‘ NOW lay me in a cushioned chair And carry me, you four, With cushions here and cushions there, To see the world once more.
‘ And some one from the stables bring My Dermot dear and brown, And lead him gently in a ring, And gently up and down.
‘ Now leave the chair upon the grass: Bring hound and huntsman here, And I on this strange road will pass, Filled full of ancient cheer.’
His eyelids droop, his head falls low, His old eyes cloud with dreams; The sun upon all things that grow Pours round in sleepy streams.
Brown Dermot treads upon the lawn, And to the armchair goes, And now the old man’ s dreams are gone, He smooths the long brown nose.
And now moves many a pleasant tongue Upon his wasted hands, For leading aged hounds and young The huntsman near him stands.
‘ My huntsman, Rody, blow the horn, And make the hills reply.’ The huntsman loosens on the morn A gay and wandering cry.
A fire is in the old man’ s eyes, His fingers move and sway, And when the wandering music dies They hear him feebly say,
‘ My huntsman, Rody, blow the horn, And make the hills reply.’ ‘ I cannot blow upon my horn, I can but weep and sigh.’
The servants round his cushioned place Are with new sorrow wrung; And hounds are gazing on his face, Both aged hounds and young.
One blind hound only lies apart On the sun-smitten grass; He holds deep commune with his heart: The moments pass and pass;
The blind hound with a mournful din Lifts slow his wintry head; The servants bear the body in; The hounds wail for the dead.
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