1+8 MORE POT-POURRI 



The old men, the old men, 



How slow they creep along ! 

 How naughtily we scofled at them 



In days when we were young 1 

 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 ; 

 They shout above the frolic wind 



As up the hill they go; 

 But though so high above us now, 



They soon shall be as low. 



Oh! weary, weary, drag the years, 



As life draws near the end ; 

 And sadly, sadly, fall the tears 



For loss of love and friend. 

 But we'll not doubt there's good about 



In all of human kind ; 

 Bo here's a health, before we go. 



To those we leave behind ! 



December 24th. — It is so curious after a full life to 

 be alone on Christmas eve. But, of course, it was my 

 own choice, and not necessary. I could have gone 

 away, but I love these winter afternoons and the long 

 evenings at home. It is also, I think, essential wis- 



