The Rose — 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. |
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| Though lads are making pikes again |
| For some
conspiracy, |
| And crazy rascals rage their fill |
| At human tyranny; |
| My contemplations are of Time |
| That has
transfigured me. |
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| 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. |