i 4 6 MORE POT-POURRI 



ever heard, on this one of the last evenings of a year 

 that is nearly gone. By my lonely fireside this poem 

 came to my recollection : 



The old friends, the old friends, 



We loved when we were young, 

 With sunshine on their faces 



And music on their tongue ! 

 The bees are in the Almond flower, 



The birds renew their strain ; 

 But the old friends once lost to us 



Can never come again. 



The old friends, the old friends, 



Their brow is lined with care ; 

 They've furrows in the faded cheek 



And silver in the hair ; 

 But to me they are the old friends still, 



In youth and bloom the same 

 As when we drove the flying ball 



Or shouted in the game. 



The old men, the old men, 



How slow they creep along ! 

 How naughtily we scoffed at them 



In days when we were young ! 

 Their prosing and their dosing, 



Their prate of times gone by, 

 Their shiver like an aspen-leaf 



If but a breath went by. 



But we, we are the old men now ; 



Our blood is faint and chill ; 

 We cannot leap the mighty brook 



Or climb the break-neck hill. 

 We maunder down the shortest cuts, 



We rest on stick or stile, 

 And the young men, half ashamed to laugh, 



Yet pass us with a smile. 



But the young men, the young men, 



Their strength is fair to see ; 

 The straight back and the springy stride, 



The eye as falcon free ; 



