human
You'd better get out of our frost, fog, and smoke. You are now eighty-five, though a wonder you be; So follow the sun, bonnie W. G.! Come flit from cold Hawarden, and fly off to Cannes, The sunny South calls you, our own Grand Old Man! Take the first _train de luxe_, and be off, fair and free, To RENDEL and roses, dear W. G.!