

98 NOTE ON CTNEEARY VASES. 



Fills up the measure of this vase — 



Was he a Briton bold, or Saxon, 



Who laid his foes in fight their backs on — 



Who, could his larynx speak a phrase, 



Would fill his hearers with amaze ? 



What unwrit jargon did he utter, 



What vile imprinted gutturals sputter ? 



What might his well-worn molars chew, 



Drank he methegiin or cwrw, 



Or some forgotten brew ? alas 



He died before the age of Bass. 



Mouldering among these kindred stones 



How long has lain this peck of bones ? 



Was he a savant — in some coterie 



Esteemed a swell — who fills this pottery ? 



Whom did he love ? whom fight ? whom bully ? 



Was he an orator like Tully ? 



Did he, like Odger, move the masses, 



And stimulate a war of classes ? 



Ah, me, if so his jars of war 



Have dwindled down to this small jar ! 



Did he go clad in suit of woad 



Tattooed upon his shoulders broad, 



Or paint his shivering epidermis ? 



Went he in armour or "inermis?" 



If he'd a wife maybe she decked him 



In skins of beasts — perchance henpecked him. 



Be it so or not — I'm of opinion, 



She wore no bustle — no, or chignon — 



Well may we say " Eheu fugaces !" 



If these old shards are all the traces 



Which now survive to tell the story 



Of one who doubtless lived in glory. 



Whate'er he might be or might not — 



Soldier, saint, sinner, sage, or sot, 



One thing is clear — he's gone to pot ! 



