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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.
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