Vanity Fair (UK), September 15, 1904

[“I was not drunk. I am not a young man, you know.”—Prisoner at London Police Court.]

It is hard in these days, when cosmetics
 The beauty of mortals enhance,
These wonderful days of ingenious stays,
 To tell a man’s age at a glance.
But if he’s laid up with a headache,
 Or complains of the state of his tongue,
If inspection reveals that he hiccoughs and reels,
 You can tell that he’s still very young.

Your hair may be white ’neath your toupée,
 Your walk may be feeble and slow,
You may have to rest much on a stick or a crutch,
 Wherever you happen to go;
You may suffer from aches and rheumatics,
 You may have a defect in your lung;
But if soda and whiskey can make you feel frisky,
 It’s a sign that you’re still very young.

Dull age ever nearer approaches,
 When we take our three bottles a day,
When we tipple our fill of whatever we will,
 With never a headache to pay;
And we think of the times that are vanished,
 That age of which poets have sung,
When the mildest of bowls knocked us over in shoals,
 And we feel that it’s good to be young.