Variations on an Air

Old King ColeWas a merry old soulAnd a merry old soul was heHe called for his pipeand he called for his bowland he called for his fiddlers three

after Lord Tennyson

Cole, that unwearied prince of Colchester,Growing more gay with age and with long daysDeeper in laughter and desire of lifeAs that Virginian climber on our wallsFlames scarlet with the fading of the year;Called for his wassail and that other weedVirginian also, from the western woodsWhere English Raleigh checked the boast of Spain,And lighting joy with joy, and piling upPleasure as crown for pleasure, bade me bringThose three, the minstrels whose emblazoned coatsShone with the oyster-shells of Colchester;And these three played, and playing grew more fainOf mirth and music; till the heathen cameAnd the King slept beside the northern sea.

after W.B. Yeats

Of an old King in a storyFrom the grey sea-folk I have heardWhose heart was no more brokenThan the wings of a bird.

As soon as the moon was silverAnd the thin stars began,He took his pipe and his tankard,Like an old peasant man.

And three tall shadows were with himAnd came at his command;And played before him for everThe fiddles of fairyland.

And he died in the young summerOf the world's desire;Before our hearts were brokenLike sticks in a fire.

After Robert Browning

Who smoke-snorts toasts o' My Lady Nicotine,Kicks stuffing out of Pussyfoot, bids his trioStick up their Stradivarii (that's the pluralOr near enough, my fatheads; nimiumVicina Cremonce; that's a bit too near.)Is there some stockfish fails to understand?Catch hold o' the notion, bellow and blurt back "Cole"?Must I bawl lessons from a horn-book, howl,Cat-call the cat-gut "fiddles"? Fiddlesticks!

after Walt Whitman

Me clairvoyant,Me conscious of you, old camarado,Needing no telescope, lorgnette, field-glass, opera-glass, myopic pince-nez,Me piercing two thousand years with eye naked and not ashamed;The crown cannot hide you from me,Musty old feudal-heraldic trappings cannot hide you from me,I perceive that you drink.(I am drinking with you. I am as drunk as you are.)I see you are inhaling tobacco, puffing, smoking, spitting(I do not object to your spitting),You prophetic of American largeness,You anticipating the broad masculine manners of these States;I see in you also there are movements, tremors, tears, desire for the melodious,I salute your three violinists, endlessly making vibrations,Rigid, relentless, capable of going on for ever;They play my accompaniment; but I shall take no notice of any accompaniment;I myself am a complete orchestra.So long.

After Swinburne.

In the time of old sin without sadnessAnd golden with wastage of goldLike the gods that grow old in their gladnessWas the king that was glad, growing old:And with sound of loud lyres from his palaceThe voice of his oracles spoke,And the lips that were red from his chaliceWere splendid with smoke.

When the weed was as flame for a tokenAnd the wine was as blood for a sign;And upheld in his hands and unbrokenThe fountains of fire and of wine.And a song without speech, without singer,Stung the soul of a thousand in threeAs the flesh of the earth has to sting her,The soul of the sea.