Flesh, if you were stone or tree,
I'd be happier with ye.
When I was young, I slept like stone,
When I was young, I grew like tree.
Now I lie, abed, alone,
And I wonder if 'tis me.
Wake at night and ease me
But it does not please me,
Stick I am, sick I am,
Apple pared to quick I am,
Woman-nursed and queer.
Once I had a sweet tooth,
A sharp tooth, a neat tooth,
Cocked my hat and winked my eye
As the pretty girls went by,
Pretty girls and punkin-pie
Dear! oh, dear!
Old man's a hoppergrass
Kicking in the wheat.
Can't eat his fill,
Can't drink his will,
Can't climb his hill,
Can't have his Jill.
And, when he talks sense,
Relations say,
"Better let Father
Haye his way."
A stone's a stone
And a tree's a tree,
But what was the sense
Of aging me?
It's no improvement
That I can see.
And the night's long
And the night-sleep brief
And I hear the rustle
Of the fallen leaf,
"Old man Hoppergrass,
Come and see!
Well, I won't for a little,
Not while I'm me.
But the sun's not as hot
As it used to be.
