Now old Lochinvar is come out of the North!
Staid steel was his steed when this time he set forth
With Ellen (quite often asleep) by his side,—
Some greyer, some plumper than on that first ride,—
Though with beds in the bracken long familiar,
He now likes his comfort, does old Lochinvar.
They meandered along at a casual pace
Through the calm ambiance of the wide open space
Until they arrived at the Netherby gate,
Through which they had galloped to challenge their fate
When he put the twinkle in Chivalry’s star,
And she would be bride to the young Lochinvar.
All around them the fields lay in weeds and neglect,
The fences in ruins, the buildings half-wrecked;
And where once the herds of fine cattle had grazed,
Now shambled but one old grey donkey, half-crazed,—
As they stopped by the door and got out of the car,
“We should have come sooner,” said old Lochinvar.
Then a pallid old man shuffled down the dim hall;
His frame stooped and trembling was once straight and tall,
And that hand now begnarled not his sword but a cane:
“Ah, Ellen, it’s you. You have come home again.
And you’ve brought us your knight with his sharp scimitar,—
We have dragons in plenty for you, Lochinvar!
“We’ve the dragon of age, we’ve the worm of disease,
We have faulty digestions and pains in our knees,
We’ve the curse of incontinence, plague of weak sight,
We are too old, too confused, and too feeble to fight,
So we rock in our chairs and our dreams drift afar—
Welcome home daughter Ellen, and Lord Lochinvar.”
Then he thought of the days when he hunted the Grail,
When he snatched Ellen fair from the altar’s dark rail,
When they rode off, rejoicing whatever befell,—
“These wee beasties may slink from their hide-outs in Hell
But perhaps we can diddle them back in the jar,
At least for a little while,” mused Lochinvar.
Then they laughed, all the shades of the Netherby clan:
The Forsters, the Fenwicks, and Musgraves long gone,
And their mockery rang over Cannobie Lee
’Til it reached the old knight, and they cried, “Do ye see?
You may win all the battles, but we win the war:
You are outmatched at last, you old fool, Lochinvar!”
Yes, old Lochinvar is come out of the North,
But what is his vaunted ferocity worth
In this realm of Infirmity, kingdom of Age?
Will the dying of the light bend its knee to the rage?
“Sufficient unto each day are its evils, by far...
We will do what we can,” murmured old Lochinvar.