Saturday Afternoon

I love to look on a scene like this, Of wild and careless play, And persuade myself that I am not old, And my locks are not yet gray; For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, And makes his pulses fly, To catch the thrill of a happy voice, And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walked the world for fourscore years; And they say that I am old, That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, And my years are well nigh told. It is very true; it is very true; I'm old, and "I bide my time;" But my heart will leap at a scene like this, And I half renew my prime.

Play on, play on; I am with you there, In the midst of your merry ring; I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, And the rush of the breathless wing, I hide with you in the fragrant hay, And I whoop the the smother'd call, And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come, And I shall be glad to go; For the world at best is a weary place, And my pulse is getting low; But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail In treading its gloomy way; And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, To see the young so gay.