Poems by Robert Fuller Murray

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The lady stood at the station bar,
It is the Police Commissioners,
No gift I bring but worship, and the love
TO ---
Early on Christmas Day,
Every critic in the town
How often have the critics, trained
Blue, blue is the sea to-day,
Blue, blue is the sea to-day,
My lamp is out, my task is done,
One dark, dark night--it was long ago,
When people tell me they have loved
The sun shines fair on Tweedside, the river flowing bright,
If a pleasant lawn there grow
It seems a little word to say--
Thrice happy are those
Till the tread of marching feet
Here, where the thoroughfares meet at an angle
Never was sun so bright before,
Short space shall be hereafter
As I was walking down the street
The mist hangs round the College tower,
On the field of Waterloo we made Napoleon rue
You found my life, a poor lame bird
My soul is like a prisoned lark,
I met him down upon the pier;
Dear Ritchie, I am waiting for the signal word to fly,
How many the troubles that wait
It was many and many a year ago,
Long since I came into the school of Art,
Not the proudest damsel here
Where she sleeps, no moonlight shines
As I, with hopeless love o'erthrown,
Through many lands and over many seas
Come back to St. Andrews! Before you went away
I had a plant which would not thrive,
I hear a twittering of birds,
This morning, while we sat in talk
As those who hear a sweet bird sing,
Fickle Summer's fled away,
Oh, will the footsteps never be done?
Crimson and cream and white--
Beyond the Cheviots and the Tweed,
Golden dream of summer morn,
Ever to be the best. To lead
I love the inoffensive frog,
When the weary night is fled,
What the end the gods have destined unto thee and unto me,
Artemis! thou fairest
Gone is the glory from the hills,
He brought a team from Inversnaid
'In the shadow of Thy wings, O Lord of Hosts, whom I extol,
Lost Youth, come back again!
Despair is in the suns that shine,
Fain would I shake thee off, but weak am I
Lost at sea, with all on board!
Of our own will we are not free,
There was a time when in your face
Whene'er I try to read a book,
O Love, thine empire is not dead,
St. Andrews! not for ever thine shall be
When I was young and well and glad,
The air is dark and fragrant
O swallow-tailed purveyor of college sprees,
Love, we have heard together
Ye who will help me in my dying pain,
My Lady of all ladies! Queen by right
Let me sleep. The day is past,
Brown was my friend, and faithful--but so fat!
In youth with diligence he toiled
Last night, when at parting
Love, when the present is become the past,
There was a time when it was counted high
A day of gladness yet will dawn,
Children of earth are we,
In the hard familiar horse-box I am sitting once again;
For thee the birds shall never sing again,
Sleep flies me like a lover
As through the street at eve we went
Song is not dead, although to-day
I made a truce last night with Sorrow,
I loved a little maiden
Sweetheart, that thou art fair I know,
Mourn that which will not come again,
In the oldest of our alleys,
In vain you fervently extol,
Oh, who may this dead warrior be
Alas for the bird who was born to sing!
Would you like to see a city given over,
The Session's over. We must say farewell
Years grow and gather--each a gem
The Red King's gone a-hunting, in the woods his father made
It seems a hundred years or more
This is the time when larks are singing loud
There's a fiddler in the street,
Last night for the first time, O Heart's Delight,
I know the garden-close of sin,
I drove a golf-ball into the air,
Life is a house where many chambers be,
When we have laid aside our last endeavour,
The life of earth, how full of pain,
It was a phantom of delight
The sun is banished,
The rain had fallen, the Poet arose,
Hurrah for the Science Club!
I have been lonely all my days on earth,
I love to see the swallows come
Weak soul, by sense still led astray,
The truest Liberal is he
The voice that sings across the night
Another day let slip! Its hours have run,
Loud he sang the song Ta Phershon
Loud he sang the song Ta Phershon
I shall be spun. There is a voice within
I shall be spun. There is a voice within
Two old St. Andrews men, after a separation of nearly thirty years, meet by chance at a wayside inn. They interchange experiences; and at length one of them, who is an admirer of Mr. Swinburne's Poems and Ballads, speaks as follows:
Thou art queen to every eye,
Familiar with thy melody,
Oh for the nights when we used to sit
Last Sunday night I read the saddening story
Beloved Peeler! friend and guide
Ah yes, we know what you're saying,
These verses have I pilfered like a bee
After the melting of the snow
Sorrow and sin have worked their will
There is a village in a southern land,
Be ye happy, if ye may,
In Algebra, if Algebra be ours,
The fire burns bright
Oh, where's the use of having gifts that can't be turned to money?
The city once again doth wear
Beside the drowsy streams that creep
When one who has wandered out of the way