Classic Poem

Thou rare golgotha! thou hast held
My head five solar years,
And been with me through many scenes
Of gladness and of tears;
But thou canst now no longer hold
The workings of my brain,
Since through the sky-lights of thy crown,
Drops down the chilly rain.

I've brushed thee many thousand times,
Whilst thou wert looking gay,
But now 'twould be a useless toil —
Thy nap is all away;
And thou hast lost thy noble shape,
And all thy jetty dye,
And art an emblem of the head,
Thou hast, so long, kept dry.

Some persons say, a good new Hat
Is not at all genteel,
I say so too, the reason why,
I will not now conceal,
Because it serves as an excuse
When one can't get a new;
To boast with seeming carelessness,
And say " The old will do. "

But well they know within their heart.
— To their all sad disgrace —
An olden castor is what will
Throw darkness o'er the face. —
And, doubtless, they would sport a new,
Though vulgar to the sight,
If they could get the same for nought —
Elastic, neat, and light.

So off I sped, both hat and head,
And purchased one so fine;
The old one was eclipsed
By the new one's dazzling shine: —
I made the old one dash away,
As many more should do!
And now, I'm quite an altered man,
Since I put on the new.