 | English Roses |  |
THE OLD FOGEY.
These muscles once were taut and tense
As muscles ought to be,
If just a trifle too prepense
At hitting full and free;
For if a fellow gave me swagger
Or crossed my peaceful gait,
There was the stuff to make him stagger
With something true and straight.
But now I totter in the rear,
With shrunken limbs and back,
And rheumy eyes that drop a tear
Unwitting now and then from fear,
In youth's triumphant track;
My heart is old, my life is cold,
And round me gather moss and mould.
As muscles ought to be,
If just a trifle too prepense
At hitting full and free;
For if a fellow gave me swagger
Or crossed my peaceful gait,
There was the stuff to make him stagger
With something true and straight.
But now I totter in the rear,
With shrunken limbs and back,
And rheumy eyes that drop a tear
Unwitting now and then from fear,
In youth's triumphant track;
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And round me gather moss and mould.
My arms were sinewy and strong,
And found a foremost place
In every line and kept it long
With woman's welcome grace;
Soft eyes that met my glances brightened
And rapt with pleasure burned,
Sweet lips with scarlet roses heightened
My ardent call returned.
And now I take a quiet chair
Afar from fifes and drums,
And beauty none to me is fair
With my gaunt frame and grizzled hair
And yellow toothless gums;
My day is gone that gladly shone,
And lighter feet lead proudly on.
And found a foremost place
In every line and kept it long
With woman's welcome grace;
Soft eyes that met my glances brightened
And rapt with pleasure burned,
Sweet lips with scarlet roses heightened
My ardent call returned.
And now I take a quiet chair
Afar from fifes and drums,
And beauty none to me is fair
With my gaunt frame and grizzled hair
And yellow toothless gums;
My day is gone that gladly shone,
And lighter feet lead proudly on.
It's more than hard to fancy now
I ever danced and sung,
And bore a high and hopeful brow
Or was like others young;
And these thin cheeks so seamed and wrinkled
Were rounded with the best,
And these scant locks with snow besprinkled
Dark as the raven's breast.
For now I tarry last and lone
Whoever may be first,
New athletes fill my early throne
Or thrust me from the pavement stone
And leave my heart athirst.
I am as not in every lot,
Condemned to droop in senile rot.
I ever danced and sung,
And bore a high and hopeful brow
Or was like others young;
And these thin cheeks so seamed and wrinkled
Were rounded with the best,
And these scant locks with snow besprinkled
Dark as the raven's breast.
For now I tarry last and lone
Whoever may be first,
New athletes fill my early throne
Or thrust me from the pavement stone
And leave my heart athirst.
I am as not in every lot,
Condemned to droop in senile rot.
My hands that erst to goodly fists
Condensed and held their own,
With brawny back and iron wrists,
Have limp and nerveless grown;
I tremble at the frost and flutter
Like autumn leaves in wind,
And scarce can coin the words to utter
Dim cravings in my mind.
And now folks always pass me by
For fresher toys and tools,
And children from my greeting fly
Or class me with contemptuous eye
Amongst the guys and fools.
They do not say I stop the way,
And yet I spoil their idle play.
Condensed and held their own,
With brawny back and iron wrists,
Have limp and nerveless grown;
I tremble at the frost and flutter
Like autumn leaves in wind,
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Dim cravings in my mind.
And now folks always pass me by
For fresher toys and tools,
And children from my greeting fly
Or class me with contemptuous eye
Amongst the guys and fools.
They do not say I stop the way,
And yet I spoil their idle play.
Not long ago my act could do
Whate'er the will desired,
I won and hardly had to woo
My way and still untired;
Then at my feet the world and riches
In captive fulness lay,
There were no bars and bolts or hitches
To youth but yesterday.
And now at social form and feast
No pretty lips need pout,
While I (old fogey) must at least—
Less favoured than the petted beast—
Be carefully left out.
Earth has no stage for withered age,
But in the final folded page.
Whate'er the will desired,
I won and hardly had to woo
My way and still untired;
Then at my feet the world and riches
In captive fulness lay,
There were no bars and bolts or hitches
To youth but yesterday.
And now at social form and feast
No pretty lips need pout,
While I (old fogey) must at least—
Less favoured than the petted beast—
Be carefully left out.
Earth has no stage for withered age,
But in the final folded page.
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