When I was but a little lad
  One thing I could not bear,
It was to stand at mother's knee
  And have her comb my hair.

They didn't keep boys' hair as short
  As it's kept now-a-days,
And mine was always tangled up
  In twenty different ways.

I'd twist my mouth and grit my teeth,
  And say it wasn't fair --
It was a trial, and no mistake,
  When mother combed my hair.

She'd brush and brush each stubborn curl
  That grew upon my pate,
And with her scissors nip and clip
  To make the edges straight.

Then smooth it down until it shone,
  While I would grin and bear,
And feel a martyr through and through,
  When mother combed my hair.

She'd take my round chin in her hand
  And hold it there the while
She made the parting carefully,
  Then tell me with a smile:

"Don't push your cap down on your curls
  And spoil my work and care;
He is a pretty little lad
  When mother combs his hair."

I'd hurry out and rumple up
  That mop of hair so thick --
A vandal, I, for she had worked
  So hard to make it slick --

And wish I were a grown-up man
  So nobody would dare
To put a washrag in my ears,
  Or comb my tangled hair.

Heigho! now that I'm bald and gray,
  Methinks I would be glad
To have her smooth my brow and cheeks,
  And whisper, "Mother's lad!"

A longing for the care-free days
  Doth take me unaware;
To stand, a boy, at mother's knee
  And have her comb my hair.

This poem is in the public domain.