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Old Trouper

The poem reflects on the life of a once-famous actor who now struggles to make a living and grapples with loneliness and loss. He reminisces about his past glory and the roles he played, expressing bitterness as he destroys reminders of his former fame. Ultimately, he contemplates the transient nature of life and the inevitability of death, likening life to a play where fate dictates the script.

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hjuba.gungao
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24 views2 pages

Old Trouper

The poem reflects on the life of a once-famous actor who now struggles to make a living and grapples with loneliness and loss. He reminisces about his past glory and the roles he played, expressing bitterness as he destroys reminders of his former fame. Ultimately, he contemplates the transient nature of life and the inevitability of death, likening life to a play where fate dictates the script.

Uploaded by

hjuba.gungao
Copyright
© © All Rights Reserved
We take content rights seriously. If you suspect this is your content, claim it here.
Available Formats
Download as PDF, TXT or read online on Scribd

I was Mojeska's leading man

And famous parts I used to play,


But now I do the best I can
To earn my bread from day to day;
Here in this Burg of Breaking Hears,
Where one wins as a thousand fail,
I play a score of scurvy parts
Till Time writes Finis to my tale.

My wife is dead, my daughter wed,


With heaps of trouble of their own;
And though I hold aloft my head
I'm humble, scared and all alone . . .
To-night I burn each photograph,
Each record of my former fame,
And oh, how bitterly I laugh
And feed them to the hungry flame!

Behold how handsome I was then -


What glowing eye, what noble mien;
I towered above my fellow men,
And proudly strode the painted scene.
Ah, Vanity! What fools are we,
With empty ends and foolish aims . . .
There now, I fling with savage glee
My David Garrick to the flames.

"Is this a dagger that I see":


Oh, how I used to love that speech;
We were old-fashioned - "hams" maybe,
Yet we Young Arrogance could teach.
"Out, out brief candle!" There are gone
My Lear, my Hamlet and MacBeth;
And now by ashes cold and wan
I wait my cue, my prompter Death.

This life of ours is just a play;


Its end is fashioned from the start;
Fate writes each word we have to say,
And puppet-like we strut our part.
Once I wore laurels on my brow,
But now I wait, a sorry clown,
To make my furtive, farewell bow . . .
Haste Time! Oh, ring the Curtain down.

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