| Lay me in a cushioned chair
|
| Carry me, ye four
|
| With cushions here and cushions there
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| To see the world once more
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| To stable and to kennel go
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| Bring what there is to bring
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| Lead my Lollard to and fro
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| Or gently in a ring
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| Put the chair upon the grass
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| Bring Rody and his hounds
|
| That I might contented pass
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| From these earthly bounds
|
| His eyelids drop, his head falls low
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| His old eyes cloud with dreams
|
| The sun falls on all things that grow
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| Falls in sleepy streams
|
| Brown Lollard treads upon the lawn
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| And to the armchair goes
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| There the old man’s dreams are gone
|
| He smoothes the long, brown nose
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| And now moves many affable tongue
|
| Upon his wasted hands
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| Leading aged hounds and young
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| The huntsman near him stands
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| The servants round his cushioned place
|
| Are with new sorry wrung
|
| The hounds are gazing on his face
|
| The aged hounds and young
|
| The fire is in the old man’s eyes
|
| His fingers move and sway
|
| When the wandering music dies
|
| They hear him feebly say:
|
| «Oh huntsman, Rody, blow the horn
|
| Make the hills reply
|
| I cannot blow upon my horn
|
| I can’t but weep and sigh»
|
| One blind hound lies apart
|
| On the sun-smitten grass
|
| He holds commune with his heart
|
| The moments pass and pass
|
| The blind hound with a mournful wail
|
| He lifts his wintry head
|
| The servants bear the body in
|
| The hounds wail for the dead
|
| Huntsman, Rody, blow the horn
|
| Make the hills reply
|
| Huntsman, Rody, blow the horn
|
| Make the hills reply
|
| Huntsman, Rody, blow the horn
|
| Make the hills reply
|
| The huntsman loosens on the morn
|
| A gay and mournful cry |