To see an old and gray haired man,
It always makes me sad;
For why — I shall grow old myself
That am so stout a fad.

What if one takes the portly turn,
And swells, and puffs, and grows,
Who does not hate your walking whale,
Your full blown human rose?

Alas! a little dapper man,
May come to weigh a ton —
The pantaloons of twenty-two,
Are tights at forty-one!

And then to think of getting thin,
Is bad as bad can be;
Your eagle nose your salient chin,
Are shocking things to me.

I'm not a baby or an ass,
But yet my soul it shocks,
That time should whittle down my legs,
And pick my golden locks.

Some decent calves are made of cork —
They're awkward in a boot;
Some decent periwigs are bought —
They're slow at taking root.

No — let me weep, I cannot bear
The wasting hand of years;
O were there nothing else to shed,
I would not grudge my tears.