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I go to concert, party, ball--
What profit is in these?
I sit alone against the wall
And strive to look at ease.
The incense that is mine by right
They burn before Her shrine;
And that`s because I`m seventeen
And she is forty-nine.
I cannot check my girlish blush,
My colour comes and goes;
I redden to my finger-tips,
And sometimes to my nose.
But She is white where white should be
And red where red should shine.
The blush that flies at seventeen
Is fixed at forty-nine.
I wish I had Her constant cheek:
I wish that I could sing
All sorts of funny little songs,
Not quite the proper thing.
I`m very gauche and very shy,
Her jokes aren`t in my line;
And, worst of all, I`m seventeen,
While She is forty-nine.
The young men come, the young men go,
Each pink and white and neat,
She`s older than their mothers, but
They grovel at Her feet.
They walk beside Her `rickshaw-wheels--
They never walk by mine;
And that`s because I`m seventeen
And She is forty-nine.
She rides with half a dozen men
(She calls them "boys" and "mashers")
I trot along the Mall alone;
My prettiest frocks and sashes
Don`t help to fill my programme-card,
And vainly I repine
From ten to two A.M. Ah me!
Would I were forty-nine.
She calls me "darling," "pet," and "dear,"
And "sweet retiring maid."
I`m always at the back, I know,
She puts me in the shade.
She introduces me to men,
"Cast" lovers, I opine,
For sixty takes to seventeen,
Nineteen to forty-nine.
But even She must older grow
And end Her dancing days,
She can`t go on for ever so
At concerts, balls, and plays.
One ray of priceless hope I see
Before my footsteps shine:
Just think, that She`ll be eighty-one
When I am forty-nine!
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