FOR the poor body that I own br I could weep many a tear: br The days have stolen flesh and bone, br And left a changeling here. br br Four feeble bones are left to me, br And the basket of my breast, br And I am mean and ugly now br As the scald flung from the nest. br br The briars drag me at the knee, br The brambles go within, br And often do I feel him turn, br The old man in my skin.