IT was a very aged man
I met long time ago;
The color of his face was tan,
His beard was white as snow.
A trifle faltering was his walk,
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A trifle stammering was his talk;
But ever in the saddest tones
He crooned this simple rhyme :
"The same are women! maids or crones,
In every age and clime;
Men's hearts they use as stepping-stones
To cross the stream of Time."
"Give o'er!" I cried, "thou aged man!
Repeat those lines no more!
What if they do correctly scan?
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