I see an old man sitting there,
His withered limbs are almost bare,
And very hoary is his hair.
Old man, why are you sitting so?
For very cold the wind doth blow:
Why don't you to your cottage go?
Ah, master, in the world so wide,
I have no home wherein to hide,
No comfortable fire-side.
When I, like you, was young and gay,
I'll tell you what I used to say,
That I would nothing do but play.
And so, instead of being taught
Some useful business as I ought,
To play about was all I sought.
An now that I am old and grey,
I wander on my lonely way,
And beg my bread from day to day.
But oft I shake my hoary head,
And many a bitter tear I shed,
To think the useless life I've led.