Ballade of the Bard
Though through the cloudy ranks of morn
The Sun-god sends no golden ray,
Though swift along the air are borne
The feathery shafts that none may stay;
Though wrathful storm-blasts pangless slay,
And wan the patient plodder rues
His lonely lot each dagging day-
He’s gay who courts the merry muse!
When down the fields the tender corn
Upsprings, and sees blue skies in May,
When budding blooms the boughs adorn,
And flowers bespangle sprig and spray,
When torrid summer’s regnant sway
Has dimmed the foliage’s fairest hues,
And bronzèd reapers house the hay—
He’s gay who courts the merry muse!
And when the hollow harvest horn
O’erflows with autumn’s rich display,
When high, with goodly grain, new-shorn,
Is piled each lofty granary,
When, like dark moons amid the gray
Of cornfields, where the red ear woos,
The pumpkins lie in long array-
He’s gay who courts the merry muse!
Envoy.
Prince, e’en though Fortune go astray
And lost is wealth’s bright-shining cruse,
Though dark and drear the weary way-
He’s gay who courts the merry muse.
Clinton Scollard.