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Once more my sheaf of songs I tie,
And bid them gleefully good-bye,
And feel it will not give me pain,
To never look on them again.
With metronomic measure I
Have beat them out beneath the sky.
And though my facile rhyme I curse,
Sometimes I think they might be worse;
But anyhow, as in the past,
I vow that they will be my last.

For I have come to sixty-five,
Content to feel so much alive;
And though grey-haired, I grieve to state
An unrepentant reprobate;
Admiring lads who wench and wine,
But forced, alas! to toe the line;
For I have learnt a thing or two,
As we old coves are bound to do.

I've come to know that storing health
Is better far than storing wealth;
That smug success has little worth
Beside the simple joys of earth;
That fame is but a bubble brief,
And glory vain beyond belief;
That it is good to eat and drink;
That it is bad to over-think;
That only stupid people claim
to take themselves with serious aim;
That laughter is the God's best gift -
So to the Gods our laughter lift;
Aye, though their wrath the Heavens split,
They grant us Scorn, to laugh at it.

And so, frail creatures of a day,
Let's have a good time while we may,
And do the very best we can
To give one to our fellow man;
Knowing that all will end with Death,
let's joy with every moment's breath;
And lift our heads like blossoms blithe
To meet at last the Swinging Scythe.