Poetry

Robin and Ben Or, The Pirate and the Apothecary

Come lend me an attentive ear A startling moral tale to hear, Of Pirate Rob and Chemist Ben, And different destinies of men.

Deep in the greenest of the vales That nestle near the coast of Wales, The heaving main but just in view, Robin and Ben together grew, Together worked and played the fool, Together shunned the Sunday school, And pulled each other’s youthful noses Around the cots, among the roses.

Together but unlike they grew; Robin was rough, and through and through Bold, inconsiderate, and manly, Like some historic Bruce or Stanley. Ben had a mean and servile soul, He robbed not, though he often stole. He sang on Sunday in the choir, And tamely capped the passing Squire.

At length, intolerant of trammels⁠— Wild as the wild Bithynian camels, Wild as the wild sea-eagles⁠—Bob His widowed dam contrives to rob, And thus with great originality Effectuates his personality. Thenceforth his terror-haunted flight He follows through the starry night; And with the early morning breeze, Behold him on the azure seas. The master of a trading dandy Hires Robin for a go of brandy; And all the happy hills of home Vanish beyond the fields of foam.

On the loch-sides of Appin, When the mist blew from the sea, A Stewart stood with a Cameron: An angry man was he. The blood beat in his ears, The blood ran hot to his head, The mist blew from the sea, And there was the Cameron dead. “O, what have I done to my friend, O, what have I done to mysel’, That he should be cold and dead, And I in the danger of all?

“Nothing but danger about me, Danger behind and before, Death at wait in the heather In Appin and Mamore, Hate at all of the ferries, And death at each of the fords, Camerons priming gun-locks And Camerons sharpening swords.”

But this was a man of counsel, This was a man of a score, There dwelt no pawkier Stewart In Appin or Mamore. He looked on the blowing mist, He looked on the awful dead, And there came a smile on his face And there slipped a thought in his head.

Out over cairn and moss, Out over scrog and scaur, He ran as runs the clansman That bears the cross of war. His heart beat in his body, His hair clove to his face, When he came at last in the gloaming To the dead man’s brother’s place.

From the bonny bells of heather They brewed a drink long-syne, Was sweeter far than honey, Was stronger far than wine. They brewed it and they drank it, And lay in a blessed swound For days and days together In their dwellings underground.

There rose a king in Scotland, A fell man to his foes, He smote the Picts in battle, He hunted them like roes. Over miles of the red mountain He hunted as they fled, And strewed the dwarfish bodies Of the dying and the dead.

Summer came in the country, Red was the heather bell; But the manner of the brewing Was none alive to tell. In the graves that were like children’s On many a mountain head, The Brewsters of the Heather Lay numbered with the dead.

The king in the red moorland Rode on a summer’s day; And the bees hummed, and the curlews Cried beside the way. The king rode, and was angry, Black was his brow and pale, To rule in a land of heather And lack the Heather Ale.

It fortuned that his vassals, Riding free on the heath, Came on a stone that was fallen And vermin hid beneath. Rudely plucked from their hiding, Never a word they spoke: A son and his aged father⁠— Last of the dwarfish folk.

The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand; The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand; The wind was a nor’-wester, blowing squally off the sea; And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.

They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day; But ’twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay. We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout, And we gave her the maintops’l, and stood by to go about.

All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North; All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth; All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread, For very life and nature we tacked from head to head.

We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared; But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard: So’s we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high, And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.

The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam; The good red fires were burning bright in every ’long-shore home; The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out; And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.