Old Eben Flood, climbing alone one night
Over the hill between the town below
And the forsaken upland hermitage
That held as much as he should ever know
On earth again of home, paused warily.
The road was his with not a native near;
And Eben, having leisure, said aloud,
For no man else in Tillbury Town to hear:

" Well, Mr. Flood, we have the harvest moon
Again, and we may not have many more;
The bird is on the wing, the poet says,
And you and I have said it here before.
Drink to the bird. " He raised up to the light

Old Dog lay in the summer sun
Much too lazy to rise and run
He flopped an ear
At a buzzing fly.
He winked a half open
Sleepy eye,
He scratched himself
On an itching spot,
As he dozed on the porch
Where the sun was hot.
He whimpered a bit
From force of habit
While he lazily dreamed
Of chasing a rabbit.
But Old Dog happily lay in the sun
Much too lazy to rise and run.

Old Davis owned a solid mica mountain
In Dalton that would someday make his fortune.
There'd been some Boston people out to see it:
And experts said that deep down in the mountain
The mica sheets were big as plate-glass windows.
He'd like to take me there and show it to me.

" I'll tell you what you show me. You remember
You said you knew the place where once, on Kinsman,
The early Mormons made a settlement
And built a stone baptismal font outdoors —
But Smith, or someone, called them off the mountain

From the Norse.

I.

" Noble warrior! droop not thus;
Tower of strength thou hast in us.
Yonder stand our anvils ten,
Round them, see, are stalwart men —
Bare broad shoulder, sinewy limb,
Black-brow'd feature sooty-grim;
Eye like glare of smouldering fire,
Lighted with a dull desire.
These shall sweat; their hammers swinging,
They will keep the anvils ringing,
Forging thee such trusty mail,
Nought against it will prevail."

The old brown horse looks over the fence
In a weary sort of way;
He seems to be saying to all who pass:
" Well, folks, I've had my day —
I'm simply watching the world go by,
And nobody seems to mind,
As they're dashing past in their motor-cars,
A horse who is lame and half-blind. "

The old brown horse has a shaggy coat,
But once he was young and trim,
And he used to trot through the woods and lanes
With the man who was fond of him.
But his master rides in a motor-car,
And it makes him feel quite sad

1

Circle to the left, Old Brass Wagon,
You're the one, my darling.

2

Swing oh swing, Old Brass Wagon,
You're the one, my darling.

3

Promenade home, Old Brass Wagon,
You're the one, my darling.

4

Shoddish up and down, the Old Brass Wagon,
You're the one, my darling.

5

Break and swing, the Old Brass Wagon,
You're the one, my darling.

6

Promenade around the Old Brass Wagon,
You're the one, my darling.

The old boy's seventy-three this year,
and keeps on dreaming of returning to the south!
If the Emperor would let me take off my official cap
I'd get myself a fishing pole and fish at Stone Pond!

An old and quiet house set down
A windy field or two from town.

And a great clump of lavender,
All day with cross, small bees astir.

Larkspur, hot-blue as with a sting;
And mist, so brief and sharp a thing.

Tall, well-thumbed books upon a shelf;
A green, white-flowered jug of delf.

Old friends, who from the village walk
On Sunday afternoons, to talk

Of the new shop; the guests from town;
The wind that blew the apples down.

They go; the dusk comes from afar,
Like music blown from out a star.

Old and abandoned by each venal friend,
Here H[olland] took the pious resolution
To smuggle some few years and strive to mend
A broken character and constitution.
On this congenial spot he fixed his choice;
Earl Godwin trembled for his neighbouring sand;
Here seagulls scream and cormorants rejoice,
And mariners, though shipwrecked, dread to land.
Here reign the blust'ring North and blighting East,
No tree is heard to whisper, bird to sing:
Yet nature cannot furnish out the feast,
Art he invokes new horrors still to bring.

ON REACHING THE AGE OF FIFTY

Old Age, on tiptoe, lays her jeweled hand
Lightly in mine. Come, tread a stately measure,
Most gracious partner, nobly poised and bland;
Ours be no boisterous pleasure,
But smiling conversation, with quick glance,
And memories dancing lightlier than we dance—
Friends, who a thousand joys
Divide and double, save one joy supreme
Which many a pang alloys.
Let wanton girls and boys
Cry over lovers' woes and broken toys.

Our waking life is sweeter than their dream.
Dame Nature, with unwitting hand,