THE OLD MAN OF EIGHTY-FOUR

  Oh! pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
  Who can no longer tarry,
  He can't get a wife do all he can,
  Tho' he wants one in a hurry.
  When I was young I often ran,
  Where lads and lasses mingle;
  Oh! pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
  Who fears he will die single.
  
  When young, a maid, made me afraid,
  Lets she should pop the question,
  But now I'm old, I'm grown more bold;
  A wedded life's the best one.
  So I'm resolved to change my plan,
  A single life's a folly;
  Oh! pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
  Who's getting melancholy.
  
  At night black sprites do me afright,
  I'm poor with all my treasures;
  It is my fate to want a mate,
  To give sweet wedlock's pleasures.
  I sigh and moan when left alone,
  To get a woman near me;
  Oh! pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
  I want a wife to cheer me.
  
  I'm not much more than eighty-four,
  So lasses, do not flout me;
  Tho' rather old - I'm growing quite bold,
  When young folk flock about me.
  I'll get a wife what e'er the plan
  I'll get a son and daughter;
  Oh! pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
  Don't let him be a martyr.
  
  If I walk out the folks about -
  They joke, they jeer and flout me,
  I have no son, I have no one,
  Who cares a fig about me.
  Some sweet maid come, to my arms run,
  And let us both confess us;
  Oh! pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
  And let the parson bless us.
  

Note: this is one of the few songs where no tune is indicated.