The End.

The twilight comes for mournful sign
That night is on the heels of day;
The hills, but late incarnadine,
Are, like my hair, a-turning grey
To tend this little patch of clay,
Thrice happy, had it been my lot;
The seeds may grow, the plants decay,
But I alas, shall see them not.

The friends I used to greet as mine,
Wind-scattered like a driven spray,
Are some perchance turned philistine,
And some in distant lands astray.
New swords will flash to meet the fray;
Old jests revarnished by the Scot
Will make new hearers passing gay,
But I, alas, shall see them not.

The Green and Gold will cross the line,
Or flaunt their hues across the Bay;
The Staff will still come home to dine
At hours that make the housewife pray
For some reform, as well as they.
And we of old shall be forgot
By men who tread the self-same way,
But I, alas, shall see them not.