[STUYVESANT, spoken]
You are young, my sweet. You have a world and a lifetime before you. But the hair is graying at my temples—slightly, but graying. And the days begin to slip rapidly through my fingers. For my sake, try to overcome your girlish modesty and let me lead you to the altar, while the fire burns brightly. 

(sung)
When I was a young man courting the girls
I played me a waiting game
If a maid refused me with tossing curls
I let the old earth take a couple whirls
While I plied her with tears in place of pearls
And as time came around, she came my way
As time came around, she came

But it's a long, long while
From May to December
And the days grow short
When you reach September

And I have lost one tooth
And I walk a little lame
And I haven't got time
For the waiting game

For the days turn to gold
As they grow few
September, November
And these few golden days
I'd spend with you
These golden days I'd spend with you
When you meet with a young man early in spring
They court you in song and rhyme
They woo you with words and a clover ring
But if you examine the goods they bring
They have little to offer but the songs they sing
And a plentiful waste of time of day
A plentiful waste of time

And it's a long, long while
From May to December
Will a clover ring last
'Til you reach September?

I'm not quite equipped
For the waiting game
But I have a little money
And I have a little fame

And the days dwindle down
To a precious few
September, November
And these few precious days
I'd spend with you
These precious days I'd spend with you