 | Flower o' the thorn |  |
TIME AND HIS TENDERLINGS.
RHYTHM and rhyme
Are the roadmates of Time,
His wayfellows frolic and blithe are;
His tenderlings they,
With his forelock who play
And sport with his sandglass and scythe are.
Are the roadmates of Time,
His wayfellows frolic and blithe are;
His tenderlings they,
With his forelock who play
And sport with his sandglass and scythe are.
The tramp of his feet
Into music they beat
And vary the theme at their pleasure;
His dogged old trot,
An he will it or not,
They set to melodious measure.
Into music they beat
And vary the theme at their pleasure;
His dogged old trot,
An he will it or not,
They set to melodious measure.
His fingers and toes,
As he hobbles and goes,
With bangles and hawk-bells they trinket;
He well nigh forgets
His gout and his debts,
So blithely their castanets clink it.
As he hobbles and goes,
With bangles and hawk-bells they trinket;
He well nigh forgets
His gout and his debts,
So blithely their castanets clink it.
101
He'd dance, if he might,
To their tune of delight;
Nay, see but how nimbly he capers!
For all he is old,
With their tinkle of gold,
They've cured him of dumps and of vapours.
To their tune of delight;
Nay, see but how nimbly he capers!
For all he is old,
With their tinkle of gold,
They've cured him of dumps and of vapours.
Like kittens, now here,
As the maggot may spur,
Now there, round his footsteps they rollick.
No tittle there is
Of his wrinkled old phiz
But wreathed is with smiles for their frolic.
As the maggot may spur,
Now there, round his footsteps they rollick.
No tittle there is
Of his wrinkled old phiz
But wreathed is with smiles for their frolic.
His hourglass they hide
With their flowers, so his stride
He no more can measure to curse us;
There's never a whit
Of his scythe-blade, but it
With tendrils is wreathed, like a thyrsus.
With their flowers, so his stride
He no more can measure to curse us;
There's never a whit
Of his scythe-blade, but it
With tendrils is wreathed, like a thyrsus.
He trips, till you'd think
He had taken to drink,
So merry he is with the metre.
What lost is to-day
He must make up by way
Of robbing of Paul to pay Peter.
He had taken to drink,
So merry he is with the metre.
What lost is to-day
He must make up by way
Of robbing of Paul to pay Peter.
He never can find
In his heart or his mind
To part with his mettlesome pages;
And that is why Time
Ever tenders true rhyme
And carries it on through the ages.
In his heart or his mind
To part with his mettlesome pages;
And that is why Time
Ever tenders true rhyme
And carries it on through the ages.
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