Edmund Clarence Stedman (Эдмунд Кларенс Стедман)
Falstaff’s Song
WHERE'S he that died o' Wednesday? What place on earth hath he? A tailor's yard beneath, I wot, Where worms approaching be; For the wight that died o' Wednesday, Just laid the light below, Is dead as the varlet turned to clay A score of years ago. Where's he that died o' Sabba' day? Good Lord, I'd not be he! The best of days is foul enough From this world's fare to flee; And the saint that died o' Sabba' day, With his grave turf yet to grow, Is dead as the sinner brought to pray A hundred years ago. Where's he that died o' yesterday? What better chance hath he To clink the can and toss the pot When this night's junkets be? For the lad that died o' yesterday Is just as dead -- ho! ho! -- As the whoreson knave men laid away A thousand years ago.
Edmund Clarence Stedman’s other poems:
886
