From Rude Rural Rhymes by Bob Adams, NewYork: The Macmillan Company; 1925; pp. 21-22.
FORTY PLUS
When I was twenty-two or three,
I thought the world was made for me;
It was my oyster and my clam,
My pie, my cabbage and my ham,
Which I could swallow at my pleasure
And then, full-fed, digest at leisure.
For me the sun arose at dawn;
He brought the heat and daylight on
And left the moon when he was gone.
For me bloomed all the pretty flowers
In all the woods and yards and bowers;
For me bloomed all the pretty girls
With rosy cheeks and fetching curls.
On every side of every street
Were restaurants where I could eat.
In every church were cushioned pews
Where I might take a restful snooze.
Blue were the skies that bended o’er me
When all my future was before me.
But my importance has declined
Since half my future is behind.
The sun warms all, both bond and free,
Lights other folks as well as me;
[22]
The pretty girls that charmed me then
Became the brides of other men.
Of many hopes has life bereft me,
My feet are flat, my hair has left me;
Yet still the world is no less pleasant
For being shared by prince and peasant.
When all mankind have had their share,
There’s golden sunshine still to spare,
And unclaimed flowers bloom everywhere.
Though youthful loves had numbered fifty,
Though all were sweet and all were nifty,
With Hannah’s gentle hand in mine,
I’d scorn the other forty-nine.
What should I do with ten or twenty,
Why ask for more when one is plenty?