She'd take my round chin in her hand And hold it there the while She made the parting carefully, Then tell me with a smile:
"Don't push your cap down on your curls And spoil my work and care; He is a pretty little lad When mother combs his hair."
I'd hurry out and rumple up That mop of hair so thick— A vandal, I, for she had worked So hard to make it slick—
And wish I were a grown-up man So nobody would dare To put a washrag in my ears, Or comb my tangled hair.
Heigho! now that I'm bald and gray, Methinks I would be glad To have her smooth my brow and cheeks, And whisper, "Mother's lad!"
A longing for the care-free days Doth take me unaware; To stand, a boy, at mother's knee And have her comb my hair.
AN APRIL FOOL OF LONG AGO.
In powdered wig and buckled shoe, Knee-breeches, coat and waistcoat gay, The wealthy squire rode forth to woo Upon a first of April day.