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.