[Illustration]
Oh, the Autumn leaves are falling, and the days are closing in,
And the breeze is growing chilly, and my hair is getting thin!
I've a comfortable income--and my age is thirty-three;
But my Thatch is thinning quickly--yes, as quickly as can be!
I was once a merry urchin--curly-headed I was called,
And I laughed at good old people when I saw them going bald;
But it's not a proper subject to be lightly joked about,
For it's dreadful to discover that your roof is wearing out!
I remember asking Uncle--in my innocent surprise--
How he liked his head made use of as a Skating Rink by flies;
But although their dread intrusion I shall manfully resist,
I'm afraid they'll soon have got another Rink upon their list.
When invited to a party I'm invariably late,
For I waste the time in efforts to conceal my peeping pate--
Though I coax my hair across it--though I brush away for weeks,
Yet I _can't_ prevent it parting and dividing into streaks!
I have tried a Hair Restorer, and I've rubbed my head with rum,
But the thatch keeps getting thinner, and the new hair doesn't come--
So I gaze into the mirror with a gloomy, vacant stare,
For the circle's getting wider of that Open Space up there!
People tell me that my spirits I must not allow to fall.
And that coming generations won't have any hair at all--
Well--they'll never know an anguish that can adequately match
With the pangs of watching day by day the thinning of your Thatch!
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