Representing the weak-minded youth of eighteen;
'Tis true he's past forty, but collars turned down,
With tie à la Byron, and wig of light brown,
With whiskers shaved off, and rouge daubed on in plenty,
The old boy of forty looks something like twenty.
But our sympathies, somehow, he doesn't engage,
He's laughed at whenever he comes on the stage;
His uncle they wont let him murder in peace,
But the incident causes a cry of "police."
The uncle elicits no pity at all,