Not Understood and Other Poems/The Auctioneer

by Thomas Bracken

 

THE AUCTIONEER.

 

ABOVE the chatty, curious crowd
  Is perched the Auctioneer:
His front is bold, his voice is loud,
  His eye is sharp and clear;
He swings his hammer—ere it falls
  The rostrum front upon—
“Now, is there no advance?” he calls;
  “They’re going—going—gone.”

“Who bids for these? they’re up in pairs,
  And those in lots are sold:
There’s sofas, lounges, tables, chairs,
  And pictures, good as gold;
And here are rings—they’re really nice,
  For ladies fair to don—
These must be sold at any price:
  They’re “going—going—gone.”

“Now, gentlemen, for those who read,
  We’ve many a well-bound tome.”
Ah! those are household gods, indeed,
  Which make a “heaven of home.”
Philosophers and Bards, who shed
  Their light on reason’s dawn,
The stores from whence the mind is fed,
  They’re going—going—gone.”

A locket lined with golden hair,
  Is “going for a crown;”
Some breast is tenanted by care,
  Some fond heart is “knock’d down.”
And here pledges unredeemed,
  Bright trinkets from the pawn,
Alas! their owners little dreamed,
  Of “going—going—gone.”

The world is but an Auction Mart,
  Where Time is Auctioneer;
Vain pleasure gets an “easy start,”
  True happiness is dear;
Hope “runs us up,” but in Death’s breach
  We’re “knocked down” one by one,
We’re “going” till the grave we reach,
  And then, alas! we’re “gone.”

 

 

---

---

---