Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE OLD MEN, by PATRICK MACGILL


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE OLD MEN, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: There's a handful of meal in the barrel, and a
Last Line: With a stake in the great hereafter, sealed by the hand of death.
Subject(s): Death; Old Age; Weariness; Wrinkles; Dead, The; Fatigue


THERE'S a handful of meal in the barrel, and a little oil in the cruse,
We wear out our thin-soled sandals, they tan for the next year's shoes,
And whet their axe at the grindstone, while ours hangs blunt on the wall,
And willingly shapen the rooftree, though ours is ready to fall.
The old fleece rots on the wether, the new fleece whirls in the loom,
They weave the cloth for the bridal, we fashion the shroud for the tomb,
Who followed the path as we found it from dawn to decline of day,
Till the great world lies behind us, before us the lonely way.

Our sons go into the forest, our sons go out to the mead,
And labour with saw or with sickle, everyone unto his need,
Our daughters will meet them at even, with smile and with simper and sigh,
And the love that their mothers bore us, in days that have drifted by;
On their lips the red blood crimsons, and their golden tresses glow,
But we've seen the red lips whiten and the tresses turn to snow.

What makes us envy the moments they snatch from the swift-winged fate,
And the fury that follows after, catching them soon or late?
Some fierce inherent hatred the brute of the wilderness bore
As he lost command of the wolfpack when young and swift no more,
Some olden envious instinct the hoary chieftain had
When the reins of his despot power passed to a beardless lad;
Ours is the useless prattle, the solace of Solomon,
When he loathed the maids of his harem, and the days of his lusts were gone,
With the scorn of the young to goad us, and the doom that dogs our feet,
We are the olden cynics, wise in our own conceit.

There's a handful of meal in the barrel, and a little oil in the cruse,
Which our toothless loves will bake us — we who are little use —
Let our sons go out to the hunting, let our daughters simper and smile;
We wait for the welcome summons — only a little while,
For we are the useless old men, wrinkled and bent and grey,
With the things we have done behind us, before us the lampless way;
We are the useless old men with faltering, failing breath,
With a stake in the great Hereafter, sealed by the hand of Death.





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