It is true, "old men are not always wise."
Wise or unwise, my age I will advertise.
Born in December, on the nineteenth day, Seventeen hundred ninety-nine, I say.

That tells my years to be just ninety-nine,
Pretty well preserved by favor divine;
A little dull of hearing, dim of sight,
  Otherwise in a pretty fair good plight.

Now my nativity I will relate,
Born in Oneida county, New York state,
Born by a law that compels man to be,
Born to conditions I could not foresee.

On New Year's evening, eighteen twenty-one,
A work old as Adam and Eve was done,
Miss Charlotte York and I were made one,
By Priest David Higgins the trick was done.

In due time nine children to us given,
Made our family number eleven.
To live respectable, work must be done,
All of proper age must work, everyone.

Economy must be used it was clear,
To make the buckle and strap meet each year.
We labored hard to keep credit good,
And lived on wholesome nutritious food.

Butter and eggs we carried to the store,
To trade for other things we needed more;
Other produce sometimes we had to spare,
To provide for each want its proper share.

In this long poem the half is not told,
Our small supply of silver and of gold
Compelled us to exchange our farm produce 
For things we needed for our daily use.

Our table set as a Plenty Horn,
Little silverware, no gold to adorn;
Our tinware was kept from getting rusty,
Our house a near temple of industry.

Relatives, friends and neighbors all unite,
To make my life a pure delight.
My dear children my earthly wants supply, 
For want of better care I never sigh.

By N. B. Bacon