POETRY.
We loved when we were young, With sunshine on their faces, And music on their tongue ! The bees are in the almond-flower, The birds renew their strain : But the old friends, once lost to us, Can never come again.
The old friends, the old friends !
Their brow is lined with care ; They've furrows in the faded cheek, And silver in the hair ; But to me they are the old friends still In youth and bloom the same, As when we drove the flying ball, Or shouted in the game.
The old men, the old men, How slow they creep along ! How naughtily we scoffed at them In days when we were young ! Their prosing and their dozing, Their prate of times gone by, Their shiver like an aspen-leaf If but a breath went by.
But we, we are the old men now, Our blood is faint and chill ; We cannot leap the mighty brook, Or climb the breakneck hill.
We maunder down the shortest cuts, We rest on stick or stile, And the young men half-ashamed to laugh Yet pass us with a smile.
But the young men, the young men, Their strength is fair to see; The straight back, and the springy stride, The eye as falcon free; The shoat above the frolic wind As up the hill they go ; But, though so high above us now, They soon shall be as low.
0 weary, weary drag the years As life draws near the end ; And sadly, sadly fall the tears For loss of love and friend.
But we'll not doubt there's good about In all of humankind; So here's a health before we go To those we leave behind ! A. G. 33.
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