The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang Edited by Mrs. Lang |
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A Bric-à-Brac Lyre
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 | The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang |  |
163
A Bric-à-Brac Lyre
Yes, I bought this old lute at a ‘rummaging’ stall,
Where seldom do affluent customers call,
For the orderly soul it is likely to vex,
The stall which is littered and laden with wrecks;
Brown books that are commonly suffered to sleep,
With their fancies and faiths in their binding of ‘sheep’,
The sermons and songs that have slipped from the study,
Odd volumes, gray pamphlets, leaves musty and muddy,
Where a Buddha sits watching with orthodox grin
The religious romance that so often drops in,
And a Venus from Cyprus, a hideous affair,
With a god of the Incas is taking the air.
There's a saint from a niche (how its profile is smashed!)
And an elegant cat-headed figure of Pasht,
There are gems—mostly false—there's a broidered old shoe,
There are fans, calumets and a Maori patu,
And a Mexican idol, perhaps Coatlieu!
Where seldom do affluent customers call,
For the orderly soul it is likely to vex,
The stall which is littered and laden with wrecks;
Brown books that are commonly suffered to sleep,
With their fancies and faiths in their binding of ‘sheep’,
The sermons and songs that have slipped from the study,
Odd volumes, gray pamphlets, leaves musty and muddy,
Where a Buddha sits watching with orthodox grin
The religious romance that so often drops in,
And a Venus from Cyprus, a hideous affair,
With a god of the Incas is taking the air.
There's a saint from a niche (how its profile is smashed!)
And an elegant cat-headed figure of Pasht,
There are gems—mostly false—there's a broidered old shoe,
There are fans, calumets and a Maori patu,
And a Mexican idol, perhaps Coatlieu!
164
There's a bat that was played with when Mynn was a boy,
There's a racquet—unstrung—and an African toy,
There's a shepherdess (Chelsea), a broken Bow cup,
And a sword that was made e'er our swords doubled up;
There are portraits of ladies that simper and stare,
And our grandfathers' fathers accounted them fair.
There's a racquet—unstrung—and an African toy,
There's a shepherdess (Chelsea), a broken Bow cup,
And a sword that was made e'er our swords doubled up;
There are portraits of ladies that simper and stare,
And our grandfathers' fathers accounted them fair.
In brief, 'tis a very disorderly stall,
And the owner's half blind, and the prices are small;
And it's just three and ninepence I gave for the lute
Which for many a year had been harmlessly mute.
But I've strung it, and patched it, and play'd it, by times,
And rhymed to the music and mused on the rhymes.
It's a worm-eaten piece, and remember it must
The wrecks it has dwelt with, the gods deep in dust,
The bats out of service, the poems unread,
The show in the streets, and the snows on my head.
It is jangled, the lute, and if nobody cares
For its windy old moans upon obsolete airs—
For the accent it caught, which has clung to it yet,
From my Titmarsh's ramshackle wheezy spinet—
Then, methinks, I shall lay it again on the shelf
Where the owner looks forward to sleeping himself,
In uncommon fine company, too, and I trust
‘There is very snug lying’ up there in the dust.
And the owner's half blind, and the prices are small;
And it's just three and ninepence I gave for the lute
Which for many a year had been harmlessly mute.
But I've strung it, and patched it, and play'd it, by times,
And rhymed to the music and mused on the rhymes.
It's a worm-eaten piece, and remember it must
The wrecks it has dwelt with, the gods deep in dust,
The bats out of service, the poems unread,
The show in the streets, and the snows on my head.
It is jangled, the lute, and if nobody cares
For its windy old moans upon obsolete airs—
For the accent it caught, which has clung to it yet,
From my Titmarsh's ramshackle wheezy spinet—
Then, methinks, I shall lay it again on the shelf
Where the owner looks forward to sleeping himself,
In uncommon fine company, too, and I trust
‘There is very snug lying’ up there in the dust.
| The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang | |