Ballad of Old-Time Lords (No. 2)

Where are the holy apostles gone,
Alb-clad and amice-tired and staled
With the sacred tippet and that alone,
Wherewith, when he waxeth overbold,
The foul fiend's throttle they take and hold?
All must come to the self-same bay ;
Sons and servants, their days are told :
The wind carries their like away.

Where is he now that held the throne
Of Constantine with the bands of gold ?
And the King of France, o'er all kings known
For grace and worship that was extolled,
Who convents and churches manifold
Built for God's service ? In their day
What of the honour they had ? Behold,
The wind carries their like away.

Where are the champions every one,
The Dauphins, the counsellors young and old?
The barons of Salins, Dol, Dijon,
Vienne, Grenoble ? They all are cold.
Or take the folk under their banners enrolled, —
Pursuivants, trumpeters, heralds, (hey !
How they fed of the fat and the flagon trolled ! )
The wind carries their like away.

Envoi
Princes to death are all foretold.
Even as the humblest of their array :
Whether they sorrow or whether they scold,
The wind carries their like away.