You are old, Father William the young man cried, |
The few locks which are left you are grey; |
You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man, |
Now tell me the reason, I pray. |
In the days of my youth, Father William replied, |
I remember’d that youth would fly fast, |
And abused not my health and my vigour at first, |
That I never might need them at last. |
You are old, Father William, the young man cried, |
And pleasures with youth pass away; |
And yet you lament not the days that are gone, |
Now tell me the reason, I pray. |
In the days of my youth, Father William replied, |
I remember’d that youth could not last; |
I thought of the future, whatever I did, |
That I never might grieve for the past. |
You are old, Father William, the young man cried, |
And life must be hastening away; |
You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death, |
Now tell me the reason, I pray. |
I am cheerful, young man, Father William replied, |
Let the cause thy attention engage; |
In the days of my youth I remember’d my God! |
And He hath not forgotten my age. |