 | The Last Poems of Philip Freneau |  |
16
The Tye-Wig
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
Jacob! assist the barber's trade.”—
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
Jacob! 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
| The Last Poems of Philip Freneau | |