PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
"WHAT CAN AN OLD MAN DO BUT DIE?"
Spring it is cheery, Winter is dreary, Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly;
When he's forsaken, Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die?
Love will not clip him, Maids will not lip him, Maud and Marian pass him by;
Youth it is sunny, Age has no honey,— What can an old man do but die?
June it was jolly, O for its folly! A dancing leg and a laughing eye!
Youth may be silly, Wisdom is chilly,— What can an old man do but die?
Friends they are scanty, Beggars are plenty, If he has followers, I know why;
Gold's in his clutches (Buying him crutches!)— What can an old man do but die?
THOMAS HOOD.
OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE.
Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way—
I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray—
I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told,
As many another woman that's only half as old.