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Edgar Guest - The Painter
Work rating: Low

When my hair is thin and silvered, an` my time of toil is through, 
When I`ve many years behind me, an` ahead of me a few,
I shall want to sit, I reckon, sort of dreamin` in the sun, 
An` recall the roads I`ve traveled an` the many things I`ve done, 
An` I hope there`ll be no picture that I`ll hate to look upon
When the time to paint it better or to wipe it out is gone.

I hope there`ll be no vision of a hasty word I`ve said, 
That has left a trail of sorrow, like a whip welt, sore an` red, 
An` I hope my old-age dreamin` will bring back no bitter scene 
Of a time when I was selfish an` a time when I was mean; 
When I`m gettin` old an` feeble, an` I`m far along life`s way 
I don`t want to sit regrettin` any by-gone yesterday.

I`ll admit the children boss me, I`ll admit I often smile 
When I ought to frown upon `em, but for such a little while 
They are naughty, romping youngsters, that I have no heart to scold, 
An` I know if I should whip `em I`d regret it when I`m old. 
Age to me would be a torment an` a ghost-infested night, 
If I`d ever hurt a baby, an` I could not make it right.

I am painting now the pictures that I`ll some day want to see, 
I am filling in a canvas that will come back soon to me. 
An` though nothing great is on it, an` though nothing there is fine, 
I shall want to look it over when I`m old an` call it mine. 
An` I do not dare to leave it, while the paint is warm an` wet, 
With a single thing upon it that I`ll later on regret.
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