Seniores priores? Rude Rads, and some Tories,

Would make that apply to mere manner of exit.

If the "Spirit of Eld" is in charge of our glories,

Why wantonly vex it?

That Spirit of Eld is the "note" of our era.

Grand old men—and women—at bossing are busy.

Youth? Stuff! Callow youth was indeed the chimera

Of dandyish Dizzy.

But that was when Dizzy, himself young—and curly—

Was Vivian Grey, not the Primrose Dames' darling.

The Great Earl himself did not dominate early.

Oh, out on such snarling!

Old ways, and old wines, and old warriors for ever!

(Or, if not for ever, a whacking big slice of it.)

Great Senex from service 'twere folly to sever,

Whilst winning the price of it.

Retirement is not your true militaire's virtue;

To "beat the retreat" irks us all, dukes or drummers.

Let Winter hold sway, then—it cannot much hurt you—

For—say x—more summers!

True Hannibal, Gaston de Foix, Alexander,

Napoleon, Don John, the Great Condé, and Cortes

Were types of the true, adolescent commander,

And swayed ere their forties.

Still, they were god-loved and died young, like our Sidney,

But Genius is versatile, Nature is various;

All heroes are not of the same "kiddish" kidney,

Ask—say—Belisarius!

To grudge him his obolus ("screw" as we name it)

Because he has drawn it a few years—say fifty—

If Rads had a conscience at all, Sir, would shame it!

But Rads are so—thrifty!

For fellows like Wolseley or Roberts, retirement

Is all very well; they've no call for to stop, Sir.

But oh! for an Army the master requirement

Is grey hairs—a-top, Sir!

Ho! petty prattler of sparkling sin,

Paradox-monger, slave of the queer!

All your wish is a name to win,

To shook the dullards, to sack the tin,—

Wait till you come to Ninety Year!

Curled locks cover your shallow brains,

Twaddle and tinkle is all your cheer.

Sickly and sullied your amorous strains,

Pessimist praters of fancied pains,—

What do you think of this Ninety Year?

Ninety times over let May-day pass

(If you should live, which you won't I fear),

Then you will know that you were but an ass,

Then you will shudder and moan, "Alas!

Would I had known it some Ninety Year!"

Pledge him round! He's a Man, I declare;

His heart is warm, though his hair be grey.

Modest, as though a record so fair,

A brain so big, and a soul so rare,

Were a mere matter of every day.

His eloquent lips the Truth have kissed,

His valiant eyes for the Right have shone.

Pray, and listen—'twere well you list—

Look not away lest the chance be missed,

Look on a Man, ere your chance be gone!

Martineau lives, he's alive, he's here!

He loved, and married, seventy years' syne.

Look at him, taintless of fraud or fear,

Alive and manful at Ninety Year,

And blush at your pitiful pessimist whine!