Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
  All the pleasures we have known
Thrill me now as I extend
  This old hand and grasp your own—­
    Feeling, in the rude caress,
    All affection’s tenderness;
    Feeling, though the touch be rough,
    Our old souls are soft enough.

So we’ll make a mellow hour;
  Fill your pipe, and taste the wine—­
Warp your face, if it be sour,
  I can spare a smile from mine;
    If it sharpen up your wit,
    Let me feel the edge of it—­
    I have eager ears to lend,
    Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

[Illustration:  (TOM VAN ARDEN)]

Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
  Are we “lucky dogs,” indeed? 
Are we all that we pretend
  In the jolly life we lead?—­
    Bachelors, we must confess
    Boast of “single blessedness”
    To the world, but not alone—­
    Man’s best sorrow is his own.

And the saddest truth is this,—­
  Life to us has never proved
What we tasted in the kiss
  Of the women we have loved: 
    Vainly we congratulate
    Our escape from such a fate
    As their lying lips could send,
    Tom Van Arden, my old friend!

Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
  Hearts, like fruit upon the stem,
Ripen sweetest, I contend,
  As the frost falls over them: 
    Your regard for me to-day
    Makes November taste of May,
    And through every vein of rhyme
    Pours the blood of summertime.

When our souls are cramped with youth
  Happiness seems far away
In the future, while, in truth,
  We looked back on it to-day
    Through our tears, nor dare to boast,—­
    “Better to have loved and lost!”
    Broken hearts are hard to mend,
    Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
  I grow prosy, and you tire;
Fill the glasses while I bend
  To prod up the failing fire.... 
    You are restless:—­I presume
    There’s a dampness in the room.—­
    Much of warmth our nature begs,
    With rheumatics in our legs!...

Humph! the legs we used to fling
  Limber-jointed in the dance,
When we heard the fiddle ring
  Up the curtain of Romance,
    And in crowded public halls
    Played with hearts like jugglers’-balls.—­
    Feats of mountebanks, depend!—­
    Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
  Pardon, then, this theme of mine: 
While the fire-light leaps to lend
  Higher color to the wine,—­
    I propose a health to those
    Who have homes, and home’s repose,
    Wife and child-love without end!
   ...  Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

[Illustration:  (TO HEAR HER SING)]

TO HEAR HER SING

To hear her sing—­to hear her sing—­
It is to hear the birds of Spring
In dewy groves on blooming sprays
Pour out their blithest roundelays.