And they whisk, and they whiz, And are brisk, when they quiz. For they meet, Advancing, To be sweet, And glancing, And are fleet, And dancing, On their feet, And prancing. Sliding and gliding with minuet pace, Piroueting and setting with infinite grace. And jumping, And racing, And bumping, And chasing, And stumping, And pacing, And thumping, And lacing. They are flittering and glittering, gallant and gay, Yawning all the morning, and lounging all day, But when he grows old, And his sunshine is past, Three score years being told, Brings repentance at last. He then becomes an odd old man: His warmest friend's the frying pan; He's fidgety, fretful and weary; in fine, Loves nothing but self, and his dinner and wine. He rates and he prates, And reads the debates: Despised by the men, and the women he hates. Then prosing, And pouring, And dozing, And snoring, And cozing, And boring, And nosing, And roaring, Whene'er befalls in with a rabble, His delight is to vapor and gabble. He's gruffy, And musty, And puffy, And tusty, And stuffy, And rusty, And huffy, And crusty, He sits in his slippers, with back to the door, Near freezing, And grumbling, And wheezing, And mumbling, And teazing, And stumbling, And sneezing, And tumbling, And curses the carpet, or nails in the floor. Oft falling, Oft waking, And bawling, And aching, And sprawling, And quaking, And crawling, And shaking, His hand is unsteady: his stomach is sore, He's railing, Uncheery, And failing, And dreary, And ailing, And teary, Bewailing, And weary, Groaning and moaning, His selfishness owning. Grieving and heaving, Though nought is he leaving. But pelf and ill health, Himself and his wealth. He sends for a doctor, to cure or to kill, Who gives him advice, and offence, and a pill, And drops him a hint about making his will, As fretful antiquity cannot be mended, The mis'rable life of a bachelor's ended. Nobody misses him, nobody sighs, Nobody grieves when the bachelor dies. =Wellman's Illustrated Botany.=