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A Little Book of Western Verse

by Eugene Field

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Thirty-Nine

O hapless day! O wretched day!
  I hoped you’d pass me by—
Alas, the years have sneaked away
  And all is changed but I!
Had I the power, I would remand
  You to a gloom condign,
But here you’ve crept upon me and
  I—I am thirty-nine!

Now, were I thirty-five, I could
  Assume a flippant guise;
Or, were I forty years, I should
  Undoubtedly look wise;
For forty years are said to bring
  Sedateness superfine;
But thirty-nine don’t mean a thing—
À bas with thirty-nine!

You healthy, hulking girls and boys,—
  What makes you grow so fast?
Oh, I’ll survive your lusty noise—
  I’m tough and bound to last!
No, no—I’m old and withered too—
  I feel my powers decline
(Yet none believes this can be true
  Of one at thirty-nine).

And you, dear girl with velvet eyes,
  I wonder what you mean
Through all our keen anxieties
  By keeping sweet sixteen.
With your dear love to warm my heart,
  Wretch were I to repine;
I was but jesting at the start—
  I’m glad I’m thirty-nine!

So, little children, roar and race
  As blithely as you can,
And, sweetheart, let your tender grace
  Exalt the Day and Man;
For then these factors (I’ll engage)
  All subtly shall combine
To make both juvenile and sage
  The one who’s thirty-nine!

Yes, after all, I’m free to say
  I would much rather be
Standing as I do stand to-day,
’Twixt devil and deep sea;
For though my face be dark with care
  Or with a grimace shine,
Each haply falls unto my share,
  For I am thirty-nine!

’Tis passing meet to make good cheer
  And lord it like a king,
Since only once we catch the year
  That doesn’t mean a thing.
O happy day! O gracious day!
  I pledge thee in this wine—
Come, let us journey on our way
  A year, good Thirty-Nine!

Sept. 2, 1889.

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