All seem to my memory like beautiful songs
As they float on before me in numberless throngs
From the depths of a fifty years shade.
[57]
]But you must remember how proudly you’d bring
Home the cheque at the end of the year:
Then you were a queen, lass! and I was a king;
Though we usedn’t to lunch off a butterfly’s wing
Or any of that kind of cheer.
Have those pleasures all vanished, old girl! did you say?
What! Tears in those precious old eyes!