POETRY.
IN MEMORIAM—ANDREW LANG.
THE "brindled hair" of Louis' lay Had many a year been flecked with gray, And yet 'tis an untimely blow That lays you, gallant Andrew, low; For still you gaily led the chase Of Folly at a rattling pace, And to the last pursued the quest Of Truth with undiminished zest.
Two generations owned your spell, Four cities knew and loved you well, Whose learning was a gracious dower Because you wore it like a flower. A hundred hobbies you bestrode, Yet never strayed from Reason's road. A hundred whimsies lent their lure, And yet your heart was sound and pure. If you were sometimes supercilious Your mood was bland, not atrahilious. Some thought you precious, but pretence You loved to rout with common sense. Relentless foe of half-baked fools And pedants of new-fangled schools, You could be scathing and sarcastic, Yet never were iconoclastic. Master of mockery and scorn, Your praise was potent to adorn ; And never did you flag or falter In landing Homer or Sir Walter. With knightly zeal you hid the spots And stains in Mary Queen of Scots, And no one with a keener blade Smote the detractors of the Maid.
Sure never name was better found To hint a nature by its sound Or with a blither accent rang Than yours, beloved Andrew Lang !
Friend of the little folk, who stand Hard by the gates of fairyland And found in you the truest guide To the enchanted world inside.
Farewell, 0 Blondel of our day,
Fighter and singer, brave and gay,
Whose scutcheon never bore a stain, When shall we see your like again? G MINOR.
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