I'll tell the everything I can
There's little to relate
I saw an aged aged man
A-sitting on a gate
"Who are you, aged man? " I said
"And how is it you live? "
And his answer trickled through my head
Like water through a sieve

He said, "I look for butterflies
That sleep among the wheat
I make them into mutton-pies
And sell them in the street
I sell them unto men, " he said
"Who sail on stormy seas
And that's the way I get my bread
A trifle; if you please. "

But I was thinking of a plan
To dye one's whiskers green
And always use so large a fan
That they could not be seen
So, having no reply to give
To what the old man said
I cried, "Come, tell me how you live! "
And thumped him on the head

His accents mild took up the tale
He said, "I go my ways
And when I find a mountain-rill
I set it in a blaze
And thence they make a stuff they call
Rowland's Macassar-Oil
Yet twopence-halfpenny is all
They give me for my toil. "

But I was thinking of a way
To feed oneself on batter
And so go on from day to day
Getting a little fatter
I shook him well from side to side
Until his face was blue
"Come, tell me how you live, " I cried
"And what it is you do! "

He said, "I hunt for haddocks' eyes
Among the heather bright
And work them into waistcoat buttons
In the silent night
And these I do not sell for gold
Or coin of silvery shine
But for a copper halfpenny
And that will purchase nine

"I sometimes dig for buttered rolls
Or set limed twigs for crabs
I sometimes search the grassy knolls
For wheels of hansom-cabs
And that's the way" (he gave a wink)
"By which I get my wealth
And very gladly will I drink
Your Honour's noble health. "

I heard him then, for I had just
Completed my design
To keep the Menai bridge from rust
By boiling it in wine
I thanked him much for telling me
The way he got his wealth
But chiefly for his wish that he
Might drink my noble health

And now, if e'er by chance I put
My fingers into glue
Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot
Into a left-hand shoe
Or if I drop upon my toe
A very heavy weight
I weep, for it reminds me so
Of that old man I used to know
Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow
Whose hair was whiter than the snow
Whose face was very like a crow
With eyes, like cinders, all aglow
Who seemed distracted with his woe
Who rocked his body to and fro
And muttered mumblingly and low
As if his mouth were full of dough
Who snorted like a buffalo
That summer evening long ago
A-sitting on a gate