_Satan_, that pride did hurry to thy fall, Thou porter of the grim infernal hall— Thou keeper of the courts of souls unshriven! To shun thy shafts, to ‘scape thy hellish thrall, Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven! BALLADE OF DEAD CITIES. TO E. W. GOSSE. The dust of Carthage and the dust Of Babel on the desert wold, The loves of Corinth, and the lust, Orchomenos increased with gold; The town of Jason, over-bold, And Cherson, smitten in her prime— What are they but a dream half-told? Where are the cities of old time? In towns that were a kingdom’s trust, In dim Atlantic forests’ fold, The marble wasteth to a crust, The granite crumbles into mould; O’er these—left nameless from of old— As over Shinar’s brick and slime, One vast forgetfulness is roll’d— Where are the cities of old time? The lapse of ages, and the rust, The fire, the frost, the waters cold, Efface the evil and the just; From Thebes, that Eriphyle sold, To drown’d Caer-Is, whose sweet bells toll’d Beneath the wave a dreamy chime That echo’d from the mountain-hold,— “Where are the cities of old time?” ENVOY. Prince, all thy towns and cities must Decay as these, till all their crime, And mirth, and wealth, and toil are thrust Where are the cities of old time. BALLADE OF THE ROYAL GAME OF GOLF. (EAST FIFESHIRE.) There are laddies will drive ye a ba’ To the burn frae the farthermost tee, But ye mauna think driving is a’, Ye may heel her, and send her ajee, Ye may land in the sand or the sea; And ye’re dune, sir, ye’re no worth a preen, Tak’ the word that an auld man ’ll gie, Tak’ aye tent to be up on the green! The auld folk are crouse, and they craw That their putting is pawky and slee; In a bunker they’re nae gude ava’, But to girn, and to gar the sand flee. And a lassie can putt—ony she,— Be she Maggy, or Bessie, or Jean, But a cleek-shot’s the billy for me, Tak’ aye tent to be up on the green! I hae play’d in the frost and the thaw, I hae play’d since the year thirty-three, I hae play’d in the rain and the snaw, And I trust I may play till I dee; And I tell ye the truth and nae lee, For I speak o’ the thing I hae seen— Tom Morris, I ken, will agree— Tak’ aye tent to be up on the green! ENVOY. Prince, faith you’re improving a wee, And, Lord, man, they tell me you’re keen; Tak’ the best o’ advice that can be, Tak’ aye tent to be up on the green! DOUBLE BALLADE OF PRIMITIVE MAN. TO J. A. FARRER.