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For three-score years I've roped in rhyme,
Till weary of the worn-out chime
    I've sought for new;
But I've decided in the end,
With thirty-thousand couplets penned,
    The old must do.

So let this be the last of me;
No more my personality
    I'll plant in verse;
Within a year I may be dead,
Then if my books are no more read,
    I'm none the worse.

Far better scribes than I have gone
The way to bleak oblivion
    With none to sigh;
Ah, well! My writing's been such fun,
And now my job of work is done,
Dear friends, who've let me have my run,
    Good-bye, - good-bye!