Poetry Archives

Though I am an old man
  With my bones very brittle,
Though I am a poor old man
  Worth very little,
Yet I suck at my long pipe
  At peace in the sun,
I do not fret nor much regret
  That my work is done.

If I were a young man
  With my bones full of marrow,
Oh, if I were a bold young man
  Straight as an arrow,
And if I had the same years
  To live once again,
I would not change their simple range
  Of laughter and pain.

If I were a young man
  And young was my Lily,
A smart girl, a bold young man,
  Both of us silly.
And though from time before I knew
  She’d stab me with pain,
Though well I knew she’d not be true,
  I’d love her again.

If I were a young man
  With a brisk, healthy body,
Oh, if I were a bold young man
  With love of rum toddy,
Though I knew that I was spiting
  My old age with pain,
My happy lip would touch and sip
  Again and again.

If I were a young man
  With my bones full of marrow,
Oh, if I were a bold young man
  Straight as an arrow,
I’d store up no virtue
  For Heaven’s distant plain,
I’d live at ease as I did please
  And sin once again.