Bath-robed, slippered, collar-less,
Face unshaven, feet on fender,
Groggy now for good I guess,
Bent in body, spent in splendor:
O my poor Hilarion,
Where has all your glory gone?
Prim and proper in your prime,
Handsome once upon a time,
Rollicking, but never rude,
Proud, but not a prig or prude,
Somewhere in your day a dude, —
Now you sit in solitude,
Curled up by the kitchen fire,
Dressed in dowdiest attire,
Dead in dreams and in desire.

Come, my gay Hilarion,
Put your silken top-hat on!
Do not let untidiness
Desecrate your last distress.
Pin another sweet-to-smell
Rosebud on your coat lapel!
Polish up those Sunday-best
Silver buttons on your vest!
Go and get your cuffs and cane;
Wear your goat-skin gloves again;
Make a flourish till you die
With your spats and spotted tie!

Stand up and unfurl your banners!
Meet your death with your nicest manners!
Be a dandy, live or dead;
Send your calling card ahead:
Let the anxious angels know
They will soon behold a beau,
Slick and sleek at sixty-seven,
Strutting down the streets of Heaven!

From Boundaries