Ballad

Spring it is cheery,
Winter is dreary,

Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly;

When he's forsaken,
Wither'd and shaken,

What can an old man do but die?

Love will not clip him,
Maids will not lip him,

Maud and Marian pass him by;

Youth it is sunny,
Age has no honey,—

What can an old man do but die?

June it was jolly,
Oh for its folly!

A dancing leg and a laughing eye;

Youth may be silly,
Wisdom is chilly,—

What can an old man do but die?

Friends, they are scanty,
Beggars are plenty,

If he has followers, I know why;

Gold's in his clutches,
(Buying him crutches!)

What can an old man do but die?