God, kindle Thou in my heart within
a flame of love to my neighbour,
to my foe, to my friend, to my kindred all,
to the brave, to the knave, to the thrall,
O Son of the loveliest Mary,
From the lowliest thing that liveth,
to the Name that is highest of all.
O Son of the loveliest Mary,
from the lowliest thing that liveth,
to the Name that is highest of all.

THE MERRY WIDOWER

And fare ye weel, my pike-staff!
Sing bum, biberry bum.
And fare ye weel my pike-staff
Sing bum.
And fare ye weel my pike-staff
Nae mair wi' thee my wife I'll
The maut's aboon the meal the
Wi' some.

Fu' white white was her winding shee
Sing bum, biberry bum.
Fu' white white was her winding shee
Sing bum.
I was ower gladsome far to greet
I danced my lane, and sang to see't.
The maut's aboon the meal the nicht
Wi' some.

GLASGOW KISSES

Kiss'd yestreen, and kiss'd yestreen,
Up the Gallowgate, down the Green:
I've wood wi' lords, and wood wi' laird
I've mool'd wi' carles and mell'd wi' cai
I've kiss'd wi' priests-'twas done i' the dark
Twice in my gown and thrice in my sark
But priest, nor lord, nor loon can gie
Sic kindly kisses as he gave me.

Anon

LASSIE, GIN YE LO'E ME

I've a house on yonder muir,
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now!
There sparrows may dance on the floor,
And I canna come ilka day to woo.
I hae a but and I hae a ben,
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now!
I hae three chickens and a fat hen,
And I canna come ilka day to woo.

I've a hen wi' a happity leg,
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now!
Which ilka day lays me an egg,
And I canna come ilka day to woo.
I hae a kebbuck upon my shelf,
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tak me now!
I downa eat it all myself
And I winna come ony mair to woo.

James Tytler

"MAIR SPIER NA, NOR FEAR NA"

It's hardly in a body's power,
To keep at times frae being sour,
To see how things are shared,
How best o' chiels are whiles in want,
While coofs on countless thousands rant,
And ken na how to wair 't,
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head,
Though we hae little gear,
We're fit to win our daily bread,
As lang's we're hale and fier:
"Mair spier na, nor fear na",
Auld age ne'er mind a feg,
The last o't, the warst o't,
Is only but to beg.

THE SUMMING-UP

I hae been blithe wi' comrades dear;
I hae been merry drinkin' !
I hae been joyfu' gathr'in' gear;
I hae been happy thinkin':
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw,
Though three times doubled fairly,
That happy night was worth them a'
Amang the rigs o' barley.

SECRET LOVE

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet
As the mirk night o' December!
For sparkling was the rosy wine,
And private was the chamber,
And dear was she I darena name,
But I will ay remember.

And here's to them that, like oursel',
Can push about the jorum!
And here's to them that wish us weel:
May a' that's guid watch o'er 'em!
And here's to them we darena tell,
The dearest o' the quorum!

A MAUCHLINE WEDDING
(FRAGMENT)

When Eighty-five was seven months auld
And wearing through the aught,
When rolling rains and Boreas bauld
Gied farmer folks a faught,
Ae morning quondam Mason W-
Now Merchant Master Miller,
Gaed down to meet wi' Nansie B-
And her Jamaica siller
To wed that day.

The rising sun o'er Blacksideen
Was just appearing fairly
When Nell and Bess got up to dress
Seven lang half-hours o'er early!
Now presses clink and drawers jink,
For linens and for laces
But modest Muses only think
What ladies' underdress is
On sic a day!

But we'll suppose the stays are lac'd
And bonie bosoms steekit,
Tho' thro' the lawn-but guess the rest!
An angel scarce durst keek it.
Then stockin's fine o' silken twine
Wi' cannie care are drawn up,
An' gartered tight whare mortal wight

[As I never wrote it down, my recollection does not entirely serve me.]

But now the gown wi' rustling sound
Its silken pomp displays;
Sure there's nae sin in being vain
O' siccan bonie claes!
Sae jimp the waist, the tail sae vast
Trouth, they were bonie birdies!
O Mither Eve, ye wad been grieve
To see their ample hurdies
Sae large that day!

Then Sandy, wi's red jacket braw,
Comes whip jee-woa! about,
And in he gets the bonie twa
Lord, send them safely out!
And auld John Trot wi' sober phiz,
As braid and braw's a Bailie,
His shouthers and his Sunday's jiz
Wi' powther and wi' ulzie
Weel smear'd that day.

Idem

THE FRUGAL WISH

May I enjoy a state of health,
Free from both poverty and wealth;
And may I ever have a friend,
In whom I safely may depend;
To crack a joke, or tell a tale,
Or share a pint of nappy ale:
And also a good sneeshin mill;
And of the best rappee her fill;
With good tobacco, pipe and box,
And some to spare a friend who smokes.
And, in the morning when I rise,
A single glass to clear my eyes:
With some choice books to read at leisure,
To edify and some for pleasure.
Likewise a kind industrious wife,
Who nothing hates so much as strife;
A snug thack'd house, a canty fire;
A new-cal' cow to fill my byre.
A bonnie burnie trotting by,
Wherein to fish at hake and manger;
An orrow bed, to lodge a stranger.
Thus may I spin the thread of life,
Remote from bustle, din and strife:
And when at last death takes me aff,
May I deserve this epitaph-
"Interr'd below this silent sod,
Lies one who always feared God:
And, when he liv'd, by God's assistance,
Held cold and craving at a distance."

FARMER'S BOY

"Saw ye Johnnie comin'?" quo' she,
"Saw ye Johnnie comin';
Wi' his blue bonnet on his head
And his doggie runnin'?
Yestreen, about the gloamin' time
I chanced to see him comin',
Whistlin' merrily the tune
That I am a' day hummin'," quo' she;
"I am a' day hummin'."

"Fee him, faither, fee him", quo' she,
"Fee him, faither, fee him;
A' the wark about the house
Gaes wi' me when I see him;
A' the wark about the house,
I gang lightly through it:
And though ye pay some merks o' gear,
Hoot! ye winna rue it," quo' she;
"No, ye winna rue it."

"What wad I do wi' him, hizzy?
What wad I do wi' him?
He's ne'er a Sark upon his back,
And I hae nane to gie him."
"I hae two sarks into my kist,
And ane o' them I'll gie him;
And for merk o' mair fee,
O dinna stand wi' him," quo' she.
"Dinna stand wi him."

"Weel do I lo'e him," quo' she,
"Weel do I lo'e him;
The bravest lads about the place
Are a' but hav'rels to him.
O fee him, faither; lang, I trow,
We've dull and dowie been;
He'll haud the plough, thrash i' the barn,
And crack wi' me at e'en," quo' she,
"Crack wi' me at e'en."

MORNING

But who the melodies of morn can tell?
The wild brook babbling down the mountain side;
The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell;
The pipe of early shepherd dim descried
In the lone valley; echoing far and wide
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;
The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide,
The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love,
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.

The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark;
Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings;
The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark!
Down the rough slope his ponderous waggon rings;
Through rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs;
Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour;
The partridge bursts away on whirring wings;
Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower,
And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tour.

DIFFUGERE NIVES

Noo swallow-birds begin to big
An' primrose-flowers to blaw;
An' Jockie whistles doun the rig
A fareweel to the snaw;

An' glints o' sunshine glancin' gleg,
Licht up the buddin' shaw
An' westlin' winds are playin' tig
Round ae bewildered craw.

Auld Tammas to the garle-wa'
Nails up a cherry-twig;
An' Mar'an waters, raw by raw,
Her bleachin' wi' a pig;

An' yonder-he's been lang awa'
Comes Packie owre the brig,
An' country lads may noo gang braw,
An' country lasses trig.

THE LAMENTATION OF BALVA THE MONK

Balva the old monk I am called: when I was young, Balva Honeymouth.
That was before Colum the White came to Iona in the west.
She whom I loved was a woman whom I won out of the South.
And I had a good heaven with my lips on hers and with breast to breast.

Balva the old monk I am called: were it not for the fear
That the soul of Colum the White would meet my soul in the Narrows
That sever the living and dead, I would rise up from here,
And go back to where men pray with spears and arrows.

ADVENTURE OF A POET

As I was walking down the street
A week ago,
Near Henderson's I chanced to meet
A man I know.

His name is Alexander Bell,
His home Dundee;
I do not know him quite so well
As he knows me.

Our fathers fought, so runs the glorious tale,
To save you, country mine, from tyrants rash,
And now their bones and you are up for sale,
The smartest bidder buys for ready cash.

What comforts to be privileged to give
My body's labour, so I may command
The wondrous right to be allowed to live
On you my own (i.e. Lord Blythswood's) land!

And having fought and bled, when I return,
And bread is scarce and rent is overdue,
From Sheriff officers I quickly learn,
Dear native land, the share I have in you.

A LIVING DOG

King Arthur ruled the land, he did;
His lance was keen, his right arm strong,
His aim (ostensibly) to rid
The world or thereabouts of wrong.
He was a wight of high degree,
And knew how many beans make five,
But now he's not a patch on me,
For he is dead and I'm alive.

For Milo and his morning walk
I own to admiration; it
Would doubtless cause no end of talk
If he were matched with Hackenschmidt;
But though some records once he made,
At which I never can arrive,
To-day I flout him unafraid,
For he is dead and I'm alive.

The brain that lodged in Homer's head
May have outweighed by half a stone
The one which kindly friends have said
Has made its dwelling in my own;
And through his burning heart divine
What fiery dreams were wont to drive!
Cold are they now compared with mine,
For he is dead and I'm alive.

And all the gay deceased of old
The wise, the generous, the good,
The poet sage, the warrior bold,
The man of brain, the man of blood
Their songs I grant, were wild and free,
To match their deeds I would not strive,
But put your money, boys, on me,
For they are dead and I'm alive.

FOR CHOICE

Sages sacred and profane
Nail this dogma to the mast:
Pleasures have for relish pain,
Feasts an antecedent fast;
All of which, with judgment ripe,
I consider utter tripe.

Give me skies for ever blue,
Breakfasts uniformly warm,
Ties that never go askew,
Friends consistently in form,
Every good by me enjoyed
Absolutely unalloyed.

Idem

THE BEST-DRESSED HIGHLANDER

["A Prize of £5 to be awarded to the best-dressed Highlander at his own expense." - Programme of any Highland Gathering.]

My name is John Macleod-from Chiefs descended
Distinguished for their courage and their size.
A Highland gathering lately I attended,
Because I saw there was to be a prize
For the best-dressed Highlander,
The best-dressed Highlander,
The best-dressed Highlander at his own expense.

Chorus

At his own expense,
At his own expense,
The best-dressed Highlander at his own expense.

My kilt and tartan stockings I was wearing,
My claymore and my dirk and skian-dhu,
And when I sallied forth with manly bearing
I heard admiring whispers not a few
"He's the best-dressed Highlander,
The best-dressed Highlander,
The best-dressed Highlander at his own expense."
Chorus. - At his own expense, etc.

The ladies, bless them! came and gathered round me,
And gazed upon my form so strong and proud.
With ties of gratitude and love they bound me,
When they declared 'twas clear that John Macleod
Was the best-dressed Highlander,
The best-dressed Highlander,
The best-dressed Highlander at his own expense.

Chorus. - At his own expense, etc.

The judge-a man of sense and penetration
Would go no further when he came to me.
"This is", he said, with hearty approbation,
"As every one with half an eye can see,
Just the best-dressed Highlander,
The best-dressed Highlander,
The best-dressed Highlander at his own expense".

Chorus. - At his own expense, etc.

The world has many shining paths of glory,
And I have chosen out this path for me
That John Macleod, until he's old and hoary,
Will always and incomparably be
Quite the best-dressed Highlander,
The best-dressed Highlander,
The best-dressed Highlander at his own expense.

Grand Chorus (Crescendo)
At his own expense,
At his OWN expense.
THE BEST-DRESSED HIGHLANDER AT HIS OWN EXPENSE

D. M. McKay

WOOD MAGIC

I will walk warily in the wise woods on the fringes of eventide,
For the covert is full of noises and the stir of nameless things,
I have seen in the dusk of the beeches the shapes of the lords that ride,
And down in the marish hollow I have heard the lady who sings,
And once in an April gloaming I met a maid on the sward,
All marble-white and gleaming and tender and wild of eye;
I, Jehan the hunter, who speak am a grown man, middling hard,
But I dreamt a month of the maid, and wept I knew not why.

Down by the edge of the firs, in a coppice of heath and vine,
Is an old moss-grown altar, shaded by briar and bloom,
Denys, the priest, hath told me 'twas the lord Apollo's shrine
In the days ere Christ came down from God to the Virgin's womb.
I never go past but I doff my cap and avert my eyes
(Were Denys to catch me I trow I'd do penance for half a year.)
For once I saw a flame there and the smoke of a sacrifice
And a voice spake out of the thicket that froze my soul with fear.

Wherefore to God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,
Mary the Blessed Mother, and the kindly Saints as well,
I will give glory and praise, and them I cherish the most,
For they have the keys of Heaven, and save the soul from Hell.
But likewise I will spare for the Lord Apollo a grace,
And a bow for the lady Venus-as a friend but not as a thrall,
'Tis true they are out of Heaven, but some day they may win the place;
For gods are kittle cattle, and a wise man honours them all.

THE SHORTER CATECHISM

When I was young and herdit sheep,
I read auld tales o' Wallace wight;
My heid was fou o' sangs and threep
0' folk that feared nae mortal might.
But now I'm auld and weel I ken
We're made alike o' gowd and mire;
There's saft bits in the stievest men,
The bairnliest's got a spunk o' fire.
Sae hearken to me, lads,
It's truith that I tell;
There's nae man a' courage
I ken by mysel'.

I've been an elder forty year,
I've tried to keep the narrow way,
I've walked afore the Lord in fear,
I've never missed the kirk a day,
I've read the Bible in an' oot,
I ken the feck o't clean by he'rt;
But still and on I sair misdoot
I'm better noo than at the stert,
Sae hearken to me, lads,
It's truith I maintain!
Man's works are but rags, for
I ken by my ain.

I hae a name for dacent trade;
I'll wager a' the countryside
Wad swear nae trustier man was made
The ford to soom, the bent to bide.
But when it comes to coupin' horse
I'm juist like a' that e'er were born,
I fling my heels and tak my course
I'd sell the minister the morn.
Sae hearken to me, lads,
It's truith that I tell:
There's nae man deid honest
I ken by mysel'.

Idem

JUVENIS AND PISCATOR

Juv. Canny Fisher Jamie, comin' hame at e'en,
Canny Fisher Jamie, whaur have ye been?
Pisc. Mony lang miles, laddie, o'er the Kips sae green.
Juv. Fishin' Leithen Water?
Pisc. Nay, laddie, nay.
Just a wee burnie rinnin' doun a brae,
Fishin' a wee burnie nae bigger than a sheugh.
Juv. Gat ye mony troots, Jamie?
Pisc. I gat eneugh
Eneugh to buy my baccy, snuff, and pickle tea,
And lea me tippence for a gill, and that's eneugh for me.

- Noted from oral tradition by John Buchan

AY, FEGS

Ay, fegs, an' fat dae ye think o' my legs?
Ye hanna seen me i' my sodger's kilt for weeks,
For aye as I'm mairchin' by, some limmer is sure to cry,
"Wi' shanks like that ye'd better hae stuck to breeks".

Na, fegs, they needna laugh at my legs,
For mony a weary fecht they've brocht me through.
Ay, fegs, gin't hadna been for my legs
O I would be a cauld corp noo.

Ay, fegs, when the sergeant saw my legs
He was handin' ower the shillin' afore he spoke,
He kent brawly fat ye need to wyde amo' fire an' bleed,
Sae he clappit me on the shou'der an' ca'ed me "Jock".
Na, fegs, he didna laugh at my legs,
He kent the weary fechts they'd bring me through.
Ay, fegs, gin't hadna been for my legs.
O I wad be a cauld corp noo.

Eh, mon, sic a terrible day was thon,
The bullets and ba's were fleein' about like snaw;
"Strike oot" they cried for hame, but the feck o' lave was lame,
An' I got there twa days afore them a'.
Ay, fegs, sic a handy thing is your legs,
An' mony a weary fecht they bring you through.
Na, fegs, gin't hadna been for my legs
O I wad be a cauld corp noo.

Ay, fegs, when a cannon ba' grazed my legs
It mindet me upon something I'd forgot,
My auld mither ower the sea, sittin' wearyin' sair for me,
For wha would dibble her kail gin I was shot?
Ay, fegs, she aye admired my legs,
An' here I'm back i' the Cabrach wi' the coo.
Na, fegs, gin't hadna been for my legs
O I wad be a cauld corp noo.

Charles Murray

THE SONG OF THE SWORD OF THE ETERNAL

A sword, a sword,
whetted and polished,
whetted to slay,
polished to flash like lightning ...
handed to slayers to wield,
whetted and polished
for slayers to handle!
Shriek, son of man, and howl;
it is drawn against my people,
against all Israel's leaders
they and my people
surrendered to the sword!
Smite your breast despairingly,
for I spurn them in my wrath,
says the Lord the Eternal.

Prophesy, then, son of man,
call the doom down,
swing the sword twice, thrice,
the sword of mortal wounds,
the huge sword of mortal wounds,
that hems them in.

Scare them till their hearts are trembling,
and dead lie heaped at every gate.
They are abandoned to the slaughtering sword,
flashing like lightning,
whetted for slaughter.

Whirl to the rear, sword,
right, front, left
wherever your edge must whirl;
and I will clap you on,
I will glut my furyI,
the Eternal, have said it!

Ezekiel (Dr. Moffatt's Version)

THE CROCODILE

Can you pull out the crocodile with a hook,
Or tie his tongue down with a string,
Or run a cord through his gills,
Or carry him with a gaff between his jaws?
Will he make many a prayer to you?
Will he speak softly to you?
Will he come to terms with you,
Always be at your service?
Will you play with him like a pet bird,
Or cage him to amuse your maidens?
Will fishermen make a meal of him?
Will traders cut him up?
Can you plant harpoons in his skin,
Or pierce the head of him with spears?
Just lay a hand on him! just once!
You will not forget the fray!
Who can strip off his hide?
Who can pierce his armoured scales?
Who can force open his jaws?
His teeth are a terror!
His back is row on row of shields,
sealed close and tight,
One scale so near another
that no air can pass between,
Welded each to each,
clasped till they cannot be parted.

The light plays on his snorting snout;
His eyes flash like the morning rays,
Flames issue from his mouth,
and sparks fly out,
Steam pours out of his nostrils,
As from a seething, boiling pot
His breath would kindle coals,
with the fire from his mouth.

Strength is seated in his neck
all creatures twitch in terror at him.
Firm are the flakes of his flesh;
his heart is stout as a millstone.
When he comes up, strong men are terrified,
scared by the swirl in the water;
No sword avails against him,
no spear, no dart, no arrow;
He treats a harpoon like a straw,
A bronze lance is like rotten wood;
No arrow makes him fly,
Stones from a sling to him are merely stubble,
Bludgeons are mere bulrushes,
and whizzing javelins he derides.

His lair is the sharp rocks;
he rests his loins upon the mud.
He makes the water boil and foam,
Churning the deep like unguents in a pot;
He leaves a shining furrow in his wake
One would think the deep was hoary.
Nowhere on earth is there the like of him,
a creature born to know no fear;
Wild animals are all in fear of him,
the monarch of proud creatures.

Job (Dr. Moffatt's Version)

FAITH

Though the fig-tree may not blossom,
Though no fruit is on the vine,
Though the olive crop has failed,
Though the fields give us no food,
Though the folds have lost their flocks,
And in the stalls no cattle lie,
Yet in the Eternal we will find our joy,
We will rejoice in the God who saves us.
The Lord, the Eternal, is our strength,
He makes our feet sure as the feet of hinds,
Helps us to keep our footing on the heights.

Habakkuk (Dr. Moffatt's Version)

ON A CAT AGEING

He blinks upon the hearth-rug
And yawns in deep content,
Accepting all the comforts
That Providence has sent.

Louder he purrs, and louder,
In one glad hymn of praise
For all the night's adventures,
For quiet, restful days.

Life will go on for ever,
With all that cat can wish:
Warmth and the glad procession
Of fish and milk and fish.

Only-the thought disturbs him
He's noticed once or twice,
That times are somehow breeding
A nimbler race of mice.

Alexander Gray

SHOOTING GUEST, NONCONFORMIST

You promised I should see the golden eagle;
Speckled brown adders basking in the sun;
Proud antlered stags and herds of red hinds leaping
Across great rocky corries, rainbow-spanned;
Peat mosses where three thousand feet on high
The luscious scarlet averens [Cloudberries] are glowing;
Pools where the otter stalks for salmon flesh;
Heron, grey on a green sky, solemn floating.

But these I saw while you to butts were striding
Guided by servile gillies to your sport.
Fast-rooted bracken where the corn once ripened;
Roofless and ruined homesteads by the score;
Once fertile gardens, mildewed, choked with weed,
Hemlock and nettle where the children played.

A MOMENT IN ETERNITY

The great song ceased
-Aye, like a wind was gone,
And our hearts came to rest,
Singly as leaves do,
And every leaf a flame.

My shining passions stilled
Shone in the sudden peace
Like countless leaves
Tingling with the quick sap
Of immortality.

I was a multitude of leaves
Receiving and reflecting light,
A burning bush
Blazing for ever unconsumed,
Nay, ceaselessly,

Multiplying in leaves and light
And instantly,
Burgeoning in buds of brightness,
-Freeing like golden breaths
Upon the cordial air
A thousand new delights,
-Translucent leaves
Green with the goodness of Eternity,
Golden in the Heavenly light
-The golden breaths
Of my eternal life,
Like happy memories multiplied,
Shining out instantly from me
And shining back for ever into me,
-Breaths given out But still unlost,
For ever mine,
In the infinite air,
The everlasting foliage of my soul
Visible awhile
Like steady and innumerable flames,
Blending into one blaze
Yet each distinct
With shining shadows of difference.

A sudden thought of God's
Came like a wind
Ever and again
Rippling them as waters over stars,
And swiftlier fanning them
And setting them a-dance,
Upflying, fluttering down,
Moving in orderly intricacies
Of colour and of light,
Delaying, hastening,
Blazing and serene,
Shaken and shining in the turning wind,
Lassoing cataracts of light
With rosy boughs,
Or clamouring in echoing unequalled heights,
Rhythmical sprays of many-coloured fire
And spires chimerical
Gleaming in fabulous airs,
And suddenly Lapsing again
To incandescence and increase.
And again the wind came
Blowing me afar In fair fantastic fires,
-Ivies and irises invading
The upland garths of ivory;
Queen daisies growing
In the tall red grass
By pools of perfect peace,
And bluebells tossing In transparent fields;
And silver airs
Lifting the crystal sources in dim hills
And swinging them far out like bells of glass
Pealing pellucidly
And quivering in faery flights of chimes;
Shivers of wings bewildered
In alleys of virgin dream;
Floral dances and revels of radiance
Whirling in stainless sanctuaries;
And eyes of Seraphim,
Shining like sunbeams on eternal ice,
Lifted towards the unexplored
Summits of Paradise.

THE POET'S PASSING

I have known all the storms that roll.
I have been a singer after the fashion
Of my people-a poet of passion.
All that is past.
Quiet has come into my soul.
Life's tempest is done.
I lie at last
A bird cliff under the midnight sun.

Idem

WHEESHT, WHEESHT

Wheesht, wheesht, my foolish hert,
For weel ye ken
I widna hae ye stert
Auld ploys again.

It's guid to see her lie
Sae snod and cool,
A' lust o' lovin' by
Wheesht, wheesht, ye fule!

THE FIRE-WHEEL

Time's a fire-wheel whose spokes the seasons turn,
And fastened there we, Time's slow martyrs, burn.
To some that rage is but a pleasant heat,
And the red fiery bower as summer sweet.
Others there are who lord it in the flame,
And, while they're burning, dice for power and fame.
A choicer company ignore the pyre,
And dream and prophesy amid the fire.
And a few with eyes uplifted through the blaze
Let their flesh crumble till they're all agaze
Glassing that fireless kingdom in the sky
Which is our dream as through Time's wood we fly
Burning in silence or crying the ancient rhyme:
"Who shall outsoar the mountainous flame of Time?"