Andrew Lang

(31 March 1844 - 20 July 1912 / Selkirk, Scotland)

Andrew Lang Poems

1. Young Bicham 4/20/2010
2. Waly, Waly 4/20/2010
3. Partant Pour La Scribie 4/20/2010
4. Sir Hugh; Or The Jew's Daughter 4/20/2010
5. Woman And The Weed 4/20/2010
6. Villion's Ballade Of Good Counsel, To His Friends Of Evil Life 4/20/2010
7. Edward, Edward 4/20/2010
8. Traditionary Version 4/20/2010
9. Valentine In Form Of Ballade 4/20/2010
10. In Ithaca 4/20/2010
11. Robin Hood And The Monk 4/20/2010
12. Willie's Ladye 4/20/2010
13. Natural Theology 4/20/2010
14. Johnie Faa 4/20/2010
15. Les Roses De Sâdi 1/1/2004
16. Kinmont Willie 4/20/2010
17. Love Gregor; Or, The Lass Of Lochroyan 4/20/2010
18. Robin Hood And The Potter 4/20/2010
19. Sir Roland 4/20/2010
20. The Dowie Dens Of Yarrow 4/20/2010
21. The Heir Of Lynne 4/20/2010
22. Rose The Red And White Lily 4/20/2010
23. May Colven 4/20/2010
24. Homer 4/20/2010
25. Melville And Coghill - The Place Of The Little Hand 1/1/2004
26. The Bonnie Earl Moray 4/20/2010
27. Lord Thomas And Fair Annet 4/20/2010
28. The Broomfield Hill 4/20/2010
29. Spring 4/20/2010
30. The Laird Of Waristoun 4/20/2010
31. Villanelle 4/20/2010
32. Benedetta Ramus 4/20/2010
33. San Terenzo 1/1/2004
34. Jamie Telfer 4/20/2010
35. Rob Roy 4/20/2010
36. Mary Ambree 4/20/2010
37. Gordon Of Brackley 4/20/2010
38. The Battle Of Harlaw--Evergreen Version 4/20/2010
39. Robin Hood And The Butcher 4/20/2010
40. Jock O The Side 4/20/2010
Best Poem of Andrew Lang

Aesop

HE sat among the woods; he heard
The sylvan merriment; he saw
The pranks of butterfly and bird,
The humors of the ape, the daw.

And in the lion or the frog,—
In all the life of moor and fen,—
In ass and peacock, stork and dog,
He read similitudes of men.

“Of these, from those,” he cried, “we come,
Our hearts, our brains descend from these.”
And, lo! the Beasts no more were dumb,
But answered out of brakes and trees:

“Not ours,” they cried; “Degenerate,
If ours at all,” they cried again,
“Ye fools, who ...

Read the full of Aesop

Scythe Song

MOWERS, weary and brown, and blithe,
What is the word methinks ye know,
Endless over-word that the Scythe
Sings to the blades of the grass below?
Scythes that swing in the grass and clover,
Something, still, they say as they pass;
What is the word that, over and over,
Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass?

[Hata Bildir]