Five Songs from Thackeray

The cold gray hills they bind me around,
The darksome valleys lie sleeping below,
But the winds as they pass o'er all this ground,
Bring me never a sound of woe!

Oh! for all I have suffered and striven,
Care has embittered my cup and my feast;
But here is the night and the dark blue heaven,
And my soul shall be at rest.

O golden legends writ in the skies!
I turn towards you with longing soul,
And list to the awful harmonies
Of the Spheres as on they roll.

My hair is gray and my sight nigh gone;
My sword it rusteth upon the wall;
Right have I spoken, and right have I done:
When shall I rest me once for all?

O blessed rest! O royal night!
Wherefore seemeth the time so long
Till I see you stars in their fullest light,
And list to their loudest song?

Werther had a love for Charlotte
 Such as words could never utter;
Would you know how first he met her?
 She was cutting bread and butter.

Charlotte was a married lady,
 And a moral man was Werther,
And, for all the wealth of Indies,
 Would do nothing for to hurt her.

So he sighed and pined and ogled,
 And his passion boiled and bubbled,
Till he blew his silly brains out,
 And no more was by it troubled.

Charlotte, having seen his body
 Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person,
 Went on cutting bread and butter. 

Ho! pretty page, with the dimpled chin,
  That never has known the barber's shear,
All your wish is woman to win;
This is the way that boys begin:
  Wait till you come to forty year.
 
Curly gold locks cover foolish brains;
  Billing and cooing is all your cheer -- 
Sighing, and singing of midnight strains,
Under Bonnybell's window panes:
  Wait till you come to forty year.
 
Forty times over let Michaelmas pass;
  Grizzling hair the brain doth clear;
Then you know a boy is an ass,
Then you know the worth of a lass,
  Once you have come to forty year.
 
Pledge me round; I bid ye declare,
  All good fellows whose beards are gray,
Did not the fairest of the fair
Common grow and wearisome ere
  Ever a month was pass'd away?
 
The reddest lips that ever have kiss'd,
  The brightest eyes that ever have shone,
May pray and whisper and we not list,
Or look away and never be miss'd,
  Ere yet ever a month is gone.
 
Gillian's dead! God rest her bier -- 
  How I loved her twenty years syne!
Marian's married; but I sit here,
Alone and merry at forty year,
  Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.