And nephews, are waiting to greet thee once more.
Our Susan, the baby that clung to thy knee,
And prattled around thee in infantine glee,
Has grown up, she's married and two blooming boys
Have stirred in her bosom a fountain of joys.
You start and exclaim, can the story be true!
I fear that you'll stay till she's grandmother, too.
You've staid for our infants to grow up and wed,
Our young men are old, our old ones are dead.
Yes, white hairs are clustering round many a crown,