When the hunter-star Orion

      (Or, it may be, Charles his Wain)

     Tempts the tiny elves to try on

       All their little tricks again;

     When the earth is calmly breathing

       Draughts of slumber undefiled,

     And the sire, unused to teething,

       Seeks for errant pins his child;

     When the moon is on the ocean,

       And our little sons and heirs

     From a natural emotion

       Wish the luminary theirs;

     Then a feeling hard to stifle,

       Even harder to define,

     Makes me feel I 'd give a trifle

       For the days of Auld Lang Syne.

     James—for we have been as brothers

      (Are, to speak correctly, twins),

     Went about in one another's

       Clothing, bore each other's sins,

     Rose together, ere the pearly

       Tint of morn had left the heaven,

     And retired (absurdly early)

       Simultaneously at seven—

     James, the days of yore were pleasant.

       Sweet to climb for alien pears

     Till the irritated peasant

       Came and took us unawares;

     Sweet to devastate his chickens,

       As the ambush'd catapult

     Scattered, and the very dickens

       Was the natural result;

     Sweet to snare the thoughtless rabbit;

       Break the next-door neighbour's pane;

     Cultivate the smoker's habit

       On the not-innocuous cane;

     Leave the exercise unwritten;

       Systematically cut

     Morning school, to plunge the kitten

       In his bath, the water-butt.

     Age, my James, that from the cheek of

       Beauty steals its rosy hue,

     Has not left us much to speak of:

       But 'tis not for this I rue.

     Beauty with its thousand graces,

       Hair and tints that will not fade,

     You may get from many places

       Practically ready-made.

     No; it is the evanescence

       Of those lovelier tints of Hope—

     Bubbles, such as adolescence

       Joys to win from melted soap—

     Emphasizing the conclusion

       That the dreams of Youth remain

     Castles that are An delusion

      (Castles, that's to say, in Spain).

     Age thinks 'fit,' and I say 'fiat.'

       Here I stand for Fortune's butt,

     As for Sunday swains to shy at

       Stands the stoic coco-nut.

     If you wish it put succinctly,

       Gone are all our little games;

     But I thought I 'd say distinctly

       What I feel about it, James.