SONG OF THE DYEING WRECK

Hawke's Bay Times, Volume 13, Issue 674, 19 April 1869, Page 4

SONG OF THE DYEING WRECK

Srtfct swtw>

3tvo7NO ladies of the period, fa Pray listen all to me, Who old am and a cripple At the age of thirty-three; "With a once strong constitution* ■ And only ten years wed, Have been ruined prematurely By acetate of of lead, I once was very lovely— At least bo folks averred— And as free from ache or ailment As any bee or bird; But now I shrink and quiver In every nerve and limb; My sense of smell is vanished, And my eyes are sore and dim. Por I would not rest contented With the graces Nature gave, But to Fashion's last enactments Became a thorough slave; I would not think that beauty From the hand of Heaven drops. But believed it must be purchased }n boxes at the shops. My hair in gloss and color Was like the raven's wing, When suddenly fair tresses Became the proper thing. At once 1 bought a bottle, Like everybody owned, And before a week was over 1 was a pleasing blonde. But scarcely had a twelvemonth Or so departed, ere It no longer was the fashion As Saxons to be fair. It was all the rage in London To have one's tresses gold, And soon I learned the place where Was Auricomus sold. A pink and white complexion Was o'er my features shed; But like a country cousin I looked, the people said. I lacked the air distingut That urban pallor shows— So I bought some paste and brushes. And blotted out the rose, 1 tinted, too, my eyebrows, And painted o'er my lips; I also dyed my lashes, And touched my finger-tips. I wore false ears and something I better had not name; But, in a word, I carried A very curious frame. And now my lips are blistered.. My cheeks are deadly white. And I can see too plainly I am a shocking fright. That I can see, but other Things can I see no more; For, as I said at starting, My eyes are dim and sore. My teeth are loose and aching. And everything tastes queer; J have a constant rumble And singing in my ear. My eyebrows and my lashes Are dying at the root, And on my head, once glossy, I'm bald as any coot. The doctors say I'm poisoned ' In every pore and vein, And that, indeed, I never Shall be myself again. My bottles they have broken, And now from brow to neck, To speak of nothing further, I am a perfect wreck. This is my dismal story, Which I have truly told, That you may know that beauty Is neither bought nor sold; That comeliness and graces Doth only Nature give; And that perpetual dyeing Is not the way to live. —Tomahawk.