English

You midst gay crowds reside, I, hid in shades,
Rove by the mazy stream through flowery meads;
Ah! flowery, did I say? alas! no more
Those meads with spangled robes are covered o'er;
Their leafy honours from the groves are torn,
And down the winding stream impetuous borne:
The painted birds forsake the naked wood,
And seek in hospitable yards their food;
The purling rills, that o'er the pebbles mourned,
Are now to deep and rapid currents turned;
Soft Philomela now no more complains,
Nor tells her woeful tale in pensive strains;

How sweet and innocent are country sports,
And, as men's tempers, various are their sorts.
You, on the banks of soft meandering Tweed,
May in your toils ensnare the watery breed,
And nicely lead the artificial flee,
Which, when the nimble, watchful trout does see,
He at the bearded hook will briskly spring;
Then in that instant twitch your hairy string,
And, when he's hooked, you, with a constant hand,
May draw him struggling to the fatal land.
Then at fit seasons you may clothe your hook

This happy place with all delights abounds,
And plenty broods upon the fertile grounds.
Here verdant grass their waving . . . . . .
And hills and vales in sweet confusion lie:
The nibbling flock stray o'er the rising hills,
And all around with bleating music fills:
High on their fronts tall blooming forests nod,
Of sylvan deities the blest abode:
The feather'd minstrels hop from spray to spray,
And chant their gladsome carols all the day;
Till dusky night, advancing in her car,

Beauty deserves the homage of the muse:
Shall mine, rebellious, the dear theme refuse?
No; while my breast respires the vital air,
Wholly I am devoted to the fair.
Beauty I'll sing in my sublimest lays,
I burn to give her just immortal praise.
The heavenly maid with transport I'll pursue
To her abode, and all her graces view.
This happy place with all delights abounds,
And plenty broods upon the fertile grounds.
Here verdant grass their waving . . . . . .
And hills and vales in sweet confusion lie:

Darknes, & Stars i' th' mid day! they invite
Our active fancies to beleeve it night:
For Tavernes need no Sunne, but for a Signe,
Where rich Tobacco, and quick tapers shine;
And royall, witty Sacke, the Poets soule,
With brighter Suns then he doth guild the bowl;
As though the Pot, and Poet did agree,
Sack should to both Illuminator be.
That artificiall Cloud with it's curl'd brow,
Tels us 'tis late; and that blew space below
Is fir'd with many Stars; Marke, how they breake
In silent glaunces o're the hills, and speake

A Long Way After Southey

It was a winter's morning,
The Kaiser's sport was done;
From far and near the driven deer
Had faced the Royal " gun, "
And all around, in grim array,
Five hundred rotting corpses lay.

From near and far, to King and Tsar
The startled herds had fled;
And many a stag had swelled the bag,
And many a hind lay dead.
Such things must be and will in short,
After a famous hour of sport!

(with acknowledgments to Cole Porter)

VERSE 1

Mr. Irving Berlin
Often emphasizes sin
In a charming way.
Mr. Coward, we know,
Wrote a song or two to show
Sex was here to stay.
Richard Rodgers, it's true,
Took a more romantic view
Of this sly biological urge.
But it really was Cole
Who contrived to make the whole
Thing merge.

REFRAIN 1

He said the Belgians and Greeks do it,
Nice young men who sell antiques do it,

Vacant shuttles
Weave the wind. I have no ghosts,
An old man in a draughty house
Under a windy knob . . .

Thou hast nor youth nor age But as it were an after dinner sleep Dreaming of both.

Here I am, an old man in a dry month,
Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.
I was neither at the hot gates
Nor fought in the warm rain
Nor knee deep in the salt marsh, heaving a cutlass,
Bitten by flies, fought.
My house is a decayed house,
And the jew squats on the window sill, the owner,
Spawned in some estaminet of Antwerp,
Blistered in Brussels, patched and peeled in London.

The night of my cousin's wedding
I wore blue.
I was nineteen
and we danced, Father, we orbited.
We moved like angels washing themselves.
We moved like two birds on fire.
Then we moved like the sea in a jar,
slower and slower.
The orchestra played
" Oh how we danced on the night we were wed. "
And you waltzed me like a lazy Susan
and we were dear,
very dear.
Now that you are laid out,
useless as a blind dog,
now that you no longer lurk,
the song rings in my head.