When winter old, brought frost and cold, he open’d house to all,
And though threescore and ten his years, he featly led the ball,
Nor was the houseless wanderer e’er driven from his hall,
For while he feasted all the great he ne’er forgot the small.
Like a fine old, &c.
But time, though sweet, is strong in flight, and years roll’d swiftly by,
And autumn’s falling leaf proclaim’d, the old man—he must die!
He laid him down right tranquilly, gave up life’s latest sigh,
And mournful friends stood round his couch, and tears bedim’d each eye.
For the fine old, &c.