The Traveller by Raymond Wilson

Old man, old man, sitting on the stile,


Your boots are worn, your clothes are torn,

Tell us why you smile.


Children, children, what silly things you are!

My boots are worn and my clothes are torn

Because I've walked so far.


Old man, old man, where have you walked from?

Your legs are bent and your breath is spent -

Which way did you come?

Children, children, when you're old and lame,

When your legs are bent and your breath is spent

You'll know the way I came.



Old man, old man, have you far to go

Without a friend to your journey's end,

And why are you so slow?



Children, children, I do the best I may:

I meet a friend at my journey's end

With whom you'll meet some day.


Old man, old man, sitting on the stile,

How do you know which way to go,

And why is it you smile?


Children, children, butter should be spread,

Floors should be swept and promises kept -

And you should be in bed!