When my hair was turning grey,
On a pretty girl, named Grace,
I was spooney, quite a case,
But her hair was black and bright,
Whereas mine was turning white.
Don’t dye your hair when you grow old,
Either black, or brown, or gold,
Or the day you’ll surely rue,
“Ne’er say dye” what’er you do.
Then to myself I said, said I,