Robert Louis Stevenson (1850–1894)

IT ’S an owercome sooth for age an’ youth,

And it brooks wi’ nae denial,

That the dearest friends are the auldest friends,

And the young are just on trial.

There ’s a rival bauld wi’ young an’ auld,

And it ’s him that has bereft me;

For the surest friends are the auldest friends,

And the maist o’ mines hae left me.

There are kind hearts still, for friends to fill

And fools to take and break them;

But the nearest friends are the auldest friends,

And the grave ’s the place to seek them.