I cannot sing the old songs now!
It is not that I deem them low;
'Tis that I can't remember how
I could not range the hills till high
Above me stood the summer moon:
And as to dancing, I could fly
The sports, to which with boyish glee
I sprang erewhile, attract no more;
Although I am but sixty-three
Nay, worse than that, I've seem'd of late
To shrink from happy boyhood--boys
Have grown so noisy, and I hate
They fright me, when the beech is green,
By swarming up its stem for eggs:
They drive their horrid hoops between
It's idle to repine, I know;
I'll tell you what I'll do instead:
I'll drink my arrowroot, and go
O my earliest love, who, ere I number'd
Ten sweet summers, made my bosom thrill!
Will a swallow--or a swift, or some bird
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