The Last and Bitter Glass

Weak and helpless now I stand at old and hardened age,

I’ve travelled o’er life’s woeful ways and stopped at every stage,

The songs of sots and revelry oh yet I think I hear,

Which hurries down my furrowed cheek a salt and scalding tear,

Mere regret bear down with force, remorse brings on its pain,

A friendly death come stop my breath or stab my vital vein,

Reflection wrings my senses and helps but to harass,

The frame that’s always thirsty for the Last and Bitter Glass.

At twenty years I entered into manhood’s coarse career,

I followed fickle fancy, which cost me twice too dear,

In every vice indulging and virtue did not know,

Which daily draws me deeper in the graceless ponds of woe,

Sure to stop at nothing, no matter when or where,

Exposed to crowds of gazing folk and to the midnight air,

Stupid in the tavern or lying on the grass,

I always wished to stand behind the Last and Bitter Glass.

At thirty years a wooing went, to change a dreary life,

I took then into partnership a kind and gentle wife,

Resolutions they were made, of course were made in vain,

The temple showed some sweetness where but bitterness remained,

I paid some stolen visits to the beershop as before,

Promising on returning not to do so anymore,

But visit after visit as time did onward pass,

Made me both fond and frequent to the Last and Bitter Glass.

At forty years a failure and daily growing worse,

I can’t extract a copper from a gold forgotten purse,

Dissension is the dagger by which I alleviate,

The hardships of a family without a bite to eat,

The cries of little children around my aching head,

A brutal blow is my response, take that instead of bread,

I hasten from their presence as senseless as an ass,

To beg or borrow openly, the Last and Bitter Glass.

At fifty years a mendicant and bending under care,

Too late for much improvement and too early to despair,

A stranger to devotion, hut a faithful friend of crime,

Must I repent on judgement day for all my mis-spent time,

Ah Judgement stand aloof from me, or Hell do you exist?

Pardon is it possible, or souls where do you rest?

How zealous on a Sunday would I wander out to Mass,

If the temple were a tavern for the Last and Bitter Glass.

At sixty years a dying man, away from earth I’m called,

With thread bare bones, a wrinkled brow, and head both grey and bald,

The image of a wretched life, the figure of a slave,

No home have I down here on earth, no hope beyond the grave,

A conscience cursing at my heart, a voice I think I hear,

I think the bell of burning hell, is ringing in my ear,

In vain I think, in vain I shrink, ah murder and alas,

I drank the drink, the bitter drink, the Last and Bitter Glass.