THE OLD BEAU.

HIS life began long years ago,

In eighteen hundred one or so

(This is no libel).

You'll find in clerkly hand his age

On that mysterious secret page

Of family Bible.

I have a picture of him now;

His hair was banged across his brow,

'Twas somewhat curly;

A wide white collar edged the coat,

Which opened neatly at the throat

In fashion early.

Soon he forsook this boyish dress

So quaint and full of prettiness

As he grew older;

His throat he strangled in a stock,

Bought beavers of the newest block,

And looked much bolder.

And so as years and fashions fled

He set the style until his head

With years was weighty.

That's he just pausing in his talk;

You would not think, to see him walk,

His age was eighty!

He'll tell you of his youthful flames,

His letters that began "Dear James"

And ended "Mary."

Hush! Do not smile. Since but a lad

In spite of beauty life was sad,

And fate was chary.

J. S. M.