From the Rock Island Argus, March 31, 1914. By Henry Howland.

I saw her once before
In the short skirt she wore,
    And again
She went dancing round and round,
With a wince at every bound,
    As in pain.

They say that in her prime,
Ere the cruel hand of Time
    Hurt her so,
She possessed a pretty face
And could hop from place to place
    On one toe.

But now her look is sad,
And she moves as if she had
    Aching feet;
Every bald head’s look is grim
As she glances down at him
    In his seat.

My old grandad oft has said—
Poor old grandpa, he is dead,
    Long ago—
That she once was all the rage
As she skipped upon the stage,
    To and fro.

But she’s fat and flabby now
And as graceful as a cow
    On the trot;
I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin,
    So I’ll not.

In the chorus let her stay;
It may be her only way
    To survive.
You may cease to be a peach
Too, young lady, when you reach
    Sixty-five.