[A straight talk addressed by a middle-aged bachelor to the love of
his youth.]
No, Honoria, I am greatly flattered
When you cast a soft, seductive eye
On a figure permanently battered
Out of shape by Anno Domini;
Yet, you'll take it please, from me,
It can never, never be.
Vainly,--and you mustn't be offended
Should a certain candour mark my words--
Vainly is the obvious net extended
Underneath the eyes of us old birds;
Nor are we--it sounds unkind--
Taking any salt behind.
You have passed, you say, the salad season,
Growing sick of boyhood's callow fluff;
You prefer the age of settled reason--
Men with minds composed of sterner stuff;
All your nature, now so ripe,
Yearns towards the finished type.
Yes, but what about your full-fledged fogeys?
Youth is good enough for us, I guess;
Still we like it fluffy; still the vogue is
Sweet-and-Twenty--ay, or even less;
Only lately I have been
Badly hit by Seventeen.
I have known my heart to melt like tallow
In the company of simple youth,
Careless though its brain was clearly shallow,
Beauty being tantamount to Truth;
Give us freshness, free of art,
We'll supply the brainy part.
Thus in _your_ hands I was soft as putty
Ere your intellect began to grow,
When we went a-Maying in the nutty
Time--it seems a thousand years ago;
_Then_ I wished to make you mine;
Why on earth did you decline?
You declined because you had a notion
You could choose a husband when you would;
There were better fish inside the ocean
Than had come to hand--or quite as good;
So, until you reached the thirties,
We were treated much as dirt is.
Then you grew a little less fastidious,
Wondering if your whale would soon arrive,
Till your summers (age is so insidious)
Touched their present total--45;
Well, then, call it 38;
Anyhow, it's _far_ too late.
You may say there's something most unknightly
Something almost rude about my tone?
No, Honoria, when regarded rightly,
These are Time's revenges, not my own;
You may deem it want of tact,
Still, I only state the fact.
Yet, to end upon a note less bitter,
You shall hear what chokes me off to-day:
'Tis the thought (it makes my heart-strings twitter)
Of a Young Thing chasing nuts in May:
'Tis my loyalty to Her,
To the Girl that once you were.
SIR OWEN SEAMAN.
_Almanack_, 1910.
_Chorus of the Months_