BALLADE TO VILLON.
Where, prithee, are thy comrades bold,
With ruffle, flounce, and furbelow,
Who, in the merry days of old,
Made light of all but red wine's flow?
Where now are cavalier and beau
Who joyed with thee in that bright clime?
Ah! dust to dust!—and none may know—
Alas, for the fleet wings of Time!
Where now are they whom gleaming gold
Led on to many a bandit blow,
Who roamed with thee the widening wold
And vine-clad hills, and shared thy woe?
Where they, who, in the sunset glow,
With thee heard Paris' sweet bells chime?
Ah! they are gone!—and still men go—
Alas, for the fleet wings of Time!
And where are they, those maids untold,
Thy lighter loves, each one thy foe?
They too are now but loathsome mould,
With earth above and earth below.
And she who won, aside to throw
Thy love, the promise of thy prime,
Doth any seek her name? Ah! no—
Alas, for the fleet wings of Time!
Envoy.
Poet of ballade and rondeau,
Prince of the tripping, laughing rhyme,
Thy name alone hath 'scaped the snow;
Alas, for the fleet wings of Time.
Clinton Scollard.
FOR ME THE BLITHE BALLADE.
Of all the songs that dwell
Where softest speech doth flow,
Some love the sweet rondel,
And some the bright rondeau,
With rhymes that tripping go
In mirthful measures clad;
But would I choose them?—no,
For me the blithe ballade!