*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75834 ***

Transcriber’s note: Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by
underscores, _like this_.




                            TWO NEW POEMS

                    ROHALLION : THE LITTLE DRAGON


                  By _Violet Jacob_, decorated with
                 three designs by _A. Mason Trotter_


                    EDINBURGH. THE PORPOISE PRESS
                    FOUR STAFFORD STREET. MCMXXIV




                  _OF THIS EDITION FIFTY NUMBERED
                     COPIES HAVE BEEN PRINTED ON
                    HODGKINSON’S HAND-MADE PAPER._




[Illustration]




                 _Rohallion_


    My buits are at rest on the midden,
                I haena a plack,
    My breeks are no dandy anes, forrit,
                And waur at the back;
    On the road that comes oot o’ the hielands
                I see as I trayvel the airth,
    Frae the braes at the back o’ Rohallion,
                The reek aboon Pairth.

    There’s a canny wee hoose wi’ a gairden
          In a neuk o’ Strathtay;
    My mither is bakin’ the bannocks,
          The weans are at play;
    And at gloamin’, my feyther, the shepherd,
          Looks doon for a blink o’ the licht
    When he gethers the yowes by the shielin’
          Tae fauld them at nicht.

    There’s niver a hoose that wad haud me
          Frae this tae the sea
    When a wind frae the knowes by Rohallion
          Comes creepin’ tae me,
    And niver a lowe frae the ingle
          Can draw like the trail and the shine
    O’ the stars i’ the loch o’ Rohallion
          A fitstep o’ mine.

    There’s snaw i’ the wind an’ the weepies
          Hang deid on the shaw,
    And pale the leaves left on the rowan,
          I’m soothward awa;
    But a voice like a wraith blaws ahint me
          And sings as I’m liftin’ my pack
    ‘I am waitin’--Rohallion--Rohallion--
          My lad, ye’ll be back!’




[Illustration]




            _The Little Dragon_


    The nun stood watching by the cloister wall
              Day’s dying to behold,
    Heaven seemed to her too far, too mystical,
    Her soul to climb its ramparts but to fall
              And earth was turned to gold.

    All down the harvest fields the western flame
          In floods of fire was borne;
    There stood in rows transfigured by the same,
    Until the sickle should their glory claim,
          The gold ears of the corn.

    Her part was where eternal censers swung
          By convent walls confined;
    The convent choir her requiem had sung,
    The church had bound her life, her soul, her tongue--
          Her heart it could not bind.

    Around her place the golden sunflowers ranged
          Their faces to the west,
    As the declining day his steps estranged
    They watched their lord, the sun, untired, unchanged,
          And in their vigil blest.

    And through the dust that rose in golden cloud
          A golden helm shone high;
    Nor fast, nor prayer, nor penances had bowed
    The idle knight in strength of manhood proud
          Who laughed as he rode by.

    The dragon on his crested helmet shewn
          Mocked her with leer uncouth;
    She heeded not--she saw his face alone
    And from his eyes there flashed into her own
          The golden fire of youth.

    It burned the sacred stillness of her days,
          Between the holy book
    And her dropped lids, there swam that ardent haze,
    It hid God’s altar in a golden blaze
          Before her raptured look.

    The reverend priests and nuns who marked her face
          With wonder day by day,
    Stood still to see her kneeling in her place,
    And “God has given her visions in His grace,
          She is His Saint,” said they.

    Ever more rapt in ecstasy she grew,
          Remoter and more frail,
    For, as the year died out and rose anew
    They said again, “Her soul is rising too
      Above its earthly veil.”

    And, on a day when spring’s own breath sublime
          Whispered in field and tree,
    Fervent and faint from some undreamed of clime,
    She passed from out the close-barred room of time
          Into eternity.

    And when the priest his benediction spoke
          Above her coffined clay
    There fell great awe upon all holy folk,
    For golden light through all the cloister broke
          And bathed her as she lay.

    Only--above the carven arches old,
          It seemed they did not see
    Among the gargoyles insolent and bold,
    One little dragon laughing through the gold
          --Laughing eternally.


[Illustration]




                           Published by ...
                          THE PORPOISE PRESS
                          4, STAFFORD STREET
                        EDINBURGH, NOV., 1924
                         ALL RIGHTS RESERVED




                  _Wm, Hodge & Co., Ltd., Glasgow and Edinburgh._



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75834 ***