And jumping, And racing,
And bumping, And chasing,
And stumping, And pacing,
And thumping, And lacing.
They are flittering and glittering, gallant and gay,
Yawning all the morning, and lounging all day,
But when he grows old,
And his sunshine is past,
Three score years being told,
Brings repentance at last.
He then becomes an odd old man:
His warmest friend's the frying pan;
He's fidgety, fretful and weary; in fine,
Loves nothing but self, and his dinner and wine.
He rates and he prates,
And reads the debates:
Despised by the men, and the women he hates.
Then prosing, And pouring,
And dozing, And snoring,
And cozing, And boring,
And nosing, And roaring,
Whene'er befalls in with a rabble,
His delight is to vapor and gabble.
He's gruffy, And musty,
And puffy, And tusty,
And stuffy, And rusty,
And huffy, And crusty,
He sits in his slippers, with back to the door,
Near freezing, And grumbling,
And wheezing, And mumbling,
And teazing, And stumbling,
And sneezing, And tumbling,