Your smiles and love you freely lend—
How old are you, my jolly friend?
“Just seventy-three; but pray don’t tell;
A widower I, out for a spell.
The pretty girls, I love them all;
They bounce my heart like a rubber ball;
One moment I rise and the next I fall—
I cannot help it.”
“I loved my wife who’s dead and gone,
In the distant days my paragon—
She used to say, ‘O quit your looking,’
But in spite of her, my neck kept crooking
Around to feast upon the lovely face,
The perfect figure full of grace—
It never seemed to me so base—
I told my wife, sir;
I couldn’t help it.”
“If God himself told me to quit it,
I’d say, O slay me! or else permit it.
The smiling face, the enchanting eye,
The rosy cheek of the maiden shy—
They grip me, sir, with hooks of steel;
My eyes run fast; my brain will reel,
And my heart will feel—
Frankly, sir, I cannot help it.”
“’Tis true, my teeth went long ago;
Now painless ones I have, you know.
Yet I visit oft in my tar-heel town
A store and a girl in a showy gown,
To buy her gum and soothing smile;
You scarce believe me, it’s many a mile
I thus have trod with loving guile—
And one day laughing my teeth fell down,
In her presence, sir,
I could not help it.”
“That winsome girl who serves our table—
I vow that I am quite unable
To keep my eyes from following her,
As tail doth horse, ’neath whip and spur;
I’m honest sir;
I cannot help it.
“My little dog—he’s just a fice—
Returns my love, his paradise.
I brought him down to Florida;
But the finest dog in all America
Can’t take the place of a girl so sweet—
From crown to sole of her dainty feet,
My love’s complete—
And, it’s all the truth, sir,
I cannot help it.”
“Just seventy-three—
’Tis plenty for me,
I wish it were less,
But nevertheless this girl of eighteen
Could rule me as queen;
And have all I possess,
For her sweetest caress—
Sir, by the Lord and His goodness,
I cannot help it!”