Robert Fuller Murray

Robert Fuller Murray was a Scottish poet known for his lyrical and expressive poetry. Born on December 26, 1863, in Roxbury, Massachusetts, he moved to Scotland at a young age. Despite a short life, ending on April 15, 1894, Murray left a significant mark with his works, which often reflected themes of nature and human emotion. His poetry is characterized by its elegance and depth of feeling. Murray's influence remained through posthumous publications and collections of his poetry.

December 26, 1863

April 15, 1894

English

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A Ballad Of Refreshment

The lady stood at the station bar,
    (Three currants in a bun)
And oh she was proud, as ladies are.
    (And the bun was baked a week ago.)

For a weekly wage she was standing there,
    (Three currants in a bun)
With a prominent bust and light gold hair.
    (And the bun was baked a week ago.)

The express came in at half-past two,
    (Three currants in a bun)
And there lighted a man in the navy blue.
    (And the bun was baked a week ago.)

A stout sea-captain he was, I ween.
    (Three currants in a bun)
Much travel had made him very keen.
    (And the bun was baked a week ago.)

A sober man and steady was he.
    (Three currants in a bun)
He called not for brandy, but called for tea.
    (And the bun was baked a week a...

Robert Fuller Murray

A Ballad Of The Town Water

It is the Police Commissioners,
    All on a winter's day;
And they to prove the town water
    Have set themselves away.

They went to the north, they went to the south,
    And into the west went they,
Till they found a civil, civil engineer,
    And unto him did say:

'Now tell to us, thou civil engineer,
    If this be fit to drink.'
And they showed him a cup of the town water,
    Which was as black as ink.

He took three sips of the town water,
    And black in the face was he;
And they turned them back and fled away,
    Amazed that this should be.

And he has written a broad letter
    And sealed it with a ring,
And the letter saith that the town water
    Is not a goodly thing.

And they have met, and the B...

Robert Fuller Murray

A Birthday Gift

No gift I bring but worship, and the love
    Which all must bear to lovely souls and pure,
    Those lights, that, when all else is dark, endure;
Stars in the night, to lift our eyes above;

To lift our eyes and hearts, and make us move
    Less doubtful, though our journey be obscure,
    Less fearful of its ending, being sure
That they watch over us, where'er we rove.

And though my gift itself have little worth,
    Yet worth it gains from her to whom 'tis given,
            As a weak flower gets colour from the sun.
Or rather, as when angels walk the earth,
    All things they look on take the look of heaven--
            For of those blessed angels thou art one.

Robert Fuller Murray

A Bunch Of Triolets

TO ---

You like the trifling triolet:
    Well, here are three or four.
Unless your likings I forget,
You like the trifling triolet.
Against my conscience I abet
    A taste which I deplore;
You like the trifling triolet:
    Well, here are three or four.

Have you ever met with a pretty girl
    Walking along the street,
With a nice new dress and her hair in curl?
Have you ever met with a pretty girl,
When her hat blew off and the wind with a whirl
    Wafted it right to your feet?
Have you ever met with a pretty girl
    Walking along the street?

I ran into a lady's arms,
    Turning a corner yesterday.
To my confusion, her alarms,
I ran into a lady's arms.
So close a vision of her charms
    Left me without a w...

Robert Fuller Murray

A Christmas Fancy

            Early on Christmas Day,
            Love, as awake I lay,
And heard the Christmas bells ring sweet and clearly,
            My heart stole through the gloom
            Into your silent room,
And whispered to your heart, 'I love you dearly.'

            There, in the dark profound,
            Your heart was sleeping sound,
And dreaming some fair dream of summer weather.
            At my heart's word it woke,
            And, ere the morning broke,
They sang a Christmas carol both together.

            Glory to God on high!
            Stars of the morning sky,
Sing as ye sang upon the first creation,
            When all the Sons of God
            Shouted for joy abroad,
And earth was laid upon a sure foundation.

    ...

Robert Fuller Murray

A Coincidence

Every critic in the town
Runs the minor poet down;
Every critic--don't you know it?
Is himself a minor poet.

Robert Fuller Murray

A College Career

I

When one is young and eager,
    A bejant and a boy,
Though his moustache be meagre,
    That cannot mar his joy
When at the Competition
He takes a fair position,
And feels he has a mission,
    A talent to employ.

With pride he goes each morning
    Clad in a scarlet gown,
A cap his head adorning
    (Both bought of Mr. Brown);
He hears the harsh bell jangle,
And enters the quadrangle,
The classic tongues to mangle
    And make the ancients frown.

He goes not forth at even,
    He burns the midnight oil,
He feels that all his heaven
    Depends on ceaseless toil;
Across his exercises
A dream of many prizes
Before his spirit rises,
    And makes his raw blood boil.

II

Though he b...

Robert Fuller Murray

A Criticism Of Critics

How often have the critics, trained
    To look upon the sky
Through telescopes securely chained,
    Forgot the naked eye.

Within the compass of their glass
    Each smallest star they knew,
And not a meteor could pass
    But they were looking through.

When a new planet shed its rays
    Beyond their field of vision,
And simple folk ran out to gaze,
    They laughed in high derision.

They railed upon the senseless throng
    Who cheered the brave new light.
And yet the learned men were wrong,
    The simple folk were right.

Robert Fuller Murray

A December Day

    Blue, blue is the sea to-day,
            Warmly the light
    Sleeps on St. Andrews Bay--
            Blue, fringed with white.

    That's no December sky!
            Surely 'tis June
    Holds now her state on high,
            Queen of the noon.

    Only the tree-tops bare
            Crowning the hill,
    Clear-cut in perfect air,
            Warn us that still

    Winter, the aged chief,
            Mighty in power,
    Exiles the tender leaf,
            Exiles the flower.

    Is there a heart to-day,
            A heart that grieves
    For flowers that fade away,
            For fallen leaves?

    Oh, not in leaves or flowers
            Endures the charm
    That clothes those naked tow...

Robert Fuller Murray

A December Day

Blue, blue is the sea to-day,
    Warmly the light
Sleeps on St. Andrews Bay--
    Blue, fringed with white.

That's no December sky!
    Surely 'tis June
Holds now her state on high,
    Queen of the noon.

Only the tree-tops bare
    Crowning the hill,
Clear-cut in perfect air,
    Warn us that still

Winter, the aged chief,
    Mighty in power,
Exiles the tender leaf,
    Exiles the flower.

Is there a heart to-day,
    A heart that grieves
For flowers that fade away,
    For fallen leaves?

Oh, not in leaves or flowers
    Endures the charm
That clothes those naked towers
    With love-light warm.

O dear St. Andrews Bay,
    Winter or Spring
Gives not nor takes away
    M...

Robert Fuller Murray

A Late Good Night

My lamp is out, my task is done,
    And up the stair with lingering feet
I climb.    The staircase clock strikes one.
    Good night, my love! good night, my sweet!

My solitary room I gain.
    A single star makes incomplete
The blackness of the window pane.
    Good night, my love! good night, my sweet!

Dim and more dim its sparkle grows,
    And ere my head the pillows meet,
My lids are fain themselves to close.
    Good night, my love! good night, my sweet!

My lips no other words can say,
    But still they murmur and repeat
To you, who slumber far away,
    Good night, my love! good night, my sweet!

Robert Fuller Murray

A Lost Opportunity

One dark, dark night--it was long ago,
    The air was heavy and still and warm--
It fell to me and a man I know,
    To see two girls to their father's farm.

There was little seeing, that I recall:
    We seemed to grope in a cave profound.
They might have come by a painful fall,
    Had we not helped them over the ground.

The girls were sisters.    Both were fair,
    But mine was the fairer (so I say).
The dark soon severed us, pair from pair,
    And not long after we lost our way.

We wandered over the country-side,
    And we frightened most of the sheep about,
And I do not think that we greatly tried,
    Having lost our way, to find it out.

The night being fine, it was not worth while.
    We strayed through furrow and corn ...

Robert Fuller Murray

A Lover's Confession

When people tell me they have loved
    But once in youth,
I wonder, are they always moved
    To speak the truth?

Not that they wilfully deceive:
    They fondly cherish
A constancy which they would grieve
    To think might perish.

They cherish it until they think
    'Twas always theirs.
So, if the truth they sometimes blink,
    'Tis unawares.

Yet unawares, I must profess,
    They do deceive
Themselves, and those who questionless
    Their tale believe.

For I have loved, I freely own,
    A score of times,
And woven, out of love alone,
    A hundred rhymes.

Boys will be fickle.    Yet, when all
    Is said and done,
I was not one whom you could call
    A flirt--not one

Of those w...

Robert Fuller Murray

A May-Day Madrigal

The sun shines fair on Tweedside, the river flowing bright,
Your heart is full of pleasure, your eyes are full of light,
Your cheeks are like the morning, your pearls are like the dew,
Or morning and her dew-drops are like your pearls and you.

Because you are a princess, a princess of the land,
You will not turn your lightsome eyes a moment where I stand,
A poor unnoticed poet, a-making of his rhymes;
But I have found a mistress, more fair a thousand times.

'Tis May, the elfish maiden, the daughter of the Spring,
Upon whose birthday morning the birds delight to sing.
They would not sing one note for you, if you should so command,
Although you are a princess, a princess of the land.

Robert Fuller Murray

A New Song To An Old Tune--From Victor Hugo

If a pleasant lawn there grow
    By the showers caressed,
Where in all the seasons blow
    Flowers gaily dressed,
Where by handfuls one may win
Lilies, woodbine, jessamine,
I will make a path therein
    For thy feet to rest.

If there live in honour's sway
    An all-loving breast
Whose devotion cannot stray,
    Never gloom-oppressed--
If this noble breast still wake
For a worthy motive's sake,
There a pillow I will make
    For thy head to rest.

If there be a dream of love,
    Dream that God has blest,
Yielding daily treasure-trove
    Of delightful zest,
With the scent of roses filled,
With the soul's communion thrilled,
There, oh! there a nest I'll build
    For thy heart to rest.

Robert Fuller Murray

A Presentiment

It seems a little word to say--
    _Farewell_--but may it not, when said,
    Be like the kiss we give the dead,
Before they pass the doors for aye?

Who knows if, on some after day,
    Your lips shall utter in its stead
    A welcome, and the broken thread
Be joined again, the selfsame way?

The word is said, I turn to go,
    But on the threshold seem to hear
            A sound as of a passing bell,
Tolling monotonous and slow,
    Which strikes despair upon my ear,
            And says it is a last farewell.

Robert Fuller Murray

A Song Of Greek Prose

    Thrice happy are those
    Who ne'er heard of Greek Prose--
Or Greek Poetry either, as far as that goes;
    For Liddell and Scott
    Shall cumber them not,
Nor Sargent nor Sidgwick shall break their repose.

    But I, late at night,
    By the very bad light
Of very bad gas, must painfully write
    Some stuff that a Greek
    With his delicate cheek
Would smile at as 'barbarous'--faith, he well might.

    For when it is done,
    I doubt if, for one,
I myself could explain how the meaning might run;
    And as for the style--
    Well, it's hardly worth while
To talk about style, where style there is none.

    It was all very fine
    For a poet divine
Like Byron, to rave of Greek women and wine;
    But...

Robert Fuller Murray

A Song Of Truce

Till the tread of marching feet
Through the quiet grass-grown street
Of the little town shall come,
Soldier, rest awhile at home.

While the banners idly hang,
While the bugles do not clang,
While is hushed the clamorous drum,
Soldier, rest awhile at home.

In the breathing-time of Death,
While the sword is in its sheath,
While the cannon's mouth is dumb,
Soldier, rest awhile at home.

Not too long the rest shall be.
Soon enough, to Death and thee,
The assembly call shall come.
Soldier, rest awhile at home.

Robert Fuller Murray

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