Willa Cather: The Encore

“No garlands in the winter time,
No trumpets in the night!
The song ye praise was done lang syne,
And was its own delight.
O’ God’s name take the wreath away,
Since now the music’s sped;
Ye never cry “Long live the king!”
Until the king is dead.
When I came piping through the land,
One morning in the spring,
With cockle burrs upon my coat,
’Twas then I was a king:
A mullein sceptre in my hand,
My order daisies three,
With song’s first freshness on my lips—
And then ye pitied me!”