The Old, Old Song

When all the world is young, lad,

And all the trees are green;

And every goose a swan, lad,

And every lass a queen;—

Then hey for boot and horse, lad,

And round the world away;

Young blood must have its course, lad,

And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad,

And all the trees are brown;

And all the sport is stale, lad,

And all the wheels run down;—

Creep home, and take your place there,

The spent and maimed among:

God grant you find one face there,

You loved when all was young.