The Old Rose

She for whom my heart once beat
Was a rosebud fair and tender;
Yet it ever grew more sweet,
Bursting into full-blown splendour.

’Twas the loveliest that could be,
And to pluck it I bethought me;
But it stung me piquantly
With its thorns, and prudence taught me.

Now, when wither’d, torn, and maim’d,
By the wind and tempests shatter’d,
“Dearest Henry” I’m proclaim’d,
And I’m follow’d, sought, and flatter’d.

Henry here and Henry there
Calleth she with ceaseless din now;
If a thorn is anywhere,
’Tis upon the fair one’s chin now.

O how hard the bristles grow
On the chin’s warts of my beauty!
Either to a convent go,
Or to shave will be thy duty.