Old age and workhouse-duds may hide a deal of nature—from outsiders;
But do you think old "crocks" can't feel, when they're shrunk from, like snails
or spiders?
After my dinner, with my "clay," stringed round the stem, that gums, now toothless,
May grip it firmer, here I sit and muse; and memory's sometimes ruthless
In bringing up a blundering past. We own up frank, me and my fellows,
Where we've gone wrong, and, in regrets employ our wheezy, worn old bellows.
What might have been, if—if—ah, if! That little word, of just two letters,
Stops me worse than a five-barred gate. I wonder if it does my betters?
We never tire round Winter's fire, or settle-ranged in Summer weather,