My health is good, I know no pain,
I am not married to a wife;
From all accounts I'm fairly sane,
And yet I'm sick to death of life.
The path that leads to wealth and fame
Cannot be traversed in a day;
I find it twice as hard a game,
Because a spectre bars the way.
It has no terrors such as his
Away from which the children ran;
It's not the Bogey, but it _is_
The Other Man.
I met a girl, she seemed to be
A kind of vision from above.
She wasn't--but, alas! for me,
I weakly went and fell in love.
Her father was a _millionnaire_,
Which didn't make me love her less.
I thought her quite beyond compare,
And gave long odds she'd answer "Yes."
She thrilled me with each lovely look
She gave me from behind her fan,
She took my heart, and then she took--
The Other Man.
Farewell to Love! I thought I'd try
My level best to get a post;
The salary was not too high,
Two hundred pounds a-year at most.
Committeemen in conclave sat,
Their questions all were cut and dried:
Oh, was I this? And did I that?
And twenty thousand things beside--
As did I smoke? and could I play
At golf? or did I get the gout?
And--most important--could I say
My mother knew that I was out?
Then two were chosen. Should I "do"?
Perhaps!--and, just as I began
To hope, of course they gave it to
The Other Man.
All uselessly I've learnt to swear
And use expressions that are vile;
In vain, in vain I've torn my hair
In quite the most artistic style.
Yet one thing would I gladly learn--
Yes, tell me quickly, if you can--
Shall I be also, in my turn,
The Other Man?
* * * * *