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—
A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game.
And a purse when my friend needs to borrow;
I’ll envy no nabob his riches, nor fame,
Nor the honors that wait him to-morrow.
And when at the close I throw off this frail cov’ring
Which I’ve worn for three-score 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—
That this worn-out old stuff which is thread-bare to-day
Shall become everlasting to-morrow.