| OLD Eben Flood, climbing along one night | |
| Over the hill between the town below | |
| And the forsaken upland hermitage | |
| That held as much as he should ever know | |
| On earth again of home, paused warily. | 5 |
| The road was his with not a native near; | |
| And Eben, having leisure, said aloud, | |
| For no man else in Tilbury Town to hear: | |
| |
| “Well, Mr. Flood, we have the harvest moon | |
| Again, and we may not have many more; | 10 |
| The bird is on the wing, the poet says, | |
| And you and I have said it here before. | |
| Drink to the bird.” He raised up to the light | |
| The jug that he had gone so far to fill, | |
| And answered huskily: “Well, Mr. Flood, | 15 |
| Since you propose it, I believe I will.” | |
| |
| Alone, as if enduring to the end | |
| A valiant armor of scarred hopes outworn, | |
| He stood there in the middle of the road | |
| Like Roland’s ghost winding a silent horn. | 20 |
| Below him, in the town among the trees, | |
| Where friends of other days had honored him, | |
| A phantom salutation of the dead | |
| Rang thinly till old Eben’s eyes were dim. | |
| |
| Then, as a mother lays her sleeping child | 25 |
| Down tenderly, fearing it may awake, | |
| He set the jug down slowly at his feet | |
| With trembling care, knowing that most things break; | |
| And only when assured that on firm earth | |
| It stood, as the uncertain lives of men | 30 |
| Assuredly did not, he paced away, | |
| And with his hand extended paused again: | |
| |
| “Well, Mr. Flood, we have not met like this | |
| In a long time; and many a change has come | |
| To both of us, I fear, since last it was | 35 |
| We had a drop together. Welcome home!” | |
| Convivially returning with himself, | |
| Again he raised the jug up to the light; | |
| And with an acquiescent quaver said: | |
| “Well, Mr. Flood, if you insist, I might. | 40 |
| |
| “Only a very little, Mr. Flood— | |
| For auld lang syne. No more, sir; that will do.” | |
| So, for the time, apparently it did, | |
| And Eben evidently thought so too; | |
| For soon amid the silver loneliness | 45 |
| Of night he lifted up his voice and sang, | |
| Secure, with only two moons listening, | |
| Until the whole harmonious landscape rang— | |
| |
| “For auld lang syne.” The weary throat gave out, | |
| The last word wavered; and the song being done, | 50 |
| He raised again the jug regretfully | |
| And shook his head, and was again alone. | |
| There was not much that was ahead of him, | |
| And there was nothing in the town below— | |
| Where strangers would have shut the many doors | 55 |
| That many friends had opened long ago. | |
