The Lamentation of the Old Pensioner

Although I shelter from the rain

    Under a broken tree，

    My chair was nearest to the fire

    In every company

    That talked of love or politics，

    Ere Time transfigured me.

    Though lads are making pikes again

    For some conspiracy¹，

    And crazy rascals² rage their fill

    At human tyranny；

    My contemplations are of Time

    That has transfigured me.

    There‘s not a woman turns her face

    Upon a broken tree，

    And yet the beauties that I loved

    Are in my memory；

    I spit into the face of Time

    That has transfigured me.