Time is so quaint and flighty!
And now I’ve mites myself, you know,
And not so very mighty.
And he’s unvexed by flat and sharp;
He’s guessed the awful riddle,
And, haply, got a golden harp
In place of that old fiddle.
And yet, methinks, I see him now—
So clear the memory lingers—
His long grey hair, his puckered brow,