The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 14

Dear Thamson class, whaure’er I gangIt aye comes ower me wi’ a spang:“Lordsake! thae Thamson lads – (deil hangOr else Lord mend them!) —An’ that wanchancy annual sangI ne’er can send them!”Straucht, at the name, a trusty tyke,My conscience girrs ahint the dyke;Straucht on my hinderlands I fykeTo find a rhyme t’ ye;Pleased – although mebbe no’ pleased-like —To gie my time t’ ye.“Weel,” an’ says you, wi’ heavin’ breist,“Sae far, sae guid, but what’s the neist?Yearly we gather to the feast,A’ hopefü’ men —Yearly we skelloch ’Hang the beast —Nae sang again!’”My lads, an’ what am I to say?Ye shürely ken the Muse’s way:Yestreen, as gleg’s a tyke – the day,Thrawn like a cuddy:Her conduc’, that to her’s a play,Deith to a body.Aft whan I sat an’ made my mane,Aft whan I laboured burd-alaneFishin’ for rhymes an’ findin’ nane,Or nane were fit for ye —Ye judged me cauld’s a chucky-stane —No car’n’ a bit for ye!But saw ye ne’er some pingein’ bairnAs weak as a pitaty-par’n’ —Less üsed wi’ guidin’ horse-shoe aimThan steerin’ crowdie —Packed aff his lane, by moss an’ cairn,To ca’ the howdie.Wae’s me, for the puir callant than!He wambles like a poke o’ bran,An’ the lowse rein, as hard’s he can,Pu’s, trem’lin’ handit;Till, blaff! upon his hinderlan’Behauld him landit.Sic-like – I awn the weary fac’ —Whan on my muse the gate I tak’,An’ see her gleed e’e raxin’ backTo keek ahint her; —To me, the brig o’ Heev’n gangs blackAs blackest winter.“Lordsake! we’re aff,” thinks I, “but whaur?On what abhorred an’ whinny scaur,Or whammled in what sea o’ glaur,Will she desert me?An’ will she just disgrace? or waur —Will she no’ hurt me?”Kittle the quære! But at leastThe day I’ve backed the fashious beast,While she, wi’ mony a spang an’ reist,Flang heels ower bonnet;An’ a’ triumphant – for your feast,Hae! there’s your sonnet!

XI

EMBRO HIE KIRK

The Lord Himsel’ in former daysWaled out the proper tunes for praiseAn’ named the proper kind o’ claesFor folk to preach in:Preceese and in the chief o’ waysImportant teachin’.He ordered a’ things late and air’;He ordered folk to stand at prayer(Although I canna just mind whereHe gave the warnin’),An’ pit pomatum on their hairOn Sabbath mornin’.The hale o’ life by His commandsWas ordered to a body’s hands;But see! this corpus juris standsBy a’ forgotten;An’ God’s religion in a’ landsIs deid an’ rotten.While thus the lave o’ mankind’s lost,O’ Scotland still God maks His boast —Puir Scotland, on whase barren coastA score or twaAuld wives wi’ mutches an’ a hoastStill keep His law.In Scotland, a wheen canty, plain,Douce, kintry-leevin’ folk retainThe Truth – or did so aince – alaneOf a’ men leevin’;An’ noo just twa o’ them remain —Just Begg an’ Niven.For noo, unfaithfü’ to the Lord,Auld Scotland joins the rebel horde;Her human hymn-books on the boardShe noo displays:An’ Embro Hie Kirk’s been restoredIn popish ways.O punctum temporis for actionTo a’ o’ the reformin’ faction,If yet, by ony act or paction,Thocht, word, or sermon,This dark an’ damnable transactionMicht yet determine!For see – as Doctor Begg explains —Hoo easy ’t’s düne! a pickle weans,Wha in the Hie Street gaither stanesBy his instruction,The uncovenantit, pentit panesDing to destruction.Up, Niven, or ower late – an’ dashLaigh in the glaur that carnal hash;Let spires and pews wi’ gran’ stramashThegither fa’;The rumlin’ kist o’ whustles smashIn pieces sma’.Noo choose ye out a walie hammer;About the knottit buttress clam’er;Alang the steep roof stoyt an’ stammer,A gate mischancy;On the aul’ spire, the bells’ hie cha’mer,Dance your bit dancie.Ding, devel, dunt, destroy, an’ ruin,Wi’ carnal stanes the square bestrewn’,Till your loud chaps frae Kyle to Fruin,Frae Hell to Heeven,Tell the guid wark that baith are doin’ —Baith Begg an’ Niven.

XII

THE SCOTSMAN’S RETURN FROM ABROAD

IN A LETTER FROM MR. THOMSON TO MR. JOHNSTONEIn mony a foreign pairt I’ve been,An’ mony an unco ferlie seen,Since, Mr. Johnstone, you and I,Last walkit upon Cocklerye.Wi’ gleg, observant een, I pass’tBy sea an’ land, through East an’ Wast,And still in ilka age an’ stationSaw naething but abomination.In thir uncovenantit landsThe gangrel Scot uplifts his handsAt lack of a’ sectarian füsh’n,An’ cauld religious destitütion.He rins, puir man, frae place to place,Tries a’ their graceless means o’ grace,Preacher on preacher, kirk on kirk —This yin a stot an’ thon a stirk —A bletherin’ clan, no warth a preen.As bad as Smith of Aiberdeen!At last, across the weary faem,Frae far, outlandish pairts I came.On ilka side o’ me I fandFresh tokens o’ my native land.Wi’ whatna joy I hailed them a’ —The hill-taps standin’ raw by raw,The public-house, the Hielan’ birks,And a’ the bonny U.P. kirks!But maistly thee, the bluid o’ Scots,Frae Maidenkirk to John o’ Groats!The king o’ drinks, as I conceive it,Talisker, Isla, or Glenlivet!For after years wi’ a pockmantieFrae Zanzibar to Alicante,In mony a fash and sair afflictionI gie’t as my sincere conviction —Of a’ their foreign tricks an’ pliskies,I maist abominate their whiskies.Nae doot, themsel’s, they ken it weel,An’ wi’ a hash o’ leemon peel,And ice an’ siccan filth, they ettleThe stawsome kind o’ goo to settleSic wersh apothecary’s broos wi’As Scotsmen scorn to fyle their moo’s wi’.An’, man, I was a blithe hame-comerWhan first I syndit out my rummer.Ye should hae seen me then, wi’ careThe less important pairts prepare;Syne, weel contentit wi’ it a’,Pour in the speerits wi’ a jaw!I didna drink, I didna speak, —I only snowkit up the reek.I was sae pleased therein to paidle,I sat an’ plowtered wi’ my ladle.An’ blithe was I, the morrow’s morn,To daunder through the stookit corn,And after a’ my strange mishantersSit doun amang my ain dissentersAn’, man, it was a joy to meThe pu’pit an’ the pews to see,The pennies dirlin’ in the plate,The elders lookin’ on in state;An’ ’mang the first, as it befell,Wha should I see, sir, but yoursel’!I was, and I will no’ deny it,At the first gliff a hantle tryitTo see yoursel’ in sic a station —It seemed a doubtfü’ dispensation.The feelin’ was a mere digression;For shüne I understood the session,An’ mindin’ Aiken an’ M’Neil,I wondered they had düne sae weel.I saw I had mysel’ to blame;For had I but remained at hame,Aiblins – though no ava’ deservin’ ’t —They micht hae named your humble servant.The kirk was filled, the door was steiked;Up to the pu’pit aince I keeked;I was mair pleased than I can tell —It was the minister himsel’!Proud, proud was I to see his face,After sae lang awa’ frae grace.Pleased as I was, I’m no’ denyin’Some maitters were not edifyin’;For first I fand – an’ here was news! —Mere hymn-books cockin’ in the pews —A humanised abomination,Unfit for ony congregation.Syne, while I still was on the tenter,I scunnered at the new prezentor;I thocht him gesterin’ an’ cauld —A sair declension frae the auld.Syne, as though a’ the faith was wreckit,The prayer was not what I’d exspeckit.Himsel’, as it appeared to me,Was no’ the man he üsed to be.But just as I was growin’ vextHe waled a maist judeecious text,An’, launchin’ into his prelections,Swoopt, wi’ a skirl, on a’ defections.O what a gale was on my speeritTo hear the p’ints o’ doctrine clearit,And a’ the horrors o’ damnationSet furth wi’ faithfü’ ministration!Nae shauchlin’ testimony here —We were a’ damned, an’ that was clear.I owned, wi’ gratitude an’ wonder,He was a pleesure to sit under.

XIII

Late in the nicht in bed I lay,The winds were at their weary play,An’ tirlin’ wa’s an’ skirlin’ waeThrough Heev’n they battered; —On-ding o’ hail, on-blaff o’ spray,The tempest blattered.The masoned house it dinled through;It dung the ship, it cowped the coo;The rankit aiks it overthrew,Had braved a’ weathers;The strang sea-gleds it took an’ blewAwa’ like feethers.The thrawes o’ fear on a’ were shed,An’ the hair rose, an’ slumber fled,An’ lichts were lit an’ prayers were saidThrough a’ the kintry;An’ the cauld terror clum in bedWi’ a’ an’ sindry.To hear in the pit-mirk on hieThe brangled collieshangie flie,The warl’, they thocht, wi’ land an’ sea,Itsel’ wad cowpit;An’ for auld airn, the smashed débrisBy God be rowpit.Meanwhile frae far AldeboranTo folks wi’ talescopes in han’,O’ ships that cowpit, winds that ran,Nae sign was seen,But the wee warl’ in sunshine spanAs bricht’s a preen.I, tae, by God’s especial grace,Dwall denty in a bieldy place,Wi’ hosened feet, wi’ shaven face,Wi’ dacent mainners:A grand example to the raceO’ tautit sinners!The wind may blaw, the heathen rage,The deil may start on the rampage; —The sick in bed, the thief in cage —What’s a’ to me?Cosh in my house, a sober sage,I sit an’ see.An’ whiles the bluid spangs to my bree,To lie sae saft, to live sae free,While better men maun do an’ dieIn unco places.“Whaur’s God?” I cry, an’ “Whae is meTo hae sic graces?”I mind the fecht the sailors keep,But fire or can’le, rest or sleep,In darkness an’ the muckle deep;An’ mind besideThe herd that on the hills o’ sheepHas wandered wide.I mind me on the hoastin’ weans —The penny joes on causey-stanes —The auld folk wi’ the crazy banes,Baith auld an’ puir,That aye maun thole the winds an’ rainsAn’ labour sair.An’ whiles I’m kind o’ pleased a blink,An’ kind o’ fleyed forby, to think,For a’ my rowth o’ meat an’ drinkAn’ waste o’ crumb,I’ll mebbe have to thole wi’ skinkIn Kingdom Come.For God whan jowes the Judgment bellWi’ His ain Hand, His Leevin’ Sel’,Sall ryve the guid (as Prophets tell)Frae them that had it;And in the reamin’ pat o’ Hell,The rich be scaddit.O Lord, if this indeed be sae,Let daw’ that sair an’ happy day!Again the warl’, grawn auld an’ grey,Up wi’ your aixe!An’ let the puir enjoy their play —I’ll thole my paiks.

XIV

MY CONSCIENCE!

Of a’ the ills that flesh can fear,The loss o’ frien’s, the lack o’ gear,A yowlin’ tyke, a glandered mear,A lassie’s nonsense —There’s just ae thing I canna bear,An’ that’s my conscience.Whan day (an’ a’ excüse) has gane,An’ wark is düne, and duty’s plain,An’ to my chalmer a’ my laneI creep apairt,My conscience! hoo the yammerin’ painStends to my heart!A’ day wi’ various ends in view,The hairsts o’ time I had to pu’,An’ made a hash wad staw a soo,Let be a man! —My conscience! whan my han’s were fu’,Whaur were ye than?An’ there were a’ the lures o’ life,There pleesure skirlin’ on the fife,There anger, wi’ the hotchin’ knifeGround shairp in Hell —My conscience! – you that’s like a wife! —Whaur was yoursel’?I ken it fine: just waitin’ here,To gar the evil waur appear,To clart the guid, confüse the clear,Misca’ the great,My conscience! an’ to raise a steerWhan a’s ower late.Sic-like, some tyke grawn auld and blind,Whan thieves brok’ through the gear to p’ind,Has lain his dozened length an’ grinnedAt the disaster;An’ the morn’s mornin’, wud’s the wind,Yokes on his master.

XV

TO DOCTOR JOHN BROWN

Whan the dear doctor, dear to a’,Was still among us here belaw,I set my pipes his praise to blawWi’ a’ my speerit;But noo, dear doctor! he’s awa’An’ ne’er can hear it.By Lyne and Tyne, by Thames and Tees,By a’ the various river Dee’s,In Mars and Manors ’yont the seasOr here at hame,Whaure’er there’s kindly folk to please,They ken your name.They ken your name, they ken your tyke,They ken the honey from your byke;But mebbe after a’ your fyke,(The trüth to tell)It’s just your honest Rab they like,An’ no’ yoursel’.As at the gowff, some canny play’rShould tee a common ba’ wi’ care —Should flourish and deleever fairHis souple shintie —An’ the ba’ rise into the air,A leevin’ lintie:Sae in the game we writers play,There comes to some a bonny day,When a dear ferlie shall repayTheir years o’ strife,An’ like your Rab, their things o’ claySpreid wings o’ life.Ye scarce deserved it, I’m afraid —You that had never learned the trade,But just some idle mornin’ strayedInto the schüle,An’ picked the fiddle up an’ playedLike Neil himsel’.Your e’e was gleg, your fingers dink;Ye didna fash yoursel’ to think,But wove, as fast as puss can link,Your denty wab: —Ye stapped your pen into the ink,An’ there was Rab!Sinsyne, whaure’er your fortune layBy dowie den, by canty brae,Simmer an’ winter, nicht an’ day,Rab was aye wi’ ye;An’ a’ the folk on a’ the wayWere blithe to see ye.O sir, the gods are kind indeed,An’ hauld ye for an honoured heid,That for a wee bit clarkit screedSae weel reward ye,An’ lend – puir Rabbie bein’ deid —His ghaist to guard ye.For though, whaure’er yoursel’ may be,We’ve just to turn an’ glisk a wee,An’ Rab at heel we’re shüre to seeWi’ gladsome caper: —The bogle of a bogle, he —A ghaist o’ paper!And as the auld-farrant hero seesIn Hell a bogle Hercules,Pit there the lesser deid to please,While he himsel’Dwalls wi’ the muckle gods at easeFar raised frae Hell:Sae the true Rabbie far has ganeOn kindlier business o’ his ainWi’ aulder frien’s; an’ his breist-baneAn’ stumpie tailie,He birstles at a new hearth-staneBy James and Ailie.

XVI

It’s an owercome sooth for age an’ youth,And it brooks wi’ nae denial,That the dearest friends are the auldest friends,And the young are just on trial.There’s a rival bauld wi’ young an’ auld,And it’s him that has bereft me;For the sürest friends are the auldest friends,And the maist o’ mine’s hae left me.There are kind hearts still, for friends to fillAnd fools to take and break them;But the nearest friends are the auldest friends,And the grave’s the place to seek them.

BALLADS

THE SONG OF RAHÉRO

A LEGEND OF TAHITI

TOORI A ORIOri, my brother in the island mode,In every tongue and meaning much my friend,This story of your country and your clan,In your loved house, your too much honoured guest,I made in English. Take it, being done;And let me sign it with the name you gave.TERIITERA.

I

THE SLAYING OF TÁMATÉA

It fell in the days of old, as the men of Taiárapu tell,A youth went forth to the fishing, and fortune favoured him well.Támatéa his name: gullible, simple, and kind.Comely of countenance, nimble of body, empty of mind,His mother ruled him and loved him beyond the wont of a wife,Serving the lad for eyes and living herself in his life.Alone from the sea and the fishing came Támatéa the fair,Urging his boat to the beach, and the mother awaited him there.– “Long may you live!” said she. “Your fishing has sped to a wish.And now let us choose for the king the fairest of all your fish.For fear inhabits the palace and grudging grows in the land,Marked is the sluggardly foot and marked the niggardly hand,The hours and the miles are counted, the tributes numbered and weighed,And woe to him that comes short, and woe to him that delayed!”So spoke on the beach the mother, and counselled the wiser thing.For Rahéro stirred in the country and secretly mined the king.Nor were the signals wanting of how the leaven wrought,In the cords of obedience loosed and the tributes grudgingly brought.And when last to the temple of Oro the boat with the victim sped,And the priest uncovered the basket and looked on the face of the dead,Trembling fell upon all at sight of an ominous thing,For there was the aito3 dead, and he of the house of the king.So spake on the beach the mother, matter worthy of note,And wattled a basket well, and chose a fish from the boat;And Támatéa the pliable shouldered the basket and went,And travelled, and sang as he travelled, a lad that was well content.Still the way of his going was round by the roaring coast,Where the ring of the reef is broke and the trades run riot the most.On his left, with smoke as of battle, the billows battered the land;Unscalable, turreted mountains rose on the inner hand.And cape, and village, and river, and vale, and mountain above,Each had a name in the land for men to remember and love;And never the name of a place, but lo! a song in its praise:Ancient and unforgotten, songs of the earlier daysThat the elders taught to the young, and at night, in the full of the moon,Garlanded boys and maidens sang together in tune.Támatéa the placable went with a lingering foot;He sang as loud as a bird, he whistled hoarse as a flute;He broiled in the sun, he breathed in the grateful shadow of trees,In the icy stream of the rivers he waded over the knees;And still in his empty mind crowded, a thousand-fold,The deeds of the strong and the songs of the cunning heroes of old.And now was he come to a place Taiárapu honoured the most,Where a silent valley of woods debouched on the noisy coast,Spewing a level river. There was a haunt of Pai.4There, in his potent youth, when his parents drove him to die,Honoura lived like a beast, lacking the lamp and the fire,Washed by the rains of the trade and clotting his hair in the mire;And there, so mighty his hands, he bent the tree to his foot —So keen the spur of his hunger, he plucked it naked of fruit.There, as she pondered the clouds for the shadow of coming ills,Ahupu, the woman of song, walked on high on the hills.Of these was Rahéro sprung, a man of a godly race;And inherited cunning of spirit, and beauty of body and face.Of yore in his youth, as an aito, Rahéro wandered the land,Delighting maids with his tongue, smiting men with his hand.Famous he was in his youth; but before the midst of his lifePaused, and fashioned a song of farewell to glory and strife.House of mine (it went), house upon the sea,Belov’d of all my fathers, more belov’d by me!Vale of the strong Honoura, deep ravine of Pai,Again in your woody summits I hear the trade-wind cry.House of mine, in your walls, strong sounds the sea,Of all sounds on earth, dearest sound to me.I have heard the applause of men, I have heard it arise and die:Sweeter now in my house I hear the trade-wind cry.These were the words of his singing, other the thought of his heart;For secret desire of glory vexed him, dwelling apart.Lazy and crafty he was, and loved to lie in the sun,And loved the cackle of talk and the true word uttered in fun;Lazy he was, his roof was ragged, his table was lean,And the fish swam safe in his sea, and he gathered the near and the green.He sat in his house and laughed, but he loathed the king of the land,And he uttered the grudging word under the covering hand.Treason spread from his door; and he looked for a day to come,A day of the crowding people, a day of the summoning drum,When the vote should be taken, the king be driven forth in disgrace,And Rahéro, the laughing and lazy, sit and rule in his place.Here Támatéa came, and beheld the house on the brook;And Rahéro was there by the way and covered an oven to cook.5Naked he was to the loins, but the tattoo covered the lack,And the sun and the shadow of palms dappled his muscular back.Swiftly he lifted his head at the fall of the coming feet,And the water sprang in his mouth with a sudden desire of meat:For he marked the basket carried, covered from flies and the sun;6And Rahéro buried his fire, but the meat in his house was done.Forth he stepped; and took, and delayed the boy, by the hand;And vaunted the joys of meat and the ancient ways of the land:– “Our sires of old in Taiárapu, they that created the race,Ate ever with eager hand, nor regarded season or place,Ate in the boat at the oar, on the way afoot; and at nightArose in the midst of dreams to rummage the house for a bite.It is good for the youth in his turn to follow the way of the sire;And behold how fitting the time! for here do I cover my fire.”– “I see the fire for the cooking, but never the meat to cook,”Said Támatéa. – “Tut!” said Rahéro. “Here in the brook,And there in the tumbling sea, the fishes are thick as flies,Hungry like healthy men, and like pigs for savour and size:Crayfish crowding the river, sea-fish thronging the sea.”– “Well, it may be,” says the other, “and yet be nothing to me.Fain would I eat, but alas! I have needful matter in hand,Since I carry my tribute of fish to the jealous king of the land.”Now at the word a light sprang in Rahéro’s eyes.“I will gain me a dinner,” thought he, “and lend the king a surprise.”And he took the lad by the arm, as they stood by the side of the track,And smiled, and rallied, and flattered, and pushed him forward and back.It was “You that sing like a bird, I never have heard you sing,”And “The lads when I was a lad were none so feared of a king.And of what account is an hour, when the heart is empty of guile?But come, and sit in the house and laugh with the women awhile;And I will but drop my hook, and behold! the dinner made.”So Támatéa the pliable hung up his fish in the shadeOn a tree by the side of the way; and Rahéro carried him in,Smiling as smiles the fowler when flutters the bird to the gin,And chose him a shining hook,7 and viewed it with sedulous eye,And breathed and burnished it well on the brawn of his naked thigh,And set a mat for the gull, and bade him be merry and bide,Like a man concerned for his guest, and the fishing, and nothing beside.Now when Rahéro was forth, he paused and hearkened, and heardThe gull jest in the house and the women laugh at his word;And stealthily crossed to the side of the way, to the shady placeWhere the basket hung on a mango; and craft transfigured his face.Deftly he opened the basket, and took of the fat of the fish,The cut of kings and chieftains, enough for a goodly dish.This he wrapped in a leaf, set on the fire to cook,And buried; and next the marred remains of the tribute he took,And doubled and packed them well, and covered the basket close.– “There is a buffet, my king,” quoth he, “and a nauseous dose!” —And hung the basket again in the shade, in a cloud of flies;– “And there is a sauce to your dinner, king of the crafty eyes!”Soon as the oven was open, the fish smelt excellent good.In the shade, by the house of Rahéro, down they sat to their food,And cleared the leaves,8 in silence, or uttered a jest and laughedAnd raising the cocoa-nut bowls, buried their faces and quaffed.But chiefly in silence they ate; and soon as the meal was done,Rahéro feigned to remember and measured the hour by the sunAnd “Támatéa,” quoth he, “it is time to be jogging, my lad.”So Támatéa arose, doing ever the thing he was bade,And carelessly shouldered the basket, and kindly saluted his host;And again the way of his going was round by the roaring coast.Long he went; and at length was aware of a pleasant green,And the stems and shadows of palms, and roofs of lodges between.There sate, in the door of his palace, the king on a kingly seat,And aitos stood armed around, and the yottowas9 sat at his feet.But fear was a worm in his heart: fear darted his eyes;And he probed men’s faces for treasons and pondered their speech for lies.To him came Támatéa, the basket slung in his hand,And paid him the due obeisance standing as vassals stand.In silence hearkened the king, and closed the eyes in his face,Harbouring odious thoughts and the baseless fears of the base;In silence accepted the gift and sent the giver away.So Támatéa departed, turning his back on the day.And lo! as the king sat brooding, a rumour rose in the crowd;The yottowas nudged and whispered, the commons murmured aloud;Tittering fell upon all at sight of the impudent thing,At the sight of a gift unroyal flung in the face of a king.And the face of the king turned white and red with anger and shameIn their midst; and the heart in his body was water and then was flame;Till of a sudden, turning, he gripped an aito hard,A youth that stood with his ómare,10 one of the daily guard,And spat in his ear a command, and pointed and uttered a name,And hid in the shade of the house his impotent anger and shame.Now Támatéa the fool was far on his homeward way,The rising night in his face, behind him the dying day.Rahéro saw him go by, and the heart of Rahéro was glad,Devising shame to the king and nowise harm to the lad;And all that dwelt by the way saw and saluted him well,For he had the face of a friend and the news of the town to tell;And pleased with the notice of folk, and pleased that his journey was done,Támatéa drew homeward, turning his back to the sun.And now was the hour of the bath in Taiárapu: far and nearThe lovely laughter of bathers rose and delighted his ear.Night massed in the valleys; the sun on the mountain coastStruck, end-long; and above the clouds embattled their host,And glowed and gloomed on the heights; and the heads of the palms were gems,And far to the rising eve extended the shade of their stems;And the shadow of Támatéa hovered already at home.And sudden the sound of one coming and running light as the foamStruck on his ear; and he turned, and lo! a man on his track,Girded and armed with an ómare, following hard at his back.At a bound the man was upon him; – and, or ever a word was said,The loaded end of the ómare fell and laid him dead.