Begged the happy days to flee.
Moments were not precious then.
What we hoard to-day as men,
Then we flung in careless way;
Counting life as when at play;
“Blinding” at the old red post,
We strove to see who’d count the most.
“Forty-five and then fifteen,—”
Lavish then: ah, now we glean
On our bended knees as men