  TO toy with Amaryllis in the shade Becomes a thing one ceases to enjoy, To pat NÆrea’s tresses (Clarkson-made) As ecstasy admits of some alloy. The fairy bloom forsakes the peach. The toy, Stripped of its paint, mocks at delight’s long done. The little duck results a dear decoy— Oh! the brave days when we were twenty-one. The World, the Flesh, the Devil all arrayed In vain with gauds deck out their gross charoy. Weary senility rejects the maid; Gout lurks within the bubbles of “the Boy.” Satan (in sulphur baths) we may employ— A healing gift denied to Tomlinson (Kipling as sponsor made Mephisto coy)— Oh! the brave days when we were twenty-one. Hazard’s the only game that now is played. Death holds the Ace of Spades, so Clubs must cloy, Hearts slower beat, Diamonds’ flashes fade. Leaden despair succeeds the hopes that buoy. Doomward the broken gamesters’ ranks deploy; Le jeu est fait—the Table’s made its run. Time’s croupier wields his rake but to destroy— Oh! the brave days when we were twenty-one. L’Envoi PRINCE, when the creeping shades of age annoy, When Life’s kaleidoscope grows dark and dun, Hearken our plaint ere Charon grounds his hoy— Oh! the brave days when we were twenty-one. |
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