A LAMENT.
O World! O Life! O Time!
On whose last steps I climb,
Trembling at that where I had stood before;
When will return the glory of your prime?
No more,--O nevermore!
Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight:
Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar
Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight
No more,--O nevermore!
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
"WHAT CAN AN OLD MAN DO BUT DIE?"
Spring it is cheery,
Winter is dreary,
Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly;
When he's forsaken,
Withered and shaken,
What can an old man do but die?
Love will not clip him,
Maids will not lip him,
Maud and Marian pass him by;
Youth it is sunny,
Age has no honey,--
What can an old man do but die?
June it was jolly,
O for its folly!
A dancing leg and a laughing eye!
Youth may be silly,
Wisdom is chilly,--
What can an old man do but die?
Friends they are scanty,
Beggars are plenty,
If he has followers, I know why;
Gold's in his clutches
(Buying him crutches!)--
What can an old man do but die?
THOMAS HOOD.
OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE.
Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way--
I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray--
I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told,
As many another woman that's only half as old.
Over the hill to the poor-house--I can't quite make it clear!
Over the hill to the poor-house--it seems so horrid queer!
Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro,
But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go.
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