| IN the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining, | |
| May my lot no less fortunate be | |
| Than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining, | |
| And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea; | |
| With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn, | 5 |
| While I carol away idle sorrow, | |
| And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn | |
| Look forward with hope for To-morrow. | |
| |
| With a porch at my door both for shelter and shade too, | |
| As the sunshine or rain may prevail; | 10 |
| And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too, | |
| With a barn for the use of the flail; | |
| A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game, | |
| And a purse when a friend wants to borrow,— | |
| I'll envy no Nabob his riches or fame, | 15 |
| Or what honours await him To-morrow. | |
| |
| From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely | |
| Secured by a neighbouring hill; | |
| And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly | |
| By the sound of a murmuring rill; | 20 |
| And while peace and plenty I find at my board, | |
| With a heart free from sickness and sorrow, | |
| With my friends may I share what To-day may afford, | |
| And let them spread the table To-morrow. | |
| |
| And when I at last must throw off this frail cov'ring | 25 |
| Which I've worn for threescore years and ten, | |
| On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hov'ring, | |
| Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again; | |
| But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey, | |
| And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow, | 30 |
| As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare To-day, | |
| May become Everlasting To-morrow. | |
| |
