Lo! where they scramble forth, and shout, And leap, and skip, and mob about, At play where we have play'd! Some hop, some run, (some fall,) some twine Their crony arms; some in the shine,-- And some are in the shade! XI. Lo there what mix'd conditions run! The orphan lad; the widow's son; And Fortune's favor'd care-- The wealthy-born, for whom she hath Mac-Adamised the future path-- The Nabob's pamper'd heir! XII. Some brightly starr'd--some evil born,-- For honor some, and some for scorn,-- For fair or foul renown! Good, bad, indiff'rent--none may lack! Look, here's a White, and there's a Black And there's a Creole brown! XIII. Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep, And wish _their_ frugal sires would keep Their only sons at home;-- Some tease their future tense, and plan The full-grown doings of the man, And plant for years to come! XIV. A foolish wish! There's one at hoop; And four at _fives_! and five who stoop The marble taw to speed! And one that curvets in and out, Reining his fellow Cob about,-- Would I were in his _steed_! XV. Yet he would glady halt and drop That boyish harness off, to swop With this world's heavy van-- To toil, to tug. O little fool! While thou canst be a horse at school, To wish to be a man! XVI. Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing To wear a crown,--to be a king! And sleep on regal down! Alas! thou know'st not kingly cares; For happier is thy head that wears That hat without a crown! XVII. And dost thou think that years acquire New added joys? Dost think thy sire More happy than his son? That manhood's mirth?--Oh, go thy ways To Drury-lane when--_plays_, And see _how forced_ our fun! XVIII. Thy taws are brave!--thy tops are rare!-- _Our_ tops are spun with coils of care, Our _dumps_ are no delight!-- The Elgin marbles are but tame, And 'tis at best a sorry game To fly the Muse's kite! XIX. Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead, Our topmost joys fall dull and dead Like balls with no rebound! And often with a faded eye We look behind, and send a sigh Towards that merry ground! XX. Then be contented. Thou hast got The most of heaven in thy young lot; There's sky-blue in thy cup! Thou'lt find thy Manhood all too fast-- Soon come, soon gone! and Age at last A sorry _breaking-up_! SONG. There is dew for the flow'ret[6] And honey for the bee, And bowers for the wild bird, And love for you and me. There are tears for the many And pleasures for the few; But let the world pass on, dear, There's love for me and you. There is care that will not leave us, And pain that will not flee; But on our hearth unalter'd Sits Love--'tween you and me. _Our_ love it ne'er was reckon'd, Yet good it is and true, It's _half_ the world to me, dear, It's _all_ the world to you. [Footnote 6: The first two stanzas by Hood, the other two contributed by Barry Cornwall at the request of Mrs. Hood, with a view to the poem being set to music.]