| |
| IN the downhill of life, when I find I’m declining, | |
| May my fate 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 sun-shine 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 |
| Nor what honours may wait 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 today may afford, | |
| And let them spread the table to-morrow. | |
| |
| And when I at last must throw off this frail covering, | 25 |
| Which I’ve worn for three-score years and ten, | |
| On the brink of the grave I’ll not seek to keep hovering, | |
| 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 |
| And this old worn-out stuff which is threadbare today, | |
| May become everlasting to-morrow. | |
| |
