“You are old, Father William,” the young man said,
“The few locks that are left you are grey;
To revive and embellish your winterbound head,
There is obviously only one way.”
“Ere my fogeydom days,” Father William replied,
“I spent money to make myself spry,
But the hoar-frost of age, all cosmetiques defied,
Though I tried every advertised dye.”
“That may be,” said the youth, with self satisfied air,
(He belonged to a set that was fast,)