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AGE, AND THE SCORNER

As I hobble, old and halt,
Daily, nightly,
By you, hectoring on the corner,
I know you for a graybeard scorner,
Tho' you raise your hat politely:

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I know you hold it for a fault
That I bend with burdening years,
Dull of eye, and dull of ears;
That this poll
Whitens like a flax-wigged doll.
'T is a fault, you think; but wait!
Something marches, men call Fate;
If you, boy! succeed in keeping
Safe from sweep of Old Time's reaping,
You'll be the bent-back one that hobbles
Over the cobbles—
Wondering why, all young at heart,
With the old you're pushed apart.