THE BROOD ON THE BEARD.
With face like a maiden's bare,
With hair on his head strewn thin,
A youth ill at ease, in an easy chair,
Sat stroking his cheeks and chin.
Stroke, stroke, stroke,
Yet never a symptom appeared,
Indulging, yet nowise enjoying the joke,
In penning THIS Brood on the Beard.
I wish, wish, wish,
Till wishing becomes a whirl,
Wish, wish, wish,
For the locks with a flowing curl.
Imperial, beard, moustache,
Moustache, imperial, beard,
I long for them each till the three become
Wove into a triad weird.
Young men with beards full grown,
Young men with moustaches neat;
Say, is it not your lot to own,
The joys of life complete?
I shave, shave, shave,
My cheeks with lather besmeared,
Scraping the skin with razor keen,
To make it utter a beard.
But why should I dream of beards,
For the pleasure of manhood pine;
Or think of the looks my soul so craves,
That never may be mine?
That never may be mine.
Tho' my heart with hope may pant,
And mourn that some with such are blest,
Whilst I of such am scant.
I watch, watch, watch
My glass each morning and night;
Watch, watch, watch,
But no sprouting gladdens my sight.
That shaving glass, that razor keen,
That strop I so often whet;
Betray the desire that ne'er may tire
Of what I ne'er may get.
I feel, feel, feel,
Each morning of each week—
Feel, feel, feel,
My lips, my chin, my cheek.
Moustache, imperial, beard,
Imperial, beard, moustache,
Could I but see signs of the three,
I would give good sterling cash.
I rub, rub, rub,
When the shades of night set in,
Rub, rub, rub,
Pomatum o'er cheeks and chin,
Whilst Tabby, with whiskers long,
Upon the hearthrug lies,
And seems to purr contentment for
What nature me denies.
Oh! could I but only see
Just the faintest dawn of down,
Or FANCY that Nature would
In the end my wishes crown!
Or hope that even I
The hours at last will enjoy,
When maids no longer will deem me
An o'ergrown hobbledehoy.
But I to have glossy hair,
On my lips a flowing curl,
A pair of whiskers to grace my cheeks,
A moustache to turn and twirl,
Is but a dream, a gloomy gleam;
A wish without a hope,
Where fancy free may gain for me
Nothing AT ALL but scope.
With face like a maiden's bare,
With hair on his head strewn thin,
A youth ill at ease in an easy chair,
Sat stroking his cheeks and chin.
Stroke, stroke, stroke,
Till he glanced at THE HOUR, and there was seen
A word that brought the news that he sought—
'Twas the famed PILOSAGINE!
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