FOLKS were happy as days were long
In the old Arcadian times;
When Life seem'd only a dance and song
In the sweetest of all sweet climes.
Our world grows bigger, and, stage by stage.
As the pitiless years have roll'd.
We've quite forgotten the Golden Age,
And come to the Age of Gold.
Time went by in a sheepish way
Upon Thessaly's plains of yore.
In the nineteenth century lambs at play
Mean mutton, and nothing more.
Our swains at present are far too sage
To live as one liv'd of old:
So they couple the crook of the Golden Age
With a hook in the Age of Gold.
From Corydon's reed the mountains round
Heard news of his latest flame.
And Tityrus made the woods resound
With echoes of Daphne's name.
They kindly left us a lasting gage
Of their musical art, we 're told;
And the Pandean pipe of the Golden Age
Brings mirth to the Age of Gold.
Dwellers in huts and in marble halls—
From Shepherdess up to Queen-
Cared little for bonnets, and less for shawls,
And nothing for crinoline.
But now Simplicity is not the rage,
And it's funny to think how cold
The dress they wore in the Golden Age
Would seem in the Age of Gold.
Electric telegraphs, printing, gas,
Tobacco, balloons, and steam,
Are little events that have come to pass
Since the days of that old régime.
And, spite of Lemprière's dazzling page,
I 'd give—though it might seem bold—
A hundred years of the Golden Age
For a year in the Age of Gold.