Read it through once

I was born the day this present Duke was-- (And O, says the song, ere I was old!) In the castle where the other Duke was-- (When I was happy and young, not old!) I in the kennel, he in the bower: We are of like age to an hour. My father was huntsman in that day: Who has not heard my father say, That, when a boar was brought to bay, {40} Three times, four times out of five, With his huntspear he’d contrive To get the killing-place transfixed, And pin him true, both eyes betwixt? And that’s why the old Duke would rather He lost a salt-pit than my father, And loved to have him ever in call; That’s why my father stood in the hall When the old Duke brought his infant out To show the people, and while they passed {50} The wondrous bantling round about, Was first to start at the outside blast As the Kaiser’s courier blew his horn, Just a month after the babe was born. “And,” quoth the Kaiser’s courier, “since The Duke has got an heir, our Prince Needs the Duke’s self at his side”: The Duke looked down and seemed to wince, But he thought of wars o’er the world wide, Castles a-fire, men on their march, {60} The toppling tower, the crashing arch; And up he looked, and a while he eyed The row of crests and shields and banners Of all achievements after all manners, And “Ay”, said the Duke with a surly pride. The more was his comfort when he died At next year’s end, in a velvet suit, With a gilt glove on his hand, his foot In a silken shoe for a leather boot, Petticoated like a herald, {70} In a chamber next to an ante-room, Where he breathed the breath of page and groom, What he called stink, and they, perfume: --They should have set him on red Berold Mad with pride, like fire to manage! They should have got his cheek fresh tannage Such a day as to-day in the merry sunshine! Had they stuck on his fist a rough-foot merlin! (Hark, the wind’s on the heath at its game! Oh for a noble falcon-lanner {80} To flap each broad wing like a banner, And turn in the wind, and dance like flame!) Had they broached a cask of white beer from Berlin! --Or if you incline to prescribe mere wine, Put to his lips when they saw him pine, A cup of our own Moldavia fine, Cotnar for instance, green as May sorrel And ropy with sweet,--we shall not quarrel.