 | Collected poems |  |
546
A BALLAD OF INCAPACITY
“My Lord, I cannot speak.”
—Maclean the Highwayman (on his trial).
“Silence is golden,” saith the saw,
And rightly is extolled;
For Speech, too oft, outrides the law
By waxing overbold:
Yet he, I think (of mortal mould!)
Most needs the aid of “cheek,”—
The man who can no tale unfold,—
The man who cannot speak!
And rightly is extolled;
For Speech, too oft, outrides the law
By waxing overbold:
Yet he, I think (of mortal mould!)
Most needs the aid of “cheek,”—
The man who can no tale unfold,—
The man who cannot speak!
He listens with a kind of awe,
And hears around him rolled
The long, reverberate guffaw
That greets the quicker-souled;
He hears the jest, or new or old,
And mutely eats his “leek,”—
Is classed as either dull or cold,—
The man who cannot speak!
And hears around him rolled
The long, reverberate guffaw
That greets the quicker-souled;
He hears the jest, or new or old,
And mutely eats his “leek,”—
Is classed as either dull or cold,—
The man who cannot speak!
He may have “Latin in his mawe,”
He may keep down controlled
Potentialities of “jaw”
Unmatched by any scold;
He may have thoughts of sterling gold
For each day in the week;
But he must all these things withhold,—
The man who cannot speak.
He may keep down controlled
Potentialities of “jaw”
Unmatched by any scold;
He may have thoughts of sterling gold
547
But he must all these things withhold,—
The man who cannot speak.
ENVOY.
Friends, 'tis of me the fable's told;Your sufferance I seek;
In me that shameless sight behold,—
The man who cannot speak!
1901.
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