The fields of youth are filled with flowers, The wine of youth is strong: What need have we to count the hours? The summer days are long.
But soon we find to our dismay That we are drifting down The barren slopes that fall away Towards the foothills grim and grey That lead to Old Man's Town.
And marching with us on the track Full many friends we find: We see them looking sadly back For those that dropped behind.
But God forbid a fate so dread — ALONE to travel down The dreary road we all must tread, With faltering steps and whitening head, The road to Old Man's Town!
Sources, publication & text notesReference details
Canonical recordPOEM-000974
Copy-textRio Grande’s Last Race and Other Verses (1902), Project Gutenberg ebook 304; selected copy-text retained exactly; substantive wording and line/stanza layout independently confirmed against SRC-000075 under D-180
While The Billy BoilsSearch