Thrumming a lute-string frayed?

Once, my dear—but the world was young then—

Magdalen elms and Trinity limes—

Lissom the blades and the backs that swung then,

Eight good men in the good old times—

Careless we, and the chorus flung then

Under St Mary's chimes!

Reins lay loose and the ways led random—

Christ Church meadow and Iffley track,

"Idleness horrid and dog-cart" (tandem),

Aylesbury grind and Bicester pack—

Pleasant our lines, and faith! we scanned 'em:

Having that artless knack.

 Come, old limmer, the times grow colder; Leaves of the creeper redden and fall. Was it a hand then clapped my shoulder?— Only the wind by the chapel wall! Dead leaves drift on the lute ... So, fold her Under the faded shawl. Never we wince, though none deplore us, We who go reaping that we sowed; Cities at cock-crow wake before us— Hey, for the lilt of the London road! One look back, and a rousing chorus! Never a palinode! Still on her spire the pigeons hover; Still by her gateway haunts the gown. Ah! but her secret? You, young lover, Drumming her old ones forth from town, Know you the secret none discover? Tell it—when you go down. 

Leaves of the creeper redden and fall.

Was it a hand then clapped my shoulder?—

Only the wind by the chapel wall!

Dead leaves drift on the lute ... So, fold her

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