DYED away the grey, from my sparsy head of hair,

I buttered up the fur upon my tile,

I darned the ventilators in my garments here, and there,

And with my go-to-meeting stick, and smile,

I went to see a widow, I had courted long ago;

She had just been to the Probate for a pile!

Said she, "You are a person that I really do not know"

Her tone was rather cutting, like a file!

A serious alteration in her style;

I knew her when a maiden without guile,

She wouldn't even loan me from her pile,

A widow's mite; it agitates my bile!