Taking It Easy. By George H. Clark
Admit that I am slightly bald,—
Pray, who’s to blame for that?
And who is wiser for the fact,
Until I lift my hat?
Beneath the brim my barbered locks
Fall in a careless way,
Wherein my watchful wife can spy
No lurking threads of gray.
What though, to read compactest print,
I’m forced to hold my book
A little farther off than when
Life’s first degree I took?
A yoke of slightly convex lens
The needful aid bestows,
And you should see how wise I look
With it astride my nose.
Don’t talk of the infernal pangs
That rheumatism brings!
I’m getting used to pains and aches,
And all those sort of things.
And when the imp Sciatica
Makes his malicious call,
I do not need an almanac
To tell me it is fall.
Besides, it gives one quite an air
To travel with a cane,
And makes folk think you “well to do,”
Although you are in pain.
A fashionable hat may crown
Genteelest coat and vest,
But ah! the sturdy stick redeems
And sobers all the rest.
A man deprived of natural sleep
Becomes a stupid elf,
And only steals from Father Time
To stultify himself.
So, if you’d be a jovial soul,
And laugh at life’s decline,
Take my advice,—turn off the gas,
And go to bed at nine!
An easy-cushioned rocking-chair
Suits me uncommon well;
And so do liberal shoes,—like these,—
With room for corns to swell;
I cotton to the soft lamb’s-wool
That lines my gloves of kid,
And love elastic home-made socks,—
Indeed, I always did.
But what disturbs me more than all
Is, that sarcastic boys
Prefer to have me somewhere else,
When they are at their noise;
That while I try to look and act
As like them as I can,
They will persist in mister-ing me,
And calling me a man!
True—Time will seam and blanch my brow.
Well, I shall sit with aged men,
And my good glass will tell me how
A grisly beard becomes me then.
And should no foul dishonor lie
Upon my head, when I am gray,
Love yet shall watch my fading eye,
And smooth the path of my decay.
Then haste thee, Time,—’tis kindness all
That speeds thy wingèd feet so fast;
Thy pleasures stay not till they pall,
And all thy pains are quickly past.
Thou fliest and bear’st away our woes,
And, as thy shadowy train depart,
The memory of sorrow grows
A lighter burden on the heart.
W. C. Bryant.