Now we are old, oh isn't it fine
Out in the wind and the rain?
Now we have nothing why snivel and whine?—
What would it bring us again?—
When I was young I took you like wine,
Held you and kissed you and thought you divine—
Happy-Go-Lucky, the habit's still mine,
Out in the wind and the rain.
Oh, my old Heart, what a life we have led,
Out in the wind and the rain!
How we have drunken and how we have fed!
Nothing to lose or to gain!—
Cover the fire now; get we to bed.
Long was the journey and far has it led:
Come, let us sleep, lass, sleep like the dead,
Out in the wind and the rain.
THE TROUBADOUR OF TREBIZEND
Night, they say, is no man's friend:
And at night he met his end
In the woods of Trebizend.
Hate crouched near him as he strode
Through the blackness of the road,
Where my Lord seemed some huge toad.
Eyes of murder glared and burned
At each bend of road he turned,
And where wild the torrent churned.
And with Death we stood and stared
From the bush as by he fared,—
But he never looked or cared.
He went singing; and a rose
Lay upon his heart's repose—
With what thought of her—who knows?