| |
| DOWN harvest headlands the fairy host | |
| Of the poppy banners have flashed and fled, | |
| The lilies have faded like ghost and ghost, | |
| The ripe rose rots in the garden bed. | |
| The grain is garnered, the blooms are shed, | 5 |
| Convolvulus springs on the snowdrop’s bier, | |
| In her stranded gold is the silver thread | |
| Of the first grey hair i’ the head o’ the year. | |
| |
| Like an arrant knave from a bootless boast, | |
| The fire-wind back to his North has sped | 10 |
| To harry the manes of a haunted coast | |
| On a far sea-rim where the stars are dead. | |
| Wistful the welkin with wordless dread, | |
| Mournful the uplands, all ashen sere— | |
| Sad for the snow on a beauteous head— | 15 |
| For the first grey hair i’ the head o’ the year. | |
| |
| Time trysts with Death at the finger-post, | |
| Where the broken issues of life are wed— | |
| Intone no dirges, fill up the toast | |
| To the troops that trip it with silent tread, | 20 |
| Merry we’ll make it tho’ skies be lead, | |
| And March-wind’s moan be a minstrel drear— | |
| A truce to trouble!—we’ll drink instead | |
| To the first grey hair i’ the head o’ the year. | |
| |
| South Esk sings on where the furze-fires spread, | 25 |
| But we’ll mourn no more as of old, my dear, | |
| When gorse flames golden and briars flush red | |
| With the first grey hair i’ the head o’ the year. | |
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