[[Enlarge]]

The Aged, Aged Man

[[Listen]] [[XML]] [[PDF]]

Tune "I give thee all, I can no more," adapted by T. Moore
from H. Bishop, arranged by L. Broadwood.

I'll tell thee ev'rything I can;
There's little to relate.
I saw an aged, aged man,
A-sitting on a gate.
"Who are you, aged man?" I said.
"And how is it you live?"
And his answer trickled through my head
Like water through a sieve.
He said, "I look for butterflies
That sleep among the wheat:
I make them into mutton pies,
And sell them in the street.
I sell them unto men," he said,
"Who sail on stormy seas;
And that's the way I get my bread—
A trifle, if you please."
But I was thinking of a plan
To dye one's whiskers green,
And always use so large a fan
That they should not be seen.
So, having no reply to give
To what the old man said,
I cried, "Come, tell me how you live!"
And thumped him on the head.
His accents mild took up the tale:
He said "I go my ways,
And when I find a mountain rill,
I set it in a blaze;
And thence they make a stuff they call
Rowlands' Macassar Oil—
Yet two-pence-halfpenny is all
They give me for my toil!"
But I was thinking of a way
To feed oneself on batter,
And so go on from day to day
Getting a little fatter.
I shook him well from side to side,
Until his face was blue:
"Come, tell me how you live," I cried,
"And what it is you do!"