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IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 127 |
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Wifeless, friendless, flagonless, alone —
Not quite bookless, though, unless I choose —
Left with naught to do, except to groan, Not a soul to woo, except the Muse—
Oh ! this is hard for me to bear,
Me, who whilome lived so much en haut,
Me, who broke all hearts like China ware, Twenty golden years ago !
Perhaps 'tis better—time's defacing waves
Long have quenched the radiance of my brow— They who curse me nightly from their graves
Scarce could love me were they living now. But my loneliness hath darker ills —
Such dun duns as Conscience, Thought, and Co., Awful Gorgons ! worse than tailors' bills
Twenty golden years ago !
Did I paint a fifth of what I feel,
Oh, how plaintive you would ween I was! But I won.'t, albeit I have a deal
More to wail about than Kerner has ! Kerner's tears are wept for withered flowers,
Mine for withered hopes—my scroll of woe Dates, alas ! from youth's deserted bowers,
Twenty golden years ago !
Yet, may Deutschland's bardlings flourish long;
Me, I tweak no beak among them—hawks Must not pounce on hawks : besides, in song
I could once beat all of them by chalks. Though you find'me, as I near my goal, |
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