Classic Poem

Mon habit.

Stick to me still, old coat, beloved though poor!
Alike we feel this coming on of age:
Ten years my hand hath brushed thee — and what more
Could have been done by Socrates the sage?
If cruel Fortune to thy threadbare stuff
Should new encounters send,
Like me, philosophize, to make thee tough:
We must not part, old friend!

Good is my memory: I remember well
The very time when first I chanced to don thee:
My birthday was it, and our pride to swell,
My comrades, singing, heaped applauses on thee
Despite thy seedy, creditable air,
Their arms they still extend;
All still for us their kindly fêtes prepare:
We must not part, old friend!

Thou hast a patch behind — I see it yet —
Still, still, that scene is treasured in my heart:
Feigning one night to fly the fond Lisette,
I felt her hand forbid me to depart
This outrage tore thee; by her gentle side
I could not but attend —
Two days Lisette to such long work applied:
We must not part, old friend!

Have I e'er scented thee with musk and amber,
Such as the fop exhales before his glass?
Who hath e'er seen thee in an antechamber
Galled by the jokes grandees might on thee pass?
All France — that men might certain ribbons wear —
Long time did discord rend —
I in thy button-hole gay field-flowers bear:
We must not part, old friend!

No longer fear those days of courses vain,
In which our destiny alike was fixed —
Those days made up of pleasure and of pain,
When rain and sunshine were together mixed
Soon must I doff my coat for ever here —
That way my thoughts will tend —
Hold on — we'll close together our career:
We must not part, old friend!