I feel I'm growing old, Mary,

My heart is full of care,

Time makes his furrow on my brow,

His snows are on my hair;

The brook still murmurs in the glen,

That drives the creaking mill,

And though I take the upward way,

I'm going down the hill.



I feel I'm growing old, Mary,

But few now walk with me,

Or sit and talk where many met,

Beneath the old beech tree.

A score of them have journey'd on,

We linger still, you know,

But sure I am, the time is near,

When we must rise and go.



I feel I'm growing old, Mary,

Nay, do not wonder so...

This tree my father planted here

Just sixty years ago.

I see the young look cold on me...

O, well their thoughts I know...

"He mars our sports by ling'ring here;

Why don't he up and go?"



I feel I'm growing old, Mary,

The thoughts crowd on my brain,

Of those who long ago here met,

Who ne'er will meet again.

Oh, they have journey'd down the hill,

And disappeared from view,

And though we once were many here,

To-day we are but few.



I feel I'm growing old, Mary,

But few remember me,

Nor know the many songs we heard

Beneath this spreading tree.

Our sun is sinking in the west,

And few now care or know,

That still we hear a dear sweet voice,

Come back from long ago.

David Mills (1831-1903)