a chance meeting with Lord Rayleigh in the west

"Lord Rayleigh, what hapst to thee that made thee face so green?"
"Ooh Lord Tyrone, hear my complaint.
T'was my daughter Anne. She was spoilt sweet with dotting,
 and demand yet more naughty everything. I gave her silk and gems*1, roses and lilies.

then she asked for horses and squire-pages, and a bow and a quiver of arrows. when I did fulfill that obligation too, she demanded from me to build a small bailey in the yard and some knowing crankmen.
I think if she were to continue singing, I would in my treasure-vault be left with a paltry fortune of only Golden Foils."
"Aah Golden Foils? Eh? I fancy she will be all the more gilded; that was a misfortune to own. Lord Rayleigh? wouldn't that be an horrid and harrowing golden song?"
"Io, Lord Tyrone. Indeed, indeed, I'd ween. Indeed. 
Imagine she gets tired of her silk and sells all her gems,
imagine she rides away to find stout and virile Polish hunting-men.
Imagine she and her lilies and roses all-gilded, all-clad and -clasped in the embrace
of Golden Foil…"
"Io, Lord Rayleigh."
"Io, Lord Tyrone! I'd imagine. I'd imagine.
She would even forget her own Age.
I'd imagine even I could not tell my daughter's golden Age."
"Well, that was pleasant. Lord Rayleigh. Off to the east must I ride henceforth, so this is a temporal fare-well. O, almost I did forget. Congratulations to thy twohundred-and-fortyeighth birthday anniversary, may merrier times thee meet in next year and yet more years yon to come. Lord rollie-Rayleigh."
"Io! Lord teeny-Tyrone! Fare-well-to-thee, too. Man of barely a Spring and half a Summer. I shall leave therefrom with my golden roses and lilies and await in the west in my good old golden Age.
I'd imagine under the gilded ivory-masks and gilded-flower skin,
I would not even remember that I were your grandpa, and you are my grandpa's grandpa.
I shall be off to attend my Daughter's Hundred-Age birthday now."
thus the Rider rode forth to the western horizon of the wild-west.
thus rode forth Bob Howard of House Rayleigh into the dusk.

dedicated to Robert E. Howard,
 the one and only Irish bard.
His title "Lord Rayleigh" was an Irish bull and an American joke.
…
If I were Tyrone young born of the land of yews in the east,
and thou art golden Rayleigh and his hunchbacked-bow…
then surely the west and the east must have…
upon knowing this secret ad hoc---I played a joke and made a blunder first,
I have become silent without words in the presence of all-mighty dim-contoured Crom,
and facing his sorrowful Raven-Thing.

Io from all sorrows

*1 (here the princess' dress was not mentioned. as in that fair Northen country in the Far-West. Noble Women of age slew animals of prey with their female hunting spear-and-shield-companions and fashion splendid gem-studded and silk-padded pelt-skirts, overcoats, hats and scarves by weaving the perished skin together---to bring life to them again by weaving them together with the animals' own treated and outstretched intestines made into shiny and beastly fibrous garment-strings---in the same fashion to produce warmth as Japanese of old fashioned the lyre-strings of Shamisen out of the guts of blind and dead cats in misfortune to produce music.)

eó, iw, Ἰώ
YEW