When I was young, in days gone by,
I smoked Wild Woodbines on the sly.
They made me ill, but what of that?
’Twas nothing much to grumble at;
For, don’t you see?--
If I had shirked that pallid brow
I couldn’t smoke Havanas now.
The only girl I ever kissed,
Both found and left an optimist.
She jilted me, but even that
Was nothing much to grumble at;
For, don’t you see?--
I’ve such a cozy little den,
And know a lot of married men.
And now, although I’m getting stout,
And though my hair is falling out,
And people call me old and fat,
There’s nothing much to grumble at;
For, don’t you see?--
Although I am a perfect fright,
I don’t look bad by candle light.