ye old
mesmerizer
!
Ezra-Pound-Provenca-English
Drink we skoal to the gallows tree!
Francois and Margot and thee and me,
For Jehan and Raoul de Vallerie
Whose frames have the night and its winds in fee
Maturin, Guillaume, Jacques d'Allmain, Culdou, lacking a coat to bless
One lean moiety of his nakedness,
That plundered St. Hubert back o' the fane: Aie ! the lean bare tree is widowed again For Michault le Borgne that would confess In "faith and troth" to a traitoress,
"Which of his brothers had he slain? "
But drink we skoal to the gallows tree ! Francois and Margot and thee and me:
1 Certain gibbeted corpses used to be coated with tar as a pre- servative ; thus one scarecrow served as warning for considerable time. See Hugo, " L'Homme qui Rit. "
13
1
? A Villon- These that we loved shall God love less
fadoftfie Gibbet
^nc* sm*te alwav at their feebleness?
Skoal ! 1 to the Gallows ! and then pray we: God damn his hell out speedily
And bring their souls to his High City.
MESMERISM
"And a cat 's in the water-butt. " ROBERT BROWNING.
YE, you 're a man that !
ye old mesmerizer !
Tyin' your meanin' in seventy swadelin's, One must of needs be a hang'd early riser
To catch you at worm turning. Holy Odd's bodykins !
"Cat 's i' the water-butt! " Thought 's in your
verse-barrel,
Tell us this thing rather, then we '11 believe you,
You, Master Bob Browning, spite your apparel Jump to your sense and give praise as we 'd lief do.
You wheeze as a head-cold long-tonsilled Calliope, But,God! whatasightyouha'goto'ourin'ards, Mad as a hatter but surely no Myope,
Broad as all ocean and leanin' mankin'ards.
Heart that was big as the bowels of Vesuvius, Words that were wing'd as her sparks in eruption^
Eagled and thundered as Jupiter Pluvius, Sound in your wind past all signs o' corruption.
14
? Here 's to you, Old Hippety-hop o' the accents, True to the Truth's sake and crafty dissector,
You grabbed at the gold sure; had no need to pack cents
Into your versicles.
Clear sight's elector !
Mesmer- ism
FAMAM LIBROSQUE CANO songs?
YOUR Oh
!
The little mothers
Will sing them in the twilight, And when the night
Shrinketh the kiss of the dawn That loves and kills,
What time the swallow fills
Her note, the little rabbit folk
That some call children,
Such as are up and wide
Will laugh your verses to each other, Pulling on their shoes for the day's business, Serious child business that the world Laughs at, and grows stale;
Such is the tale
Part of it of thy song-life. Mine?
A book is known by them that read Thatsame.
