So now, my lad, we've reached the time of year
when, once again, we note your natal day;
we wonder at the time, while on the way
to celebrate your birth we praise the care
it's taken to produce your long thick hair
and, with a smile, just how you've made a play
of all your work, or what you have to say
when contemplating all the joys of this affair.
You're nineteen now, young, strong, and fine
ready to face the world, and draw it well;
confronting what is real with a firm gaze
that sees and reproduces in firm, neat line
the tales that you have in you now to tell,
thoughts that from your mind emerge and blaze.
That might be just enough for these dull days,
but there is more, for we know you will shine
and learning do your job and do it well.
You're coming into better, grown up ways
you've learned your sensibility to refine,
your virtue we hear clearer than a loud bell.
Now, this is for you, my most dear young son;
may your life in the best of grooves now run.