Now, young people, the fine weather
⁠⁠Will soon be gone.
Go and tennis play together
⁠⁠Upon the lawn.
While the sun shines make your hay
⁠⁠Between the showers.
Improve, like busy bees, to-day,
⁠⁠The shining hours.
Time flies. For instance, look at me,
⁠⁠And at your aunt!
As you are now so once were we.
⁠⁠But now we can't
Dance all night long till break of day,
⁠⁠Nor, if we knew
How, at lawn-tennis could we play,
⁠⁠Young folks, like you.
Already on the turf you tread
⁠⁠The toadstool springs,
Which, when the summer's drought has fled,
⁠⁠Damp autumn brings.
The grass will soon have got too wet;
⁠⁠Too moist the mould.
Play whilst you can — don't play to get
⁠⁠Your death of cold.
Play whilst those limbs you yet can use,
⁠⁠Free play allow,
Which they will by-and-by refuse;
⁠⁠As mine do now.
Yet, on the sports of youth to gaze,
⁠⁠One still enjoys;
As you may too, in future days,
⁠⁠You, girls and boys.

Wanted, a skipper, who voyaging faster
Than any one else, ne'er brings ship to disaster.
Wanted, cheap railways, which speed and precision
To the utmost combine without e'er a collision.
Wanted, a surgeon, who risks operations
Which in fatal results ne'er attain terminations.
Wanted, investment, with view to futurity,
Highest interest yielding on safest security.
Wanted, directors, who capital use
In the boldest of ventures — to win and not lose.
Wanted, an army and fleet, by this nation.
That yearly increase with decreasing taxation.
Wanted, instead of ignoble abstention
From Europe's disputes, and meek non-intervention
In foreign affairs — which we now to be folly see,
On the part of our rulers, a "spirited policy."
Wanted, a statesman, who'll play a high game
Abroad, and still keep us at peace all the same
Wanted, doers to dare bold exploits of utility
On mischance whilst we sternly enforce liability.
What else wanted? In brief, our requirements to tell,
Wanted, pudding to eat, and yet have it as well.

I put thy hand aside and turn away.
⁠Why should I blame the slight and fickle heart
That cannot boldly go, nor bravely stay —
⁠Too weak to cling, and yet too fond to part!
Dead passion chains thee where her ashes lie;
⁠Cold is the shrine — ah! cold for evermore;
Why linger, then, while golden moments fly,
⁠And sunshine waits beyond the open door?
Nay — fare thee well ; for memory and I
⁠Must tarry here and wait, . . . We have no choice,
Nor other better joy until we die —
⁠Only to wait — and hear nor step, nor voice,
Nor any happy advent come to break
⁠The watch We keep alone — for love's dear sake.

The poet may tread earth sadly,
⁠Yet is he dreamland's king,
And the fays at his bidding gladly
⁠Visions of beauty bring;
But his joys will be rarer, finer,
⁠Away from this earthly stage,
When he, who is now a minor.
⁠⁠Comes of age.

Roll on, O! tardy cycle,
⁠Whose death is the poet's birth;
Blow soon, great trump of Michael,
⁠Shatter the crust of earth;
Let the slow spheres turn faster;
⁠Hasten the heritage
Of him, who, as life's true master,
⁠⁠Comes of age.

Sing O the piles of verse and prose
⁠The postman daily brings;
Punch can't preserve, and therefore throws
⁠Away rejected things.

Torn up, he sends them all to burn;
⁠None such can he restore.
Dear friends, they quit you to return
⁠As youth returns — no more!