 | The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard |  |
THE KING IS COLD.
Rake the embers, blow the coals,
Kindle at once a roaring fire.
Here's some paper. 'Tis nothing, Sire.
Light it. (They've saved a thousand souls!)
Run for fagots, you scurvy knaves,
There are plenty out in the public square,
You know they fry the heretics there:
(But God remembers their nameless graves!)
Fly, fly, or the King may die!
Ugh! his royal feet are like snow,
And the cold is mounting up to his heart,
(But that was frozen long ago!)
Rascals, varlets, do as you're told—
The King is cold.
Kindle at once a roaring fire.
Here's some paper. 'Tis nothing, Sire.
Light it. (They've saved a thousand souls!)
Run for fagots, you scurvy knaves,
There are plenty out in the public square,
You know they fry the heretics there:
(But God remembers their nameless graves!)
Fly, fly, or the King may die!
Ugh! his royal feet are like snow,
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(But that was frozen long ago!)
Rascals, varlets, do as you're told—
The King is cold.
His bed of state is a grand affair,
With sheets of satin and pillows of down,
And close beside it stands the crown;
But that won't keep him from dying there.
His hands are wrinkled, his hair is gray,
And his ancient blood is sluggish and thin;
When he was young it was hot with sin,
But that is over this many a day.
Under these sheets of satin and lace
He slept in the arms of his concubines;
Now they rouse with the Prince instead,
Drinking the maddest, merriest wines.
It's pleasant to hear such catches trolled,
Now the King is cold.
With sheets of satin and pillows of down,
And close beside it stands the crown;
But that won't keep him from dying there.
His hands are wrinkled, his hair is gray,
And his ancient blood is sluggish and thin;
When he was young it was hot with sin,
But that is over this many a day.
Under these sheets of satin and lace
He slept in the arms of his concubines;
Now they rouse with the Prince instead,
Drinking the maddest, merriest wines.
It's pleasant to hear such catches trolled,
Now the King is cold.
What shall I do with his Majesty now?
For, thanks to my potion, the man is dead.
Suppose I bolster him up in bed,
And fix the crown again on his brow?
That would be merry! But then the Prince
Would tumble it down, I know, in a trice:
It would puzzle the Devil to name a vice
That would make his excellent Highness wince.
But hark, he's coming, I know his step:
He's stealing to see if his wishes are true.
Ah, Sire, may your father's end be yours.
(With just such a son to murder you!)
Peace to the dead! Let the bells be tolled,
The King is cold!
For, thanks to my potion, the man is dead.
Suppose I bolster him up in bed,
And fix the crown again on his brow?
That would be merry! But then the Prince
Would tumble it down, I know, in a trice:
It would puzzle the Devil to name a vice
That would make his excellent Highness wince.
But hark, he's coming, I know his step:
He's stealing to see if his wishes are true.
Ah, Sire, may your father's end be yours.
(With just such a son to murder you!)
Peace to the dead! Let the bells be tolled,
The King is cold!
| The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard | |