Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads Jacobite Ballads, &c. &c. By George W. Thornbury ... with illustrations by H. S. Marks |
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THE STARVED POET. |
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 | Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads |  |
67
THE STARVED POET.
“Dead, dead!”
So the old nurse careless said,
Letting fall his lifeless head;
Many shadows round the bed,
But not one mourner for the dead.
Dead, dead.
So the old nurse careless said,
Letting fall his lifeless head;
Many shadows round the bed,
But not one mourner for the dead.
Dead, dead.
Fame, fame!
The old clock's ticking just the same,
The ceiling reddens with the flame,
The wind sinks back from whence it came,
Moaning as if in very shame,
Fame, fame.
The old clock's ticking just the same,
The ceiling reddens with the flame,
The wind sinks back from whence it came,
Moaning as if in very shame,
Fame, fame.
“Gone to rest!”
Said the nurse, and crossed her breast,
Groping in the dusty chest,
Where the rat squealed from its nest,
“Nothing but a threadbare vest,
Verses, verses—all the rest.”
Said the nurse, and crossed her breast,
Groping in the dusty chest,
Where the rat squealed from its nest,
“Nothing but a threadbare vest,
Verses, verses—all the rest.”
68
“Write, write!
He would scribble all the night,
Was it wonder he grew white?
Crazed his brain, and dim his sight,
Scarcely knowing day from night.
Write, write!”
He would scribble all the night,
Was it wonder he grew white?
Crazed his brain, and dim his sight,
Scarcely knowing day from night.
Write, write!”
“Lord, lord!
Last week came Sir Richard Ford,
Playing with his silver sword,
Tapping on the empty board,
How at every jest he roared,
Lord, lord!”
Last week came Sir Richard Ford,
Playing with his silver sword,
Tapping on the empty board,
How at every jest he roared,
Lord, lord!”
“Bread, bread!”
Moaned the master who is dead,
“Though my pen is heavy lead,
And my lungs this morning bled,
I have children must be fed.
Bread, bread.”
Moaned the master who is dead,
“Though my pen is heavy lead,
And my lungs this morning bled,
I have children must be fed.
Bread, bread.”
“Debt, debt!
Half a guinea owing yet,
Many nights of wind and wet,
Many weary vigils set,
This is all I ever get.
Debt, debt!”
Half a guinea owing yet,
Many nights of wind and wet,
Many weary vigils set,
This is all I ever get.
Debt, debt!”
| Songs of the Cavaliers and Roundheads | |