“Away with the rest,” said Old King Cole,
“And fetch my bowl,” said he.
“Here is Pantagruel found at last,
“To keep me company.”
From under the throne he drew the bottle
And poured wine into the bowl;
Pantagruel stepped to the dais
And drank with Old King Cole.
“Give yellow and black and scholar’s cloak
A bed in the royal room.”
But Old King Cole and Pantagruel
Drank till the morning’s bloom.
They laughed and drank till the dawn was red,
While the sleepers prayed and wept.
They sang to the violins till day,
While black and yellow slept.
But Old King Cole, the merry old soul,
Was a curious soul as well:
“Who are these fellows,” queried he
Of his friend Pantagruel.
“Well, never ask me,” said Pantagruel,
“I met them down by the river;
“But whether they came from the Land of Lanterns
“They’re traveling on forever.”
They went to the room with a candle light
And looked in the face of the three—
“They’re a sorry lot,” said Old King Cole;
“They’re a sorry lot,” said he.
They held the candle to gray beard’s face,
And gray beard moaned in his rest.
And pricked in color of India ink
Was a windmill on his breast.
The other muttered “Life is a shadow,”
And his face was young and pale:
And pricked on his arm was a green serpent
Devouring its own tail.
The other sighed: “I still must struggle
And strive until I die.”
And over his heart was pricked the shape
Of a wingéd butterfly.