Classic Poem

(This to-day had been Fresh Nellie,
For she had as wild a belly;
Or a kind of Mrs. Mack,
For she had a bonnie back;
Or the Honourable Mrs. Lepple —
Nipple to a kingly nipple —
For she never took advantage
Of the favours of her frontage;
Therefore she was held in honour
By the warty boys who won her;
Therefore some old Abbey's shelf
Kept the record of herself,
Telling to men who disapprove
Of Love, the long regrets of Love.)

Now my tide of youth is gone
And my ebb of age comes on;
Though the sonsie may be happy,
I'm no longer soft and sappy.

Age is causing all my woes:
I who had new underclothes
As I queened it every day,
Now have no one's castaway.

O the times that I had then!
You have money, I had men
Who could give their horse the reins
Yet not leave their own demesnes.

Of the men for whom I stript
None was weaker when we clipt,
But the fury of my flame
Magnified the man in him.

Now each bargain-driving clown
Wants two ups for one go down;
God, if I reciprocated,
They would think themselves castrated!

All my thoughts are of the years
When we drove the brazen cars:
Of the gold we used to fling; —
What was money to a king?

Now my arms are flat and dried
Which were round on every side,
Dearer once to kings than gems,
Dearer than their diadems.

Shameful now to lift them up
Round the hairless neck of youth;
Though my name may be a lure,
I am no boy's paramour.

See the careless lassies swing
As they walk the lane of Spring;
See the lassies go a-Maying
Safe awhile from Time's waylaying!

Once I never heard of stints
On my colours or my pints.
Particolours I could wear;
Now what colour is my hair?

I've no grudge against old age;
But what puts me in a rage
Is that women flaunt their gold
Heads before me when I'm old.

Kings are under Femen's stone;
Bregon holds their weathered throne;
The very stones are worse for wear,
And dappled grey is Bregan's Chair.

A wave stands up and shouts at sea:
It's Winter here for more than me!
I have no sheets; but, as I say,
McHugh will hardly call to-day.

The lads I loved are all aboard,
And strain through Alma's reedy ford;
No logs of oak will break and glow
To warm the beds where they are now!

There's not one left of all the band
That well could bring a boat to strand
Where I ran with little on
Who now am cloaked even in the sun.

Now whatever comes to me
Must be met with " Glory be! "
Glory be to God at least
For each feat of old, and feast.

Glory be! I'm half content
Just to think of all I spent.
Passion never waned in me
For the want of ... Glory be!

Every foot that moves must stop;
Every acorn has to drop;
For the blazing festive sconce
Darkness now, and prayer's response.

Cups of whey at night and morn
For the crescent drinking horn;
But the nuns and all their whey
Have not washed my rage away!