Let us look at her now, let us see her plain, She will never be quite like this again. Her house is rocking under the blast And she hears it tremble, and still stands fast, But this is the last, this is the last. The last of the wine and the white corn meal, The last high fiddle singing the reel, The last of the silk with the Paris label, The last blood-thoroughbred safe in the stable —Yellow corn meal and a jackass colt, A door that swings on a broken bolt, Brittle old letters spotted with tears And a wound that rankles for fifty years⁠— This is the last of Wingate Hall, The last bright August before the Fall, Death has been near, and Death has passed, But this is the last, this is the last. There will be hope, and a scratching pen, There will be cooking for tired men, The waiting for news with shut, hard fists, And the blurred, strange names in the battle-lists, The April sun and the April rain, But never this day come back again.