30.12.2010, 16:06
THE DRUNKARD'S LAST MARKET
The taper wastes within yon window-pane,
And the blind flutters, where his fever'd hand
Has raised the sash, to cool his burning brain ;
But he has pass'd away from house and land.
Cheerly and proudly through the gusty dark
The red cock crows ! the new-dropt lambkin tries
His earliest voice in the home-field, while stark
And stiff, on his own bed, the drunkard lies ;
O'erdone by that steep ride, his weary horse
Poises his batter'd feet and cannot feed ;
From the near moorland hill, the brawling force
Calls loudly—but the dead man takes no heed ;
While Keeper howls his notice of alarm.
And thrills with awe the dusky mountain farm.
The taper wastes within yon window-pane,
And the blind flutters, where his fever'd hand
Has raised the sash, to cool his burning brain ;
But he has pass'd away from house and land.
Cheerly and proudly through the gusty dark
The red cock crows ! the new-dropt lambkin tries
His earliest voice in the home-field, while stark
And stiff, on his own bed, the drunkard lies ;
O'erdone by that steep ride, his weary horse
Poises his batter'd feet and cannot feed ;
From the near moorland hill, the brawling force
Calls loudly—but the dead man takes no heed ;
While Keeper howls his notice of alarm.
And thrills with awe the dusky mountain farm.