I'm back in civil life, all brawn and chest,
Lungs made of leather, heart as right as rain;
I still could dine off bully-beef with zest;
I've never had a scratch or stitch or sprain;
Life seems to throb in every single vein.
Yet I'm a whited sepulchre, in brief;
I've one foot in the grave, I'm on the wane,
I'm heading for the sere and yellow leaf.

From Mons to Jericho I've borne my crest
And back from Jericho to Mons again;
I've sampled smells in Araby the Blest
Would burst a boiler or corrode a drain;
The Blankshires have a port that raises Cain--
I've messed with them and never come to grief;
And yet I'm dashing like a non-stop train
Full steam into the sere and yellow leaf.

It caught me hard this morning when I dressed
And read the mirror's verdict. Ah, the pain
Is gnawing like a canker at my breast,
Is beating like a hammer in my brain;
I must speak out or break beneath the strain.
_I'm going bald on top_. O cruel reef
Where youthful hopes lie wrecked! O dismal lane
Whose end is but the sere and yellow leaf!

ENVOI.

Prince (Mr. Punch)! on Armageddon's plain