The Drunkard's Last Market

The taper wastes within yon window-pane,
And the blind flutters, where his fever'd hand
Has raised the sash, to cool his burning brain;
But he has pass'd away from house and land.
Cheerly and proudly through the gusty dark
The red cock crows! the new-dropt lambkin tries
His earliest voice in the home-field, while stark
And stiff, on his own bed, the drunkard lies;
O'erdone by that steep ride, his weary horse
Poises his batter'd feet and cannot feed;
From the near moorland hill, the brawling force
Calls loudly — but the dead man takes no heed;
While Keeper howls his notice of alarm,
And thrills with awe the dusky mountain farm.