OT that the gift of poesy is mine, Nor that I claim the poet's meed of praise, But in remembrance of the golden days Of youth, have I inscribed these simple lays To thee, my brother, and to auld lang syne. The rolling years have thinned our locks of brown To a scant ?eece of salt-and-pepper gray More rapidly the seasons pass away With stead-ier, slower beat our-pulses play.