Classic Poem

Oh, young blood when the fever's on
Goes paddling in the Rubicon;
And, wading deeply for a bit,
Haply he cures the fever-fit.

But old blood, when its fevers die,
Comes to a Rubicon run dry;
And puzzled so much mud to find
Regards it with a doubtful mind.

Yet like a mud-lark down he goes
And paddles contemplative toes;
And cries, “Oh, what a dirty joy!
To think I did it when a boy!”

Then out of that infectious mud,
With yellow fever in his blood,
Mounts horse, and preaches from the saddle
How sad and bad it was to paddle!