Classic Poem

The age, ah, me! of jollity
Is number'd with the past,
For our new world her lip has curl'd—
We've all grown good at last.

The joyous ways of youthful days
No more abroad are known;
With rock and reel and spinning-wheel,
They're gone, forever gone.
The Maypole gay has pass'd away,
The dance upon the green—
And Hogmanay, and New Year's Day,
And joyous Hallowe'en.

The legends old which then were told,
The fairy tales of yore,
The minstrel's lay, ah, well-a-day!
They're heard abroad no more.
The fairs of old, with joys untold,
Which young hearts doted on,
With puppet shows and dancing joes,
They're gone, forever gone.

We've nae bairns noo, with rose-red hue,
That romp in wood and glen;
But in their place we have a race,
Not weans, but wee, wee men;
Wha calculate at nae sma' rate,
And are always taking stock,
For, saving cash, all else is trash
To our won'erfu' wee folk.

What have we got our sires had not,
In our intellectual march,
Save vain conceit, the way to cheat,
With our stiff'ning and our starch?
Oh, give to me the spirit free,
The ringing laugh and roar,
The simple heart, devoid of art,
As 'twas in days of yore.

Lament with me, for jollity
Is number'd with the past;
Our prudish world her lip has curl'd—
We've all grown good at last.