Classic Poem

In the down-hill of life, when I find I'm declining,
—May my fate no less fortunate be
Than a snug elbow-chair will afford for reclining,
—And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;
With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn,
—While I carol away idle sorrow,
And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn,
—Look forward with hope for Tomorrow.

With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too,
—As the sunshine or rain may prevail,
And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too,
—With a barn for the use of the flail:
A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,
—And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;
I'll envy no Nabob his riches or fame,
—Nor what honors may wait him Tomorrow.

From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely
—Secured by a neighboring hill;
And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly
—By the sound of a murmuring rill.
And while peace and plenty I find at my board,
—With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,
With my friends may I share what Today may afford,
—And let them spread the table Tomorrow.

And when I at last must throw off this frail covering,
—Which I've worn for three-score years and ten,
On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering,
—Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again;
But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,
—And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow;
And this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare Today,
—May become everlasting Tomorrow.