REMEMBER, BOYS.


 


 


LITTLE friends, when you are at play on the street,


Half frantic with frolic, laughter, and noise,


Don't ever forget to bow when you meet—


When you meet an old man with gray hairs, my boys.


Is the aged man feeble, decrepit, and lame?


Does he lean on his staff with unsteady poise?


Never mock at his sorrow, but stop in your game,


And bow to the man with gray hairs, my boys.


Remember the years are only a few


Since he, on the street with his games and his toys,


Was healthy and happy and active like you,


And bright as the sun were his curls, my boys.


But age has furrowed the cheek that was fair,


While sorrows have broken his once mellow voice;


And now there is many a silvery hair


On the head where the curls were so bright, my boys.


The spring-day of youth is a gem, it is gold;


But time all its glorious luster destroys;


And then, don't you know, if you live to be old,


Your steps will be slow, your locks gray, my boys?


So when you are blithely at play on the street,


Half frantic with frolic and laughter and noise,


Remember to bow when you pleasantly meet—


When you meet an old man with gray hairs, my boys.


 


 


—The Independent.