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 forever 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!
TO THE UNKNOWN GODDESS
WILL you conquer my heart with your beauty, my soul going out from afar?
Shall I fall to your hand as a victim of crafty and cautious shikar?
