 | The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill |  |
158
THE OLD BEGGAR.
Do you see the old beggar who sits at the gate,
With his beard silvered over like snow?
Though he smiles, as he meets the keen arrows of fate,
Still his bosom is wearied with woe.
With his beard silvered over like snow?
Though he smiles, as he meets the keen arrows of fate,
Still his bosom is wearied with woe.
Many years has he sat at the foot of the hill;
Many days seen the summer sun rise;
And, at evening, the passenger passes him still,
While the shadows steal over the skies.
Many days seen the summer sun rise;
And, at evening, the passenger passes him still,
While the shadows steal over the skies.
In the bleak blasts of winter, he hobbles along
O'er the heath at the dawning of day;
And the dewdrops that freeze the rude thistles among
Are the stars that illumine his way.
O'er the heath at the dawning of day;
And the dewdrops that freeze the rude thistles among
Are the stars that illumine his way.
The time was when this beggar, in martial trim dight,
Was as bold as the chief of his throng,
When he marched through the storms of the day or the night,
And still smiled as he journeyed along.
Was as bold as the chief of his throng,
When he marched through the storms of the day or the night,
And still smiled as he journeyed along.
Then, his form was athletic,—his eye's vivid glance
Spoke the lustre of youth's glowing day;
And the village all marked, in the combat and dance,
The brave youngster—still valiant as gay.
Spoke the lustre of youth's glowing day;
And the village all marked, in the combat and dance,
The brave youngster—still valiant as gay.
When the prize was proposed, how his footsteps would bound
While the maid of his heart led the throng;
While the ribbons that circled the Maypole around
Waved the trophies of garlands among.
While the maid of his heart led the throng;
While the ribbons that circled the Maypole around
Waved the trophies of garlands among.
159
See him now; white with age, and with sorrow oppressed,
He the gate opens slowly, and sighs.
See him drop the big tears on the woe-withered breast—
The big tears that fall fast from his eyes.
He the gate opens slowly, and sighs.
See him drop the big tears on the woe-withered breast—
The big tears that fall fast from his eyes.
See, his habit all tattered, his shrivelled cheek pale!
See, his locks waving thin in the air!
See, his lip is half froze with the sharp-cutting gale,
And his head, o'er the temples, all bare!
See, his locks waving thin in the air!
See, his lip is half froze with the sharp-cutting gale,
And his head, o'er the temples, all bare!
Now, the eyebeam no longer in lustre displays
The warm sunshine that visits his breast;
For deep sunk in its orbit, and darkened its rays,
And he sighs for the grave's silent rest!
The warm sunshine that visits his breast;
For deep sunk in its orbit, and darkened its rays,
And he sighs for the grave's silent rest!
And his voice is grown feeble, his accent is slow,
And he sees not the distant hill-side;
And he hears not the breezes of morn as they blow,
Nor the streams that soft-murmuring glide.
And he sees not the distant hill-side;
And he hears not the breezes of morn as they blow,
Nor the streams that soft-murmuring glide.
To him, all is silent and mournful and dim,
Even the seasons pass dreary and slow,—
For affliction has placed its cold fetters on him,
And his soul is enamoured of woe.
Even the seasons pass dreary and slow,—
For affliction has placed its cold fetters on him,
And his soul is enamoured of woe.
See the tear which—imploring—is fearful to roll,
Though in silence he bows, as you stray:
'Tis the eloquent silence that speaks to the soul;
'Tis the star of his slow-setting day!
Though in silence he bows, as you stray:
'Tis the eloquent silence that speaks to the soul;
'Tis the star of his slow-setting day!
Perchance, ere the May blossoms cheerfully wave,—
Ere the zephyrs of summer soft sigh,—
The sunbeams shall dance o'er the grass on his grave,
And his journey be marked—to the sky.
Ere the zephyrs of summer soft sigh,—
The sunbeams shall dance o'er the grass on his grave,
And his journey be marked—to the sky.
| The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill | |