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At the soul-adventurers' mart-head Proclamation lo! they make
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Roses come cull and to thorns, Soufi, that patchcoat of thine give
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Come, so the spirit's fragrance That I may retrace from that cheek
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Lo, by thy bright eye's magic, O happy-favoured fair
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Since that this boast I uttered, 'Tis forty years, in fine
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In thy footsteps' dust our faces Many a time and tide we've laid
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Up, skinker, and give me In hand the bowl!
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Though to the service of the King we bound are
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The Sheen of the season of youth Again on the garden glows
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We've cast off, for love of the winehouse, The usance of dawntide prayer
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