A colored, gray-haired, feeble man,
Came tottering down the street,
Was tackled by some happy youths
That he by chance did meet.

His hands were trembling on his cane,
He raised his hoary head;
With them he was not angry,
With trembling voice he said:

'Don't laugh, my boys, as this old form,
I think I'm doing well;
What I went through in slavery
No tongue can ever tell.

'I had no chance when I was young,
I was with master then;
But now my boys your minds are free,
Make out of yourselves men.

'And when you meet an aged man,
Struggling along as I,
Don't trouble him, for he loves you;
Politely pass him by.'