Classic Poem

The old ruin grey is mould'ring away,
And the rank weeds around it entwine;
The old wind alone knew the glory now gone,
And it sighs o'er the long-perish'd line.

No one in the dell its hist'ry can tell,
Or why it was built on the steep;
They only do know it was great long ago,
And now it's a pen for the sheep.

The fox makes its lair, and the fowls of the air
Seek shelter within its old halls;
The bluebell so meek, the foxglove and leek,
Are peeping from out its old walls.

Thus old Ruin drear claims all that we rear,
When but a few years hurry by;
Man's proud works are vain, but the old hills remain
O'erhung by the great silent sky.

It is little we know but the old tale of woe:
" We are the poor sons of a day,
And the baubles we chase, yea, our name and our race,
Must pass like the old ruin grey. "