The Song of the Old Men.

We are the old, old men,

Once fierce and high-hearted in frolics,

But now we are three score and ten

Or upwards — mere relics

Of the fine strong pageant of youth,

Which time in his spite and unruth

Has taken.

We are dim and palsied and shaken,

Ah! me — forsaken.

Where are the fair white maids

With flower faces and carriage

Straight as new-smithied blades,

Ripe, ready for marriage?

Now all are withered and grey,

Their beauty has passed away,

Ah! madness —

They are bent like hoops with sadness

And the world's badness.

Our voices are hoarse and drear,

As we sit and mumble together,

We have no good tidings to hear

We had sooner have never

( So we grumble together ) been born,

That are so sick and forlorn;

Just shadows —

But once bright fishers of shallows,

Swift hunters of meadows.

We are the old, old men,

We have seen and endured much trouble;

It has turned us children again,

And bent us double.

Now we sit like a circle of stones,

And hear in each others’ moans

Ill token.

For our sweetest thoughts were broken

Or else unspoken.