The Roaring Forties.

Middle-age is the Roaring Forties when man with all sails set rounds the capabilities.

Let us lilt with the foolish fathers:—

When I was young with lots to learn,
And steeped in thought from stem to stern,
I used to think how foolish dad
Appeared, with life so grim and sad.
I grieved that he made light of things,
That seemed to me so full of stings.
Although his hair was turning grey,
He grew more youthful every day.
Full many a moon I whipped the cat,
To think I had a sire like that.
He seemed to have no dignity,
And laughed at things that worried me.
I often wished with inward rage,
That dad would try to be his age,
And told him so in accents terse,
Which only seemed to make him worse,
He'd even in his mad conceit,
Sing songs when walking in the street.
I often mourned the fact that he
Was so devoid of dignity.
And though I took him oft’ to task,
He merely paused awhile to ask,
“What's up my son? upon my Sam,
I'm only being what I am.”
But now that I am thin on top,
And sagging slightly round the crop,
I realise what father meant,
By saying he was quite content,
To be what Time intended he
By all the laws of life should be.
For now I'm neither old nor young,
I'm free to give the subject tongue,
And say that when a man's a sport he's
Sailing in the roaring forties.