Wild Oats

How slowly moves the snail, that builds

A silver street so fine and long:

I move as slowly, but I leave

Behind me not one breath of song.

Dumb as a moulting bird am I,

I go to bed when children do,

My ale but two half-pints a day,

And to one woman I am true.

Oh! What a life, how flat and stale-

How dull, monotonous and slow!

Can I sing songs in times so dead-

Are there no more wild oats to sow?