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THE THINNING OF THE THATCH.

[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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