The Old Fumbler

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The Old Fumbler

Smug, rich and fantastic old fumbler was known,
That wedded a juicy, brisk girl of the Town,
Her face like an angel, fair, plump, and a maid,
Her lute well in tune too—could he but have played!

But lost was his skill—let him do what he can,
She finds him in bed a weak silly old man.
He coughs in her ear: '"Tis in vain to come on!
Forgive me, my dear, I'm a silly old man!"

She laid his dry hand on her snowy soft breast,
And from those white hills gave a glimpse of the best:
But, ah! What is Age, when our Youth's but a span ?—
She found him an infant instead of a man!

"Ah, pardon," he'd cry, "that I'm weary so soon!
You have let down my bass, I'm no longer in tune:
Lay by the dear instrument, prithee lie still—
I can play but one lesson, and that I play ill!"

 


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