THE KING IS DEAD

Aye, lay him in his grave, the old dead year!

His life is lived — fulfilled his destiny.

Have you for him no sad, regretful tear

To drop beside the cold, unfollowed bier?

Can you not pay the tribute of a sigh?

It is not well to hate him for the pain

He brought you, and the sorrows manifold.

To pardon him these hurts still I am fain;

For in the panting period of his reign,

He brought me new wounds, but he healed the old.

One little sigh for thee, my poor, dead friend —

One little sigh while my companions sing.

Thou art so soon forgotten in the end;

We cry e'en as thy footsteps downward tend:

“The king is dead! long live the king!”