Noon.

For there, not dimly as here, the Stars,

But globed and azure and crimson tinct,

Climb up the windless wastes of Snow,

Gold-footed, or thro’ the long-drawn bars

Of mountain Mist with eyes unblink’d

And scorn, gaze down on the world below;

Or high on the topmost Peak and end

Of ranges stand with sudden blaze,

Like Angels born in spontaneous birth;

Or wrap themselves in flame and descend

Between black foreheads of Rock in haze,

Slowly like grieved gods to earth.

And there for ever the patient Wind

Rakes up the crystals of dry Snow,

And mourns for ever her work undone;

And there for ever, like Titans blind

Their countenance lifting to Heaven’s glow,

The sightless Mountains yearn for the Sun.

There nightly the numbed Eagle quells

(Full-feathered to his feet of horn)

His swooning eye, his eyrie won,

And slumbers, frozen by frosty spells

Fast to the pinnacle; but at Morn

Unfettered, leaps toward the Sun.

He heard, he saw. Not to the air

Dared breathe a breath; but with his sight

Wreak’d on Immortals mortal wrong,

And dared to see them as they were—

The black Peaks blacken’d in Their light,

The white Stars flashing with Their song.

So fled. But when revealing Morn

Show’d him descended, Giant grown,

Men ant-like, petty, mean and weak,

He rush’d returning. Then in scorn

Th’ Immortals smote him to a Stone

That aches for ever on the Peak.

Ocean and the Rock

The Rock.       Cease, O rude and raging Sea,

Thus to waste thy war on me.

Hast thou not enough assail’d

All these ages, Fool, and fail’d?

The Ocean.      Gaunt and ghastly Skeleton,

Remnant of a time that’s gone,

Tott’ring in thy last decay

Durst thou still to darken day?

The Rock.       Empty Brawler brawl no more;

Cease to waste thy watery war

On my bastion’d Bases broad,

Sanctified by Time and God.

The Ocean.      Thou that beëst but to be,

Scornest thou my Energy?

Not much longer lasts the strife.

I am Labour, I am Life.

The Rock.       Roar then, roar, and vent thy Surge;

Thou not now shalt drone my dirge.

Dost imagine to dismay

This my iron breast with Spray?

The Ocean.      Relic of primaeval slime,

I shall whelm thee in my time.

Changeless thou dost ever die;

Changing but immortal, I.

Death and Love

Death, pacing between a ghastly Moon

Dying low down on the western Hills

And the Star, bright usher of the Morn,

The clear Dawn cryophor,

Trod frosty footprints in the dew

Upon a ridge; and beholding there

A lovely Lady lain below

His tingling Arrow sped—

A Barb with a burning icicle tip’d,

Torn from the frore beard of the Northern Star

That stares on the shuddering pyramids

Of crumbling Arctic ice.

With his Arrow he smote her and cried,

‘Come not here!

Not here will I bear thee. This is My world—

The world of Death where Beauty dies,

And I, I Death am god.’

She sobbing arose, and sobbing sank;

And would have perish’d, but Love that way

Fell like a flame, and supported her

And warm’d her dying hands;

And said to him, ‘Fool, the touch of thy barb

Is poison that I can poison with Love;

For as thou art Death unto all the world,

Even so am I Death to thee.’

Calypso to Ulysses

’ ’’’ ’’’ ’’’

’ ’’’ ’’’ ’’

Go, go from me sorrowful Wanderer—

Go, go from me, tho’ no Man dearer

Than thou art. The Stars will revisit me,

And Thou not forget me O Ocean.

Alone here, alone in my Solitude

I’ll sit by the Ocean for ever,

And mourn for the Hero so lost to me—

So loved by me, Lost, and no omen.

Monotonous Waters shall sing to me;

Shall sigh to me, sing of my Hero.

Immortal like me is my Misery,

And when will my Sorrow grow older.

Immortal like me is my Love for thee;

But mortal like thee, alas, thine is.

I have no enchantment to quicken thee,

Nor thou to console me with Death.

The Star and the Sun

In Darkness and pacing the thunder-beat Shore

By many Waves,

No sound being near to me there but the hoarse

Cicala’s cry,

While that unseen Sword, the Zodiacal Light,

Falchion of Dawn,

Made clear all the Orient and wanner the Silvery Stars,

I heard the fine flute of the Fast Fading Fire,

The Morning Star,

Pipe thus to the Glimmering Glories of Night,

And sing, ‘O World,

If I even leave thee then Who can remain?’

But from the Deep

The Thundering Sun upsprang, and replied, ‘Even I.’

The Poet’s Retirement

Down from that blithe Idalian Hill

Where Violets drink of dew their fill,

And wading thro’ wet eastern Flowers

With wash’d feet Eos and the Hours

Come laughing down, I laughing came.

The Morn had now her threads of flame

Inlaid to Earth’s green tapestries,

Gold-inwoven; and to their knees

In chilly baths of thridding rills

At tremble stood luce Daffodils;

When lo I mark’d toward me move

Those Maidens Three whom poets love.

‘O whither away, rash Youth,’ they cried,

‘Singing thro’ daffodils dost thou stride?’

‘Ladies, I wander for a while’—

And here I duck’d and doff’d in style—

‘I wander by Bourn, I wander by Byre,

By Cape and Cote and Castle Spire,

And sometime stick in puddled Mire;

Or where the shrieking moon-drawn Tides

Drench dripping jags on Mountain sides;

Or twanging strings sound gay reprieve

To smoky Villages at eve,

The while toward their wattled home

The baaing Sheep do go, I roam,

And when the paddock’d Ass careers

Mirthful, with high prick’d tail and ears.

And I have left behind me there

My Hippocrate teaching the air;

And Learning prim; and Venus too

Now whipping Cupid with her shoe.’

Then, of those slipper’d Maidens, She

Robed in flush rose red answer’d me,

Who brightly gazing with mild look

Held still a finger-parted book.

‘Come then,’ she cried, ‘with me and dwell

In my Valley of Asphodel,

Which is a land of laughing rills

And hung about with dazzling hills,

Where oft the Swain with garter’d legs

Piping for love in music begs

Nor Thisbe turns her petulant ear.

There large-eyed Plato thou may’st here

Persuade, or, if not idly awed,

Masters a Master’s theme applaud.

Or if the Thunder more invite

Than silver-threaded rain’s delight

And sloping seats of knolled moss,

Come where some thwarted Torrent toss

Thro’ his black gorges, mad to break

The shining levels of the Lake.

Or, if engross’d with human Fate,

On ranged boards mark Love and Hate

Egg on to midnight-living crime,

And glaring Horrors of dead time

Creep in behind. Or, restive still,

Unlock’d from Hell soar Heaven’s hill

Thro’ sun-outstaring Cherubim.’

‘Not so,’ cried one, a Virgin slim,

Plumed, wrap’d and robed in such gold-green

As thro’ woods sunset-dazed is seen,

Who half upon her dinted breast

Apollo sculpt in little press’d.

‘Come to my House of all delights,

Whose marble Stairs with merged flights

Are shallow’d in the viewless Lake;

Whose overpeering Turrets take

The peep of Dawn, or flashing turn

To Eve departing golden scorn.

There fairy-fluted pillars soar

To cloudy Roofs of limned lore,

And Walls are window’d with rare scapes

And rich designs: of blazon’d Capes

Pawing the sunset-burnish’d flood;

Of rib-railed reaches of Solitude;

Of rounded World and globed Skies,

And Stars between, and faint Moonrise;

Of black Tarns set mid mountain peaks

And spouting silver-foamed leaks;

Of Gods reclined, and Maids who move,

Unlidding lustrous eyes of love;

Of War; of Wisdom with a skull.

And in the high aisles Fountains full

Disperse a stream of coolness there

For frosted fern and maidenhair,

And sculptured beauty hold the way.

So thither go with me to-day.’

Then She who all in purple dight,

Brow-starr’d with orbed ruby light,

Lifted from under rich deep locks

Looks wrapt on Heaven, to earthly shocks

Descending, thus replied: ‘Not these

Flat hapless lands of Towers and Trees

May past the morn your spirit please.

But to some cold Crag, doffing drifts,

His cleared brow that Heavenward lifts,

And turns beneath the mistless Stars,

Come. There no dew distilled mars

The many hued Sidereal blaze,

And mooned Venus in white rage

Stares down the Dawn. Come; for that Glow

There solves to unpolluted flow

The crumbling crystals of the Snow;

And windworn Cataracts wavering plunge

To lightless pine-valleys. Come, O come!

Lest those faint Harmonies be unheard

Which, as from silver and gold strings stir’d

By the light fingers of the Wind,

Run from the poised orbs swiftly spin’d.’

She ceased, and with her finger tip

Made sound the lyre upon her hip,

And would have sung; but I replied,

‘To be unchosen is descried;

And we shall be made mad in Heaven

By need of choice of good things given.

I love all Three so passing well

Which I love best I cannot tell.

Alas!’—I cried, but checked the word,

For close behind a footstep heard

Compel’d me turn; when lo that Maid,

Dress’d in black velvet, who bewray’d

Plump Popes and Pastors once to fear,

Came up and took me by the ear.

‘Is this the way,’ she cried, ‘you waste

Time should be spent in huddling haste

To harry Ignorance to her den,

Or pink fat Folly with the pen?

Small unobserved things to use,

Each with its little mite of news,

To build that sheer hypothesis

Whose base on righteous Reason is,

Whose point among the Stars. For shame!

Enough the seeming-serious game.

But search the Depths; and for thy meed,

A place among the men indeed.’

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C. TINLING AND CO., LIMITED,

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Table of Contents

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Fables, by Sir Ronald Ross

E-text prepared by David T. Jones, Mardi Desjardins, Neanderthal, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org)

FABLES

OF WHICH COPIES TO THE NUMBER OF TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY ARE NOW PRIVATELY PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS OF LIVERPOOL, ANNO DOMINI MCMVII, AND ARE TO BE HAD OF THE AUTHOR AT THE UNIVERSITY AND OF HENRY YOUNG AND SONS OF SOUTH CASTLE STREET, LIVERPOOL, FOR TWO SHILLINGS AND SIX PENCE.

Entered at Stationers’ Hall

CONTENTS

An Expostulation with Truth

Uttered by the Well Meaning Poet

Ariel and the Hippopotamus

Dedicated to Rural Magnates

The Frog, the Fairy, and the Moon

Dedicated to Lovers

The Troll and the Mountain

Dedicated to the Great

The Toad and the Fays

Dedicated to Philosophers

The Parson and the Angel

Puck and the Crocodile

Dedicated to the Godly

The Virtuous Goat

Dedicated to Teachers

The truth of Truth

The Man, the Lion, and the Fly

Dedicated to Reformers

Orpheus and the Busy Ones

Dedicated to the Public

The Poet and the Penman

The Piteous Ewe

Dedicated to Kings

The Contest of Birds

Dedicated to all the Excellent

Alastor

Ocean and the Rock

Death and Love

Calypso to Ulysses

The Star and the Sun

The Poet’s Retirement

PRINTED BY C. TINLING AND CO., LIMITED, 53 VICTORIA STREET, LIVERPOOL

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