Three camping grounds I passed to-day,
Where, in the months gone by,
We sat to watch the kettle boil,
And watch the bacon fry.

To-day the needles on the place
Have fallen thick and sere.
Ah! we are growing old apace,
Year falling after year.

Where we were born, and where we die,
Or where we sat at pot,
Oblivion, like the leaves, shall lie,
And cover up the spot.