Poems by Sir Alfred C. Lyall Revised and Slightly Enlarged from "Verses Written in India" (Sixth Edition) |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
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| I. |
| II. |
| XVI. |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. | V.—Eheu! fugaces, Posthume, Posthume! |
 | Poems by Sir Alfred C. Lyall |  |
149
V.—Eheu! fugaces, Posthume, Posthume!
Lib. II., Ode XIV.
Alas, old friend, that each year
Of our life is rapidly flying!
No charity softens the sentence drear
Of wrinkles, and age, and dying.
Of our life is rapidly flying!
No charity softens the sentence drear
Of wrinkles, and age, and dying.
You may fill with gold the church plate
Each Sabbath-day morn in the portal,
You can never appease remorseless Fate,
Who laughs at the tears of a mortal.
Each Sabbath-day morn in the portal,
You can never appease remorseless Fate,
Who laughs at the tears of a mortal.
Monarchs and warriors stout,
She holds them all in her tether,
So whether you now be a lord or a lout,
We must travel that road together.
She holds them all in her tether,
So whether you now be a lord or a lout,
We must travel that road together.
A prince of lofty birth,
Or a half-starved labouring slave,
You've had your share of the bountiful earth.
You'll both be one in the grave.
Or a half-starved labouring slave,
150
You'll both be one in the grave.
In vain you keep clear of your foes,
Are cautious in crossing the Channel,
Stay at home when the piercing east wind blows,
And wrap up your chest in flannel.
Are cautious in crossing the Channel,
Stay at home when the piercing east wind blows,
And wrap up your chest in flannel.
You must go from your hall and estate,
Of your loving wife they'll bereave you;
They may plant some yew at the sepulchre gate,
But that will be all they'll leave you.
Of your loving wife they'll bereave you;
They may plant some yew at the sepulchre gate,
But that will be all they'll leave you.
The heir will inherit your keys,
And deep from the bins he'll fish up
The Madeira you thought to drink at your ease,
And port laid down for the Bishop.
And deep from the bins he'll fish up
The Madeira you thought to drink at your ease,
And port laid down for the Bishop.
| Poems by Sir Alfred C. Lyall | |