| 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, |
|
| She's older than their mothers, but |
| They grovel at Her feet. |
| They walk beside Her ’rickshaw-wheels - |
| None ever 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 «mashes»), |
| 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. |
|
|
| Just think, that She’ll be eighty-one |
| When I am forty-nine! |