I Love To Look On A Scene Like This, Of Wild And Careless Play, And Persuade Myself That I Am Not Old And My Locks Are Not Yet Gray; For It Stirs The Blood In Old Man'S Heart, And Makes His Pulses Fly, To Catch The Thrill Of A Happy Voice, And The Light Of A Pleasant Eye. I Have Walked The World For Fourscore Years, And They Say That I Am Old; That My Heart Is Ripe For The Reaper, Death, And My Years Are Well Nigh Told. It Is Very True - It Is Very True - I'm Old, And 'I Bide My Time' - But My Heart Will Leap At A Scene Like This, And I Half Renew My Prime. Play On! Play On! I Am With You There, In The Midst Of Your Merry Ring; I Can Feel The Thrill Of The Daring Jump, And The Rush Of The Breathless Swing. I Hide With You In The Fragrant Hay, And I Whoop The Smothered Call, And My Feet Slip Up On The Seedy Floor, And I Care Not For The Fall. I Am Willing To Die When My Time Shall Come, And I Shall Be Glad To Go; For The World, At Best, Is A Weary Place, And My Pulse Is Getting Low; But The Grave Is Dark, And The Heart Will Fail In Treading Its Gloomy Way; And It Wiles My Heart From Its Dreariness, To See The Young So Gay.