Classic Poem

I' LL sing you a good old song,
— Made by a good old pate,
Of a fine old English gentleman
— Who had an old estate,
And who kept up his old mansion
— At a bountiful old rate;
With a good old porter to relieve
— The old poor at his gate,
Like a fine old English gentleman
— All of the olden time.

His hall so old was hung around
— With pikes and guns and bows,
And swords, and good old bucklers,
— That had stood some tough old blows;
'Twas there " his worship " held his state
— In doublet and trunk hose,
And quaffed his cup of good old sack,
— To warm his good old nose,
Like a fine old English gentleman
— All of the olden time.

When winter's cold brought frost and snow,
— He opened house to all;
And though threescore and ten his years,
— He featly led the ball;
Nor was the houseless wanderer
— E'er driven from his hall;
For while he feasted all the great,
— He ne'er forgot the small;
Like a fine old English gentleman
— All of the olden time.

But time, though old, is strong in flight,
— And years rolled swiftly by;
And Autumn's falling leaves proclaimed
— This good old man must die!
He laid him down right tranquilly,
— Gave up life's latest sigh;
And mournful stillness reigned around,
— And tears bedewed each eye,
For this fine old English gentleman
— All of the olden time.

Now surely this is better far
— Than all the new parade
Of theaters and fancy balls,
— " At home " and masquerade:
And much more economical,
— For all his bills were paid,
Then leave your new vagaries quite,
— And take up the old trade
Of a fine old English gentleman,
— All of the olden time.