Bells that clash in a gaudy chime,

Swords that clatter in onsets tall,

The words that ring and the fames that climb —

Youth is the sign of them, one and all.

Hymnals old in a dusty stall,

A bald, blind bird in a crazy cage,

The scene of a faded festival —

These are a type of the world of Age.

Hours that strut as the heirs of time,

Deeds whose rumour’s a clarion-call,

Songs where the singers their souls sublime —

Youth is the sign of them, one and all.

A staff that rests in a nook of wall,

A reeling battle, a rusted gage,

The chant of a nearing funeral —

These are a type of the world of Age.

Envoy

Struggle and turmoil, revel and brawl —

Youth is the sign of them, one and all.

A smouldering hearth and a silent stage —

These are a type of the world of Age.

Ballade of Dead Actors

Where are the passions they essayed,

And where the tears they made to flow?

Where the wild humours they portrayed

For laughing worlds to see and know?

Othello’s wrath and Juliet’s woe?

Sir Peter’s whims and Timon’s gall?

And Millamant and Romeo?

Into the night go one and all.

Where are the braveries, fresh or frayed?

The plumes, the armours — friend and foe?

The cloth of gold, the rare brocade,

The mantles glittering to and fro?

The pomp, the pride, the royal show?

The cries of war and festival?

The youth, the grace, the charm, the glow?

Into the night go one and all.

The curtain falls, the play is played:

The Beggar packs beside the Beau;

The Monarch troops, and troops the Maid;

The Thunder huddles with the Snow.

Where are the revellers high and low?

The clashing swords? The lover’s call?

The dancers gleaming row on row?

Into the night go one and all.

Envoy

Prince, in one common overthrow

The Hero tumbles with the Thrall:

As dust that drives, as straws that blow,

Into the night go one and all.

From a Window in Princes Street

Above the Crags that fade and gloom

Starts the bare knee of Arthur’s Seat;

Ridged high against the evening bloom,

The Old Town rises, street on street;

With lamps bejewelled, straight ahead,

Like rampired walls the houses lean,

All spired and domed and turreted,

Sheer to the valley’s darkling green;

Ranged in mysterious disarray,

The Castle, menacing and austere,

Looms through the lingering last of day;

And in the silver dusk you hear,

Reverberated from crag and scar,

Bold bugles blowing points of war.

In the Dials

To Garryowen upon an organ ground

Two girls are jigging. Riotously they trip,

With eyes aflame, quick bosoms, hand on hip,

As in the tumult of a witches’ round.

Youngsters and youngsters round them prance and bound.

Two solemn babes twirl ponderously, and skip.

The artist’s teeth gleam from his bearded lip.

High from the kennel howls a tortured hound.

The music reels and hurtles, and the night

Is full of stinks and cries; a naphtha-light

Flares from a barrow; battered and obtused

With vices, wrinkles, life and work and rags,

Each with her inch of clay, two loitering hags

Look on dispassionate — critical — something ’mused.

Barmaid

Though, if you ask her name, she says Elise,

Being plain Elizabeth, e’en let it pass,

And own that, if her aspirates take their ease,

She ever makes a point, in washing glass,

Handling the engine, turning taps for tots,

And countering change, and scorning what men say,

Of posing as a dove among the pots,

Nor often gives her dignity away.

Her head’s a work of art, and, if her eyes

Be tired and ignorant, she has a waist;

Cheaply the Mode she shadows; and she tries

From penny novels to amend her taste;

And, having mopped the zinc for certain years,

And faced the gas, she fades and disappears.

Lady Probationer

Some three, or five, or seven, and thirty years;