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# The Anabasis of Alexander/Book VI/Chapter XVIII

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CHAPTER XVIII.
Voyage down the Indus.
After instructing Hephaestion to fortify the citadel in Patala, he sent men into the adjacent country, which was waterless, to dig wells and to render the land fit for habitation. Certain of the native barbarians attacked these men, and falling upon them unawares slew some of them; but having lost many of their own men, they fled into the desert. The work was therefore accomplished by those who had been sent out, another army having joined them, which Alexander had despatched to take part in the work, when he heard of the attack of the barbarians. Near Patala the water of the Indus is divided into two large rivers, both of which retain the name of Indus as far as the sea. Here Alexander constructed a harbour and dockyard; and when his works had advanced towards completion he resolved to sail down as far as the mouth of the right branch of the river. He gave Leonnatus the command of 1,000 cavalry and 8,000 heavy and light-armed infantry, and sent him to march through the island of Patala opposite the naval expedition; while he himself took the fastest sailing vessels, having one and a half bank of oars, all the thirty-oared galleys, and some of the boats, and began to sail down the right branch of the river. The Indians of that region bad fled, and conse​quently he could get no pilot for the voyage, and the navigation of the river was very difficult. On the day after the start a storm arose, and the wind blowing right against the stream made the river hollow and shattered the hulls of the vessels violently, so that most of his ships were injured, and some of the thirty-oared galleys were entirely broken up. But they succeeded in running them aground before they quite fell to pieces in the water; and others were therefore constructed. He then sent the quickest of the light-armed troops into the land beyond the river's bank and captured some Indiang, who from this time piloted him down the channel. But when they arrived at the place where the river expands, so that where it was widest it extended 200 stades, a strong wind blew from the outer sea, and the oars could hardly be raised in the swell ; they therefore took refuge again in a canal into which his pilots conducted them.
* ↑ The right arm of the Indus is now called the Buggaur, and the left Sata.
* ↑ I.e. caused a heavy swell of waters. Cf. Apollonius Rhodius, ii. 595; Polybius, i. 60, 6. This wind was the south-west monsoon.
# The Anabasis of Alexander/Book VI/Chapter XXIII

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CHAPTER XIII.
March through the Deseet of Gadrosia.
Thence Alexander marched through the land of the Gadrosians, by a difficult route, which was also destitute of all the necessaries of life ; and in many places there was no water for the army. Moreover they were compelled to march most of the way by night, and a great distance from the sea. However he was very desirous of coming to the part of the country along the sea, both to see what harbours were there, and to make what preparations he could on his march for the fleet, either by employing his men in digging wells, or by making arrangements somewhere for a market and anchorage. But the part of the country of the Gadrosians near the sea was entirely desert. He therefore sent Thoas, son of Mandrodorus, with a few horsemen down to the sea, to reconnoitre and see if there happened to be any haven anywhere near, or whether there was water or any other of the necessaries of life not far from the sea. This man returned and reported that he found some fishermen upon the shore living in stifling huts, which were made ​by putting together mussel-shells, and the back-bones of fishes were used to form the roofs. He also said that these fishermen used little water, obtaining it with difficulty by scraping away the gravel, and that what they got was not at all fresh. When Alexander reached a certain place in Gadrosia, where corn was more abundant, he seized it and placed it upon the beasts of burden; and marking it with his own seal, he ordered it to be conveyed down to the sea. But while he was marching to the halting stage nearest to the sea, the soldiers paying little regard to the seal, the guards made use of the corn themselves, and gave a share. of it to those who were especially pinched with hunger. To such a degree were they overcome by their misery that after mature deliberation' they resolved to take account of the visible and already impending destruction rather than the danger of incurring the king's wrath, which was not before their eyes and still remote. When Alexander ascertained the necessity which constrained them so to act, he pardoned those who had done the deed. He himself hastened forward to collect from the land all he could for victualling the army which was sailing round with the fleet; and sent Cretheus the Callatian to convey the supplies to the coast. He also ordered the natives to grind as much corn as they could and convey it down from the interior of the country, together with dates and sheep for sale to the soldiers. Moreover he sent Telephus, one of the confidential Companions, down to another place on the coast with a small quantity of ground corn.
* ↑ These people were called Ichthyophagi, or Fish-eaters. They are described by Arrian (Indica, 29); Curtius, ix. 40; Diodorus, xvii. 105; Pliny (Nat. Hist. vi. 25, 26); Plutarch (Alex. 66); Strabo, xv. 2. They occupied the sea-ooast of Gadrosia, or Beloochistan. Cf. Alciphron (Epistolae, i. 1, 2).
* ↑ A man of Callatis, a town on the Black Sea in Thrace, originally colonized by the Milesians.
* ↑ Cf. Herodotus, i. 193.
# The Bird Watcher in the Shetlands/Chapter 6

CHAPTER VI
METEMPSYCHOSIS
OH, if there is really a metempsychosis, has not the soul of Bardolph gone into an oyster-catcher, or at least has not his nose, which was his soul—Shakespeare, at any rate, has made it the most immortal part of him—gone into an oyster-catcher's bill? I believe it has, and it burns there, now, just as brightly, with nothing but the salt sea to drink. It is that bill, that wonderful bill, which makes the oyster-catcher a handsome bird. The ruby eye, the pale pink legs, and the gaily-chequered plumage, all help; but they are but adjuncts, and by themselves would work but small effect. This is well seen when the bird, having before been running actively about on the foreshore, becomes, all at once, oppressed with somnolence, stands still, turns its head over its shoulder, and thrusts its long, fierce, fiery tube amidst the plumage of the back. The transition from something showy to something plain, from brilliancy to mediocrity, is then quite remarkable; and equally so is it the other way when, for some imperative purpose, or in a wakeful moment, the red ray flashes out again. Every now and again come these swift conflagrations, and, between them, the bird stands like a little lighthouse, in the intervals between the flashes of the revolving light.
​Oyster-catchers—or sea-pies, to give them their old name, which is a very much better one—seem somewhat sleepy birds, unless it be that in the Shetlands birds sleep more in the daytime and less at night than farther south. Sleep, I think, it may be called, taking the attitude and the complete quiescence into consideration. Yet the red eye is always open, seeming—for you see but one—to wake singly, keeping guard over the rest of the slumbering commonwealth to which it belongs. But there is another eye, and that, no doubt, is open too. A pair of these quaint birds will often rest thus, side by side, upon the rocks, and another, seeing them as he comes flying along the dividing-line of shore and sea, will wheel inwards, and, settling beside them, be a lotus-eater too.
# The Ascent of Man/Poem 4

TIME'S SHADOW.
Thy life, O Man, in this brief moment lies:
Time's narrow bridge whereon we darkling stand,
With an infinitude on either hand
Receding luminously from our eyes.
Lo, there thy Past's forsaken Paradise
Subsideth like some visionary strand,
While glimmering faint, the Future's promised land,
Illusive from the abyss, seems fain to rise.
This hour alone Hope's broken pledges mar,
And Joy now gleams before, now in our rear,
Like mirage mocking in some waste afar.
Dissolving into air as we draw near.
Beyond our steps the path is sunny-clear,
The shadow lying only where we are.
# The Ascent of Man/Poem 43

XII.
Yea, the roses are still on fire With the bygone heat of July, Though the least little wind drifting by Shake a rose-leaf or two from the brier, Be it never so soft a sigh.
Ember of love still glows and lingers Deep at the red heart's smouldering core; With the sudden passionate throb of yore We shook as our eyes and clinging fingers Met once only to meet no more.
# The Ascent of Man/Poem 40

IX.
In a lonesome burial-place Crouched a mourner white of face; Wild her eyes—unheeding Circling pomp of night and day— Ever crying, "Well away, Love lies a-bleedine!"
And her sighs were like a knell, And her tears for ever fell, With their warm rain feeding That purpureal flower, alas! Trailing prostrate in the grass, Love lies a-bleeding.
Through the yews' black-tufted gloom Crimson light dripped on the tomb, Funeral shadows breeding: In the sky the sun's light shed Dyed the earth one awful red— Love lies a-bleeding.
Came grey mists, and blanching cloud Bore one universal shroud; Came the bowed moon leading, From the infinite afar Star that rumoured unto star— Love lies a-bleeding.
# The Ascent of Man/Poem 42

XI.
Ah, yesterday was dark and drear, My heart was deadly sore; Without thy love it seemed, my Dear, That I could live no more.
And yet I laugh and sing to-day; Care or care not for me, Thou canst not take the love away With which I worship thee.
And if to-morrow, Dear, I live, My heart I shall not break: For still I hold it that to give Is sweeter than to take.
# The Ascent of Man/Poem 46

XV.
Dear, when I look into your eyes My hurts are healed, my heart grows whole; The barren places in my soul, Like waste lands under April skies, Break into flower beneath your eyes.
Ah, life grows lovely where you are; Only to think of you gives light To my dark heart, within whose night Your image, though you bide afar, Glows like a lake-reflected star.
Dare I crave more than only this: A thrill of love, a transient smile To gladden all my world awhile? No more, alas! Is mortal bliss Not transient as a lover's kiss?
# The Ascent of Man/Poem 38

VII.
Why will you haunt me unawares, And walk into my sleep, Pacing its shadowy thoroughfares, Where long-dried perfume scents the airs, While ghosts of sorrow creep, Where on Hope's ruined altar-stairs, With ineffectual beams, The Moon of Memory coldly glares Upon the land of dreams?
My yearning eyes were fain to look Upon your hidden face; Their love, alas! you could not brook, But in your own you mutely took My hand, and for a space
You wrung it till I throbbed and shook, And woke with wildest moan And wet face channelled like a brook With your tears or my own.
# The Ascent of Man/Poem 44

XIII.
We met as strangers on life's lonely way, And yet it seemed we knew each other well; There was no end to what thou hadst to say, Or to the thousand things I found to tell. My heart, long silent, at thy voice that day Chimed in my breast like to a silver bell.
How much we spoke, and yet still left untold Some secret half revealed within our eyes: Didst thou not love me once in ages old? Had I not called thee with importunate cries, And, like a child left sobbing in the cold, Listened to catch from far thy fond replies?
We met as strangers, and as such we part; Yet all my life seems leaving me with thine; Ah, to be clasped once only heart to heart, If only once to feel that thou wert mine! These lips are locked, and yet I know thou art That all in all for which my soul did pine.
# The Ascent of Man/Poem 39

VIII.
When you wake from troubled slumbers With a dream-bewildered brain, And old leaves which no man numbers Chattering tap against the pane; And the midnight wind is wailing Till your very life seems quailing As the long gusts shudder and sigh: Know you not that homeless cry Is my love's, which cannot die, Wailing through Eternity?
When beside the glowing embers, Sitting in the twilight lone, Drop on drop you hear November's Melancholy monotone,
As the heavy rain comes sweeping, With a sound of weeping, weeping, Till your blood is chilled with fears; Know you not those falling tears, Flowing fast through years on years, For my sobs within your ears?
When with dolorous moan the billows Surge around where, far and wide, Leagues on leagues of sea-worn hollows Throb with thunders of the tide, And the weary waves in breaking Fill you, thrill you, as with aching Memories of our love of yore Where you pace the sounding shore, Hear you not, through roll and roar, Soul call soul for evermore?
# The Ascent of Man/Poem 41

X.
On life's long round by chance I found A dell impearled with dew, Where hyacinths, gushing from the ground, Lent to the earth heaven's native hue Of holy blue.
I sought that plot of azure light Once more in gloomy hours; But snow had fallen overnight And wrapped in mortuary white My fairy ring of flowers.
# The Ascent of Man/Poem 45

XIV.
You make the sunshine of my heart And its tempestuous shower; Sometimes the thought of you is like A lilac bush in flower, Yea, honey-sweet as hives in May. And then the pang of it will strike My bosom with a fiery smart, As though love's deeply planted dart Drained all its life away.
My thoughts hum round you, Dear, like bees About a bank of thyme, Or round the yellow blossoms of The heavy-scented lime.
Ah, sweeter you than honeydew, Yet dark the ways of love, For it has robbed my soul of peace, And marred my life and turned heart's-ease Into funereal rue.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The lovely lass of Inverness 2

The lovely lass of Inverness.
[Written by Allan Cunningham, and first published in Cromek's Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song.]
There liv'd a lass in Inverness, She was the pride of a' the town, She was blythe as a lark on the flower-tap, Whan frae the nest it's newly flown. At kirk she wan the auld folks luve, At dance she wan the ladses' een; She was the blythest aye o' the blythe, At wooster-trystes or Halloween.
As I came in by Inverness, The simmer-sun was sinking down, O there I saw the weel-faur'd lass, And she was greeting through the town. The gray-hair'd men were a' i' the streets, And auld dames crying, (sad to see!) "The flower o' the lads o' Inverness, Lie bluidie on Culloden-lee!"
She tore her haffet-links of gowd, And dighted aye her comely e'e; "My father lies at bluidie Carlisle, At Preston sleep my brethren three! I thought my heart could haud nae mair, Mae tears could never blin' my e'e; But the fa' o' ane has burst my heart, A dearer ane there ne'er could be!
"He trysted me o' luve yestreen, Of love-tokens he gave me three; But he's faulded i' the arms o' gory wier, O ne'er again to think o' me! The forest-flowers shall be my bed, My food shall be the wild-berrie, The fa' o' the leaf shall co'er me cauld, And wauken'd again I winna be.
O weep, O weep, ye Scottish dames, Weep till ye blin' a mither's ee; Nae reeking ha' in fifty miles, But naked corses sad to see. O spring is blythesome to the year, Trees sprout, flowers spring, and birds sing hie, But oh! what spring can raise them up, Whose bluidie weir has seal'd the e'e?
The hand o' God hung heavie here, And lightly touch'd foul tyrannie! It strake the righteous to the ground, And lifted the destroyer hie. But there's a day, quo' my God in prayer, Whan righteousness shall bear the gree, I'll rake the wicked low i' the dust, And wauken, in bliss, the gude man's e'e!
# The Book of Scottish Song/The lassie o' the glen

The lassie o’ the glen.
[This little lyric is the earliest poetical production of Angus Fletcher, and first appeared in several Newspapers about the year 1802 or 3. It was written to a Gaelic air, but it may also be sung to the good old tune of "Willie was a wanton wag." Glendaruel, one of the richest and prettiest valleys in Scotland, forms the parish of Kilmodan, in Cowal; and is generally called, by way of pre-eminence, The Glen. The river Ruel winds slowly and beautifully through its whole length.]
Beneath a hill, 'mang birken bushes, By a burnie's dimpilt linn, I told my love, with artless blushes, To the lassie o' the Glen. O the birken bank sae grassy Hey the burnie's dimpilt linn! Dear to me's the bonnie lassie Living in yon rashie glen.
Lanely Ruel! thy stream sae glassie, Shall be aye my fav'rite theme; For, on thy bank my Highland lassie First confess'd a mutual flame. O the birken, &c. ​There, as she mark'd the sportive fishes Upward spring wi' quiv'ring fin, I slyly stole some melting kisses, Frae the lassie o' the glen. O the birken, &c.
What bliss! to sit, and nane to fash us, In some sweet wee bowery den; Or fondly stray amang the rashes, Wi' the lassie o' the glen. O the birken, &c.
And though I wander now unhappy, Far firae scenes we haunted then, I'll ne'er forget the—bank sae grassy, Nor—the lassie o' the glen. O the birken, &c.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The lily of the vale

This poem has been attributed to Allan Ramsay in this publication, but its real author is Alexander Bald.
The lily of the vale.
[Allan Ramsay.—This may be sung to the tune of "The Banks of Doon."]
The lily of the vale is sweet; And sweeter still the op'ning rose; But sweeter far my Mary is Than any blooming flow'r that blows. Whilst spring her fragrant blossoms spreads, I'll wander oft by Mary's side, And whisper saft the tender tale, By Forth, sweet Forth's meandering tide.
There will we walk at early dawn, Ere yet the sun begins to shine; At eve oft to the lawn we'll tread, And mark that splendid orb's decline. The fairest choicest flowers I'll crop, To deck my lovely Mary's hair, And while I live, I vow and swear, She'll be my chief, my only care.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The lovely lass of Inverness 1

The lovely lass of Inverness.
[The first four lines of this song are old. The rest were added by Burns, and published in Johnson's Museum, vol. v. The tune, called The Lovely Lass of Inverness, is the composition of Oswald. Drummossie-moor was the field where the battle of Culloden was fought.]
The lovely lass o' Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure can she see, For e'en and morn she cries, Alas! And aye the saut tears blind her ee: Drummossie muir, Drummossie day, A waefu' day it was to me; For there I lost my father dear, My father dear and brethren three.
Their winding-sheets, the bluidy clay; Their graves are growing green to see; And by them lies the dearest lad That ever bless'd a woman's ee! ​Now, wae to thee, thou cruel lord! A bluidy man I trow thou be; For mony a heart thou hast made sair, That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The merry Ploughman

The merry Ploughman.
[This fragment Cromek found in Burns's handwriting and published it in the Reliques, as a production of the poet's. Gilbert Burns, however, says, that the verses were popular in Ayrshire long before his brother was born.]
As I was a wand'ring ae morning in spring, I heard a merry ploughman sae sweetly to sing; And as he was singin' thae words he did say, There's nae life like the ploughman in the month o' sweet May.—
The lav'rock in the morning she'll rise frae her nest, And mount to the air wi' the dew on her breast; And wi' the merry ploughman she'll whistle and sing; And at night she'll return to her nest back again.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The midges dance

The midges dance.
[Robt. Tannahill.—Air, "The Shepherd's Son."]
The midges dance aboon the burn, The dews begin to fa', The pairtricks down the rushy holm, Set up their e'ening ca'. Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang Rings through the briery shaw, While flitting, gay, the swallows play Around the castle wa'.
Beneath the golden gloaming sky, The mavis mends her lay, The redbreast pours his sweetest strains, To charm the ling'ring day, While weary yeldrins seem to wail Their little nestlings torn, The merry wren, frae den to den, Gaes jinking through the thorn.
The roses fauld their silken leaves, The foxglove shuts its bell, The honeysuckle, and the birk, Spread fragrance through the dell. Let others crowd the giddy court Of mirth and revelry, The simple joys that nature yields Are dearer far to me.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The lass o' Haddington

The lass o’ Haddington.
[Written and Composed by James Jaap.]
A bonnier lass there never was, the sun ne'er shone the like upon, She's fair and sweet, neat and complete, the bonnie lass of Haddington; And in her face there shines sic grace, her smile's sae sweet to look upon, Sae fair's the lass, nane can surpass the bonnie lass of Haddington.
When night comes near, and all is drear, my fancy roams on her alone, She is the light that cheers the night, the bonnie lass of Haddington, My every care, my every prayer, my every thought I think upon, 'Tis were she mine, this maid divine, the bonnie lass of Haddington.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The lass that made the bed

The lass that made the bed.
["The bonnie lass that made the bed to me" is the name of an old song, here inadmissable, said to have been composed on a love adventure of Charles the Second, when in Scotland in 1650-51. The heroine was a daughter of the laird of Port Lethem, in Aberdeenshire. Burns took up the theme, and wrote a version of the song, which was subject almost to as strong objections, on the point of delicacy, as the original. He afterwards pruned his first sketch as follows:]
When winter's wind was blawing cauld, As to the north I bent my way, The mirksome nicht did me enfauld, I kenn'd na where to lodge till day.
A charming girl I chanced to meet Just in the middle of my care, And kindly she did me invite Her father's humble cot to share.
Her hair was like the gowd sae fine, Her teeth were like the ivory, Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, The lass that made the bed to me.
Her bosom was the drifted snaw, Her limbs like marble fair to see; A fairer form nane ever saw, Than her's that made the bed to me.
She made the bed baith lang and braid, Wi' twa white hands she spread it down, She bade "Gude nicht," and, smiling, said, "I hope ye'll sleep baith saft and soun'."
Upon the morrow when I raise, I thank'd her for her courtesie, A blush cam' o'er the comely face O' her that made the bed to me.
I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne; The tear stude twinkling in her e'e: O dearest maid, gin ye'll be mine, Ye aye sall make the bed to me.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The leal light heart

The leal light heart.
[John Mitchell.—Here first printed.]
A leal light heart's ne'er sad, my jo, A leal light heart's ne'er sad, my jo; The e'e we ken will tell the tale, Whene'er the heart is sad, my jo.
The miser to his heaps o' gold Anither heap may add, my jo, But if the truth be fairly told, We'll find his heart's aft sad, my jo. A leal light heart, &c.
Content will keep the han's aye free Frae every thing that's bad, my jo, While in her bright and smiling e'e We read her heart's ne'er sad, my jo. A leal light heart, &c.
Pale envy may affect to smile, And seem like ane that's glad, my jo, But in her breast she wears the while A heart that's aye been sad, my jo. A leal light heart, &c.
A lord may own baith rigs and gear, An' be in ermine clad, my jo; But mark his e'e for ae short year, An' say if he's ne'er sad, my jo. A leal light heart, &c.
The truly blythe aroun' his hearth Will swear ambition's mad, my jo, An' drown in rosy social mirth, Whate'er wad mak' him sad, my jo. A leal light heart, &c.
The lass we lo'e, the frien's we prize, When such are to be had, my jo; Will lend to life the rainbow dyes, That flee the heart that's sad, my jo. A leal light heart, &c.