Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE INVERSNAID INN, by WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE INVERSNAID INN, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: The season is ended, the cold days begin
Last Line: We are left in the storm, like the inversnaid inn!
Subject(s): Hotels; Scotland; Inns; Innskeepers; Motels; Boarding Houses


THE season is ended, the cold days begin,
It's all over now with the Inversnaid Inn
Ben Lomond's bleak forehead, the tempest-tossed Loch,
The wind as it whistles o'er forest and rock,
The leaves whirled in heaps o'er the bog and the brook,
But, more plainly, the leaves of this Visitors' Book,
Proclaim the sad truth that the dark days begin,
And it's all over now with the Inversnaid Inn!

By these rugged hillsides, these valleys profound,
The travelling public no longer abound.
No more the tall Scot, with his buskin and plaid,
Arrives with the question, "What drink's to be had?"
Nor Englishman turns from his tramp or his sail
With eager inquiry for mutton and ale;
Nor Irishman, fresh from his darlin' Dublin,
Makes merry the walls of the Inversnaid Inn.

No more shall the student, just out for a lark,
With head growing light as the evening grows dark;
Nor the "mercantile gent" from Glasgow or Perth,
Who looks at the landscape to see what it's worth;
No travelling curate, nor respited jurist,
Nor clerk out on leave, nor tradesman turned tourist—
With the landlord's low bow, or the hostler's broad grin,
Be received at the porch of the Inversnaid Inn.

No more shall "my lord," with his chaplain and groom,
Have his luncheon served up in a separate room;
Nor Stirling's sweet maidens with glad songs awake
The echoes that sleep by the shores of the lake;
Nor parties of pleasure escape from the Trosachs,
With curses on innkeepers worse than the Cossacks,
To advise future travellers rather to pin
Their faith on the landlord of Inversnaid Inn.

No, the season is ended, the dark days begin;
From Stirling and Glasgow the last coach is in,
The last joint is roasted, the larder is bare,
The smoke from the kitchen has faded in air,
The last bill receipted, the last guinea paid,
The last shilling doled to the brisk chambermaid;
The landlord may delve and the landlady spin,
They will get no more cash from the Inversnaid Inn.

A sad picture of life! its pleasures fly fast,
The breezes of fortune give way to its blast,
The bright hues of romance grow yellow and brown,
The sunshine of fame is eclipsed by its frown,
The warm glow of friendship and passion is chilled,
The echoes of love in the bosom are stilled,
The tempest without and the darkness within,
We are left in the storm, like the Inversnaid Inn!





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