MACROBIAN

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From THE DEVIL'S DICTIONARY ((C)1911 Released April 15 1993) [devils]:

  MACROBIAN, n.  One forgotten of the gods and living to a great age. 
  History is abundantly supplied with examples, from Methuselah to Old
  Parr, but some notable instances of longevity are less well known.  A
  Calabrian peasant named Coloni, born in 1753, lived so long that he
  had what he considered a glimpse of the dawn of universal peace. 
  Scanavius relates that he knew an archbishop who was so old that he


  could remember a time when he did not deserve hanging.  In 1566 a
  linen draper of Bristol, England, declared that he had lived five
  hundred years, and that in all that time he had never told a lie. 
  There are instances of longevity (_macrobiosis_) in our own country. 
  Senator Chauncey Depew is old enough to know better.  The editor of
  _The American_, a newspaper in New York City, has a memory that goes
  back to the time when he was a rascal, but not to the fact.  The
  President of the United States was born so long ago that many of the
  friends of his youth have risen to high political and military
  preferment without the assistance of personal merit.  The verses
  following were written by a macrobian:
  
      When I was young the world was fair
          And amiable and sunny.
      A brightness was in all the air,
          In all the waters, honey.
          The jokes were fine and funny,
      The statesmen honest in their views,
          And in their lives, as well,
      And when you heard a bit of news
          'Twas true enough to tell.
      Men were not ranting, shouting, reeking,
      Nor women "generally speaking."
  
      The Summer then was long indeed:
          It lasted one whole season!
      The sparkling Winter gave no heed
          When ordered by Unreason
          To bring the early peas on.
      Now, where the dickens is the sense
          In calling that a year
      Which does no more than just commence
          Before the end is near?
      When I was young the year extended
      From month to month until it ended.
  
      I know not why the world has changed
          To something dark and dreary,
      And everything is now arranged
          To make a fellow weary.
          The Weather Man -- I fear he
      Has much to do with it, for, sure,
          The air is not the same:
      It chokes you when it is impure,
          When pure it makes you lame.
      With windows closed you are asthmatic;
      Open, neuralgic or sciatic.
  
      Well, I suppose this new regime
          Of dun degeneration
      Seems eviler than it would seem
          To a better observation,
          And has for compensation
      Some blessings in a deep disguise
          Which mortal sight has failed
      To pierce, although to angels' eyes
          They're visible unveiled.
      If Age is such a boon, good land!
      He's costumed by a master hand!
                                                          Venable Strigg