WHEN I have reached three score and ten I hope I will not be like sundry
sad and ancient men that every day I see. I hope I’ll never be so old,
so broken down and gray, that I will lift my voice and scold when
children round me play. I hope I’ll never be so sere, so close to
muffled drums, that I can’t waltz around and cheer whene’er the circus
comes. I hope I’ll never wither up or yet so foundered be, that I won’t
gambol with a pup when it would play with me. I hope I’ll not, while yet
alive, be so much like a corse, that I won’t seize a chance to drive a
good high-stepping horse. Though I must hobble on a crutch to help my
feeble shins, I’ll always yell to beat the Dutch whene’er the home team
wins. Perhaps I’ll live a thousand years—I sometimes fear I will, for
something whispers in my ears I am too tough to kill—I may outlast the
modern thrones and all the kings thereon, but while I navigate my bones
I’ll try, so help me John, to be as young in mind and heart as any
springald near, and when for Jordan I depart, go like a gay roan steer.
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