London lyrics by Frederick Locker Lampson: With introduction and notes by Austin Dobson |
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THE JESTER'S MORAL |
 | London lyrics |  |
159
THE JESTER'S MORAL
Is Human Life a pleasant game
That gives the palm to all?
A fight for fortune, or for fame,
A struggle, and a fall?
Who views the Past, and all he prized,
With tranquil exultation?
And who can say—I've realised
My fondest aspiration?
That gives the palm to all?
A fight for fortune, or for fame,
A struggle, and a fall?
Who views the Past, and all he prized,
With tranquil exultation?
And who can say—I've realised
My fondest aspiration?
Alack, not one. No, rest assured
That all are prone to quarrel
With Fate, when worms destroy their gourd,
Or mildew spoils their laurel:
The prize may come to cheer our lot,
But all too late; and granted
If even better, still it's not
Exactly what we wanted.
That all are prone to quarrel
With Fate, when worms destroy their gourd,
Or mildew spoils their laurel:
The prize may come to cheer our lot,
But all too late; and granted
If even better, still it's not
Exactly what we wanted.
My schoolboy time! I wish to praise
That bud of brief existence;
The vision of my younger days
Now trembles in the distance.
An envious vapour lingers here,
And there I find a chasm;
But much remains, distinct and clear,
To sink enthusiasm.
That bud of brief existence;
The vision of my younger days
Now trembles in the distance.
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And there I find a chasm;
But much remains, distinct and clear,
To sink enthusiasm.
Such thoughts just now disturb my soul
With reason good, for lately
I took the train to Marley-knoll,
And cross'd the fields to Mately.
I found old Wheeler at his gate,
Who once rare sport could show me,
My Mentor wise on springe and bait—
But Wheeler did not know me.
With reason good, for lately
I took the train to Marley-knoll,
And cross'd the fields to Mately.
I found old Wheeler at his gate,
Who once rare sport could show me,
My Mentor wise on springe and bait—
But Wheeler did not know me.
“Good lord!” at last exclaimed the churl,
“Are you the little chap, sir,
What used to train his hair in curl,
And wore a scarlet cap, sir?”
And then he took to fill in blanks,
And conjure up old faces;
And talk of well-remember'd pranks
In half-forgotten places.
“Are you the little chap, sir,
What used to train his hair in curl,
And wore a scarlet cap, sir?”
And then he took to fill in blanks,
And conjure up old faces;
And talk of well-remember'd pranks
In half-forgotten places.
It pleased the man to tell his brief
And rather mournful story,—
Old Bliss's school had come to grief,
And Bliss had “gone to glory.”
Fell'd were his trees, his house was razed,
And what less keenly pain'd me,
A venerable Donkey grazed
Exactly where he caned me.
And rather mournful story,—
Old Bliss's school had come to grief,
And Bliss had “gone to glory.”
161
And what less keenly pain'd me,
A venerable Donkey grazed
Exactly where he caned me.
And where have school and playmate sped,
Whose ranks were once so serried?
Why some are wed, and some are dead,
And some are only buried;
Frank Petre, erst so full of fun,
Is now St. Blaise's Prior,
And Travers, the attorney's son,
Is Member for the shire.
Whose ranks were once so serried?
Why some are wed, and some are dead,
And some are only buried;
Frank Petre, erst so full of fun,
Is now St. Blaise's Prior,
And Travers, the attorney's son,
Is Member for the shire.
Dull maskers we. Life's festival
Enchants the blithe new-comer;
But seasons change;—then where are all
Those friendships of our summer?
Wan pilgrims flit athwart our track,
Cold looks attend the meeting;
We only greet them, glancing back,
Or pass without a greeting.
Enchants the blithe new-comer;
But seasons change;—then where are all
Those friendships of our summer?
Wan pilgrims flit athwart our track,
Cold looks attend the meeting;
We only greet them, glancing back,
Or pass without a greeting.
Old Bliss I owe some rubs, but pride
Constrains me to postpone 'em,—
Something he taught me, ere he died,
About nil nisi bonum.
I've met with wiser, better men,
But I forgive him wholly;
Perhaps his jokes were sad, but then
He used to storm so drolly.
Constrains me to postpone 'em,—
Something he taught me, ere he died,
About nil nisi bonum.
162
But I forgive him wholly;
Perhaps his jokes were sad, but then
He used to storm so drolly.
“I still can laugh” is still my boast,
But mirth has sounded gayer;
And which provokes my laughter most,
The preacher or the player?
Alack, I cannot laugh at what
Once made us laugh so freely;
For Nestroy and Grassot are not;
And where is Mr. Keeley?
But mirth has sounded gayer;
And which provokes my laughter most,
The preacher or the player?
Alack, I cannot laugh at what
Once made us laugh so freely;
For Nestroy and Grassot are not;
And where is Mr. Keeley?
I'll join St. Blaise (a verseman fit,
More fit than I, once did it)
—I shave my crown? No, Common-Wit,
And Common-Sense forbid it.
I'd sooner dress your Little Miss
As Paulet shaves his poodles!
As soon propose for Betsy Bliss,
Or get proposed for Boodle's.
More fit than I, once did it)
—I shave my crown? No, Common-Wit,
And Common-Sense forbid it.
I'd sooner dress your Little Miss
As Paulet shaves his poodles!
As soon propose for Betsy Bliss,
Or get proposed for Boodle's.
We prate of Life's illusive dyes,
And yet fond Hope misleads us;
We all believe we near the prize,
Till some fresh dupe succeeds us!
And yet, though Life's a riddle, though
No Clerk has yet explain'd it,
I still can hope; for well I know
That Love has thus ordain'd it.
And yet fond Hope misleads us;
We all believe we near the prize,
Till some fresh dupe succeeds us!
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No Clerk has yet explain'd it,
I still can hope; for well I know
That Love has thus ordain'd it.
Paris, November, 1864.
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