John McClure

The beautiful ladies of old time,

That walked like angels and were as fair,

Are dead and vanished, and no man’s rhyme

Can paint them truly as once they were.

Like pale shadows in moonlight

Vanished they are upon strange ways,

Sudden as snow—Villon was right—

The beautiful ladies of old days.

But you stay always, you most dear;

Though the harlots come and the harlots go

Walking in pomp and in great show,

Still you are with me, still are here,

More faithful far in a thousand ways

Than the beautiful ladies of old days.

One thing I know most certainly—

You will not pester me nor chide;

You will not quarrel much, nor be

Unkind, or hasty to deride

When I am stupid with my dreams.

You will not cackle much nor joke

When I am dazzled by the gleams

Of fen-fires in a world of smoke,

Or somewhat silly and insane

About the making of a song;

Nor mock me that my face is plain,

Nor chide me that I am not strong.

Nay, kinder than a woman is,

You will not mock my vagaries.

III

When all my heart is laden down

With worldly worries, worldly fears,

You will not pucker-lip nor frown

Nor make me gloomier with tears.

You will not make my sorrow sad

With weeping and with wretchedness

When all the goods I ever had

Have vanished in the market’s press.

You will not sob nor make a scene

When I come sadly home at night

To tell you that my hopes have been

Blown and blasted out of sight.

We two will light our pipe o’ clay

And laugh and blow the world away.