It is hardly the stick for the dude of to-day,
He would swear it was deucedly plain,
But the halos of memory crown its decay--
My grandfather's gold-headed cane.

It could tell how a face in a circling calash
Grew red as the poppies she wore,
When a dandy stepped up with a swagger and dash.
And escorted her home to her door.
How the beaux cried with jealousy, "Jove! what a buck!"
As they glared at the fortunate swain,
And the wand which appeared to have fetched him his luck--
My grandfather's gold-headed cane.

It could tell of the rides in the grand yellow gig,
When, from under a broad scuttle hat,
The eyes of fair Polly were lustrous and big,
And--but no! would it dare tell of _that_?
Ah me! by those wiles that bespoke the coquette
How many a suitor was slain!
There was one, though, who conquered the foe when they met
With the gleam of his gold-headed cane.

Oh, the odors of lavender, lilac, and musk!
They scent these old halls even yet;
I can still see the dancers as down through the dusk
They glide in the grave minuet.
The small satin slippers, my grandmamma's pride,
Long, long in the chest have they lain;
Let us shake out the camphor and place them beside