I hold my pen in hand to write
Whatever any morning muse may indict,
To tell the number of my by-gone years
In this double life of hopes and fears.

I count the milestones in my pilgrimage,
And I number them as years of my age;
Number ninety-seven I've past today,
On my journey in life's uneven way.

Born on the nineteenth day of December,
My dear parents told me to remember,
The year seventeen hundred ninety-nine;
My record here is true as a plumb line.

Born of religious, healthy parentage,
I live to write this brief historic page;
Born without a will or wish of my own,
And helpless into life's history thrown.

To work out life's mission as best I could
In my chosen way, evil or good;
When I was past seventeen years of age
My occupation was driving mail stage.

I was a good driver, the people said,
My horses in a good rig and well fed;
I took good care of my team day and night,
But my morals went like a falling kite.

Silence my tell-tale pen; be good and kind;
Write not the foible of my youthful mind,
For in God's impartial free grace I've found
A plaster spread, big as the moral wound.

Kind reader, we are fortunate indeed,
That I must close my poem now with speed,
For at 10 a.m. this auspicious day
My muse has spread its wings and flew away.