Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold By "F. Harald Williams"[i.e. F. W. O. Ward]. First Edition |
 |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
|
| IV. |
| V. |
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
DEAF DAVE. |
 | Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold |  |
464
DEAF DAVE.
Wee deaf Dave
From the grave
Just keeps out, and no more;
And the death at no distance
He knew long before,
Though no hand is stretched out once to offer assistance;
He is chary of tongue,
And has never been young;
He was born in the world quite a hundred years old,
And has now more than doubled
That babe life so troubled;
He's always athirst and is always acold.
From the grave
Just keeps out, and no more;
And the death at no distance
He knew long before,
Though no hand is stretched out once to offer assistance;
He is chary of tongue,
And has never been young;
He was born in the world quite a hundred years old,
And has now more than doubled
That babe life so troubled;
He's always athirst and is always acold.
Wee deaf Dave
Smells the grave
Yawning close at his side,
As the heretic faggots
That chasten his pride;
And around him and over him tumble the maggots,
He dreams in the dark
Shutting in with no spark;
In that ominous realm where the sounds are as ghosts
Far away, and a curtain
Descends on uncertain
Existence that's haunted with shades of dead hosts.
Smells the grave
Yawning close at his side,
As the heretic faggots
That chasten his pride;
And around him and over him tumble the maggots,
He dreams in the dark
Shutting in with no spark;
In that ominous realm where the sounds are as ghosts
Far away, and a curtain
Descends on uncertain
Existence that's haunted with shades of dead hosts.
Wee deaf Dave
Loves the grave,
And his favourite perch
Is a jolly tall tombstone
Beside the grey church,
Where he trusts soon to hear the great trumpet of doom's tone;
He's blasted and thin,
Only bones and the skin;
Generations of vice have left brandings that tell
On his brow low and wrinkled,
And queer spots are sprinkled
On features that look as if hot out of hell.
Loves the grave,
And his favourite perch
Is a jolly tall tombstone
Beside the grey church,
Where he trusts soon to hear the great trumpet of doom's tone;
He's blasted and thin,
Only bones and the skin;
Generations of vice have left brandings that tell
On his brow low and wrinkled,
And queer spots are sprinkled
On features that look as if hot out of hell.
465
Wee deaf Dave
Is the grave
Of a mother's young heart;
He encloses the ashes
That burned out their past
In a fury of passion and brief wicked flashes;
High purpose, though dim,
Is all buried in him;
And he carries about him, for better or worse,
In his pilgrimage muddy,
Like beacon lights ruddy,
The dreadful bequest of a homicide's curse.
Is the grave
Of a mother's young heart;
He encloses the ashes
That burned out their past
In a fury of passion and brief wicked flashes;
High purpose, though dim,
Is all buried in him;
And he carries about him, for better or worse,
In his pilgrimage muddy,
Like beacon lights ruddy,
The dreadful bequest of a homicide's curse.
| Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold | |