The fetching airs you have; the way you sing, dear;
The pretty uplift of your round, firm chin;
Into my heart the sunshine daily bring, dear;
To be downcast when you're here were a sin!
Yet ev'ry motion, ev'ry smile and word, dear,
I know full well — and lost are their effect.
All of your bell-like tones you see, I've heard, dear,
When they were meant for me — and came direct.
That golden hair! How well you know its worth, dear,
To draw enraptured praise from lovers bold!
I, too, know well that from its very birth, dear,
Its meshes have entrapped the young and old.
Yet, when I watch you laughing, teasing — you, dear,
Who have been given such a hold on hearts,
I do not thrill as all the others do, dear;
Lost on me ( in a manner ) are your arts!
Not that I'm jealous, indifferent, or cold, dear;
Not that I do n't approve of all your charms;
Not that you're “just a little bit too old,” dear;
Nor that you are a tiny babe in arms!
No, no; you're sweet, and fresh, and fair, dear,
Unspoiled, delightful — really “all the rage.”
But somehow I can n't seem to rightly care, dear —
I wooed your mother — when she was your age!