Classic Poem

Though now you seem to look so gay,
I think I hear the Tye-Wig say,
" You might have worn me in your youth,
Or even a Tye-Wig more uncouth,
When blood ran brisk, and Fancy said
J ACOB ! assist the barber's trade. " —

This foppish wig will not recall
The days of youth, your vernal prime,
When months and years were cheery, all,
And Nature , in her summer time,
Thus sung to all who chose to hear,
My Summer lasts not all the year.

As summer gives to Autumn place,
As fair succeeds to rain ,
So we retire — another race
Comes laughing o'er the plain:
Well! — let them jest, and laugh and play:
We had our turn, and so have they.

Such wigs, with pleasure, some might view
When five and twenty was in bloom;
But what are wigs, like this, to you,
Now lingering near the silent tomb? —
Such wigs become not sixty eight ,
Grey hairs would better suit your pate.

It hides no wrinkles in your face,
Your tottering step it can't conceal;
In every step old age we trace,
That sees you travelling down the hill: —
Then throw this boyish wig away
And wear again your head of grey.