I Know Not Why My Soul Is Rack'D Why I Ne'er Smile As Was My Wont: I Only Know That, As A Fact, I Don't. I Used To Roam O'Er Glen And Glade Buoyant And Blithe As Other Folk: And Not Unfrequently I Made A Joke. A Minstrel'S Fire Within Me Burn'D, I'd Sing, As One Whose Heart Must Break, Lay Upon Lay: I Nearly Learn'D To Shake. All Day I Sang; Of Love, Of Fame, Of Fights Our Fathers Fought Of Yore, Until The Thing Almost Became A Bore. I Cannot Sing The Old Songs Now! It Is Not That I Deem Them Low; 'Tis That I Can't Remember How They Go. I Could Not Range The Hills Till High Above Me Stood The Summer Moon: And As To Dancing, I Could Fly As Soon. The Sports, To Which With Boyish Glee I Sprang Erewhile, Attract No More; Although I Am But Sixty-Three Or Four. Nay, Worse Than That, I've Seem'D Of Late To Shrink From Happy Boyhood - Boys Have Grown So Noisy, And I Hate A Noise. They Fright Me, When The Beech Is Green, By Swarming Up Its Stem For Eggs: They Drive Their Horrid Hoops Between My Legs:- It's Idle To Repine, I Know; I'll Tell You What I'll Do Instead: I'll Drink My Arrowroot, And Go To Bed.