“O son of mine age, these eyes lose their fire:
Be eyes, I pray, to thy dying sire.”
“O father, fear not, for mine eyes are bright—
I read through a millstone at dead of night.”
“My son, O tell me, who are those men,
Rushing, like pigs to the feeding-pen?”
“Welcomers they of a statesman grand.
They’ll shake, and then they will pocket, his hand.”
“Sagacious youth with the wondrous eye.
They seem to throw up their headgear. Why?”
“Because they’ve thrown up their hands until, O,
They’re so tired!—and dinners they’ve none to throw.”
“My son, my son, though dull are mine ears,
I hear a great sound like the people’s cheers.”
“He’s thanking them, father, with tears in his eyes,
For giving him lately that fine surprise.”
“My memory fails as I near mine end;
How did they astonish their grateful friend?”
“By letting him buy, like apples or oats,
With that which has made him so good, the votes
Which make him so wise and grand and great.
Now, father, please die, for ’tis growing late.”