| |
| MY father is happy or we should be poor. | |
| His gateway is wide, and the folk of the moor | |
| Come singing so gaily right up to the door. | |
| |
| We live in a castle that’s dingy and old; | |
| The casements are broken, the corridors cold, | 5 |
| The larder is empty, the cook is a scold. | |
| |
| But father can dance, and his singing is loud. | |
| From meadow and highway there’s always a crowd | |
| That gathers to hear him, and this makes him proud. | |
| |
| He roars out a song in a voice that is sweet— | 10 |
| Of grandeur that’s gone, rare viands to eat, | |
| And treasure that used to be laid at his feet. | |
| |
| He picks up his robe, faded, wrinkled and torn, | |
| Though banded in ermine, moth-eaten and worn, | |
| And held at the throat by a twisted old thorn. | 15 |
| |
| He leaps in the air with a rickety grace, | |
| And a kingly old smile illumines his face, | |
| While he fondles his beard and stares off into space. | |
| |
| The villagers laugh, then look quickly away, | |
| And some of them kneel in the orchard to pray. | 20 |
| I often hear whispers: “The old king is fey.” | |
| |
| But after they’re gone, we shall find, if you please, | |
| White loaves and a pigeon, and honey and cheese, | |
| And wine that we drink while I sit on his knees. | |
| |
| And, while he sups, he will feed me and tell | 25 |
| Of Mother, whom men used to call “The Gazelle,” | |
| And of glorious times before the curse fell. | |
| |
| And then he will fall, half-asleep, to the floor; | |
| The rafters will echo his quivering snore…. | |
| I go to find cook through the slack oaken door. | 30 |
| |
| My father is happy or we should be poor. | |
| His gateway is wide, and the folk of the moor | |
| Come singing so gaily right up to the door. | |
| |
